34 #2
The guy in the cap holds my stare a second too long, cheap-ass challenge vibes. Then he bails. Door to level minus one, a bang of metal, echoing silence, and the fucking fluorescent keeps buzzing.
I don’t breathe until the air is air again. Thumb on the safety. Arms down. I check my hands: steady on the outside. Inside, a hard tingling climbs from my gut to my feet. I didn’t fire; I followed protocol.
"Did you cut yourself?" I grab Alaska’s wrist. Her skin is thin and hot under my fingers. Small, warm red spatters. Nothing open. Not a scratch. She looks at me with that weird glint between scared and victorious, and something in me unclenches.
"I think… I did," she says. The corner of her mouth lifts—cocky smile, tremor in her eyes. Her pulse is going a mile a minute.
"You did," I correct her. I run my thumb over her skin. No towel, no nothing. Skin to skin. She trembles. My whole arm prickles. I don’t let go. No way in hell.
Mikel sets the fire extinguisher down, metal on tile. He laughs without humor, breath ragged. Vega, sitting on the step, counts in fours, very diligent, the way they taught her: one, two, three, four. Another round. She’s pale, but she’s here.
"Alpha, head to ramp two," I key the mic, brain finally cooler. "Beta, lock down level minus one. Three guys outside. One hit, minor cut. No further hostiles in visual."
"Copy," the answer comes in; I can hear them just around the corner.
I pick up the knife with a cleaning rag—evidence bag. Stained blade, cheap handle, a broken nail that isn’t ours. I pocket the bundle. I scan the hallway. Not a shadow moving.
We head to the parking garage in a block, like a schoolyard lineup.
Anton spots us from the control booth. The poor guy doesn’t even talk anymore; opens doors—badge, beep, next.
Inside the car, everything turns down. I shut the door.
I slump into the front seat. And the fine tremor hits—the tell only people who’ve seen me on bad days notice: my pinky vibrates, the air sits heavy in my throat.
A hand from the side, warm, steady, lands on my shoulder. Alaska. She squeezes. My chest loosens.
"Don’t ever post something like that again," I spit without turning my head. My voice comes out tight and ugly. "No Stories, no Reels, no bullshit, Vega. No clues. No time, no place."
"I already yelled at her," Alaska jumps in, pulse still redlining. "But I’m repeating it, Vega. Nothing. You hear me?"
"Yeah." Vega barely gets the word out. Guilty face. Alive face. Good enough.
"Why didn’t you shoot?" Alaska asks, blunt as a hammer.
"I didn’t shoot because of the cameras. Because of the people around.
Because of my last name and cops itching to drown me in paperwork.
And because I don’t plan on sleeping in a holding cell with fluorescent lighting that wrecks my skin.
Also, you don’t dump a mag into three guys with knives if you can get your people out without corpses.
And because there are rules, Alaska." I rattle off part of JARSI’s decalogue like it’s obvious.
"You don’t kill, unless in defense of yourself or immediate third parties.
No innocents in the line of fire. If you’re unsure, you don’t shoot. "
I swallow the rest. I repeat it to myself, where it belongs: we won’t stop acting; we’re shadow, no signatures, no spotlights; crimes are exposed, not manufactured; touch one of us, you touch all of us; documented truth, even if it never makes the news; you live to come back.
I trade a look with the three of them and pull out with a driver’s-ed clean maneuver: signal, mirror, ramp. Ticket, barrier, out.
In the rearview, two movie-theater security guards stare at the stairs with that "we already called the cops" face, radios clipped to their shoulders. Good. Let them collect blood, not casings. Let them note they touched what’s mine and it went bad for them.
I call Irina. On the other end, her exact silence drops in.
"Contained," I report. "Three hostiles. Los Trueno. One with a blade. None of ours hurt. We’re coming back."
"I’ll be waiting," she says. She drops it in that dry tone, all bell and verdict. And still, it calms me.
I hang up. Turn my neck, slow. Alaska watches me from the passenger seat with the crooked grin of a fight won and bright eyes. The image replays—her wrist in my fingers, the tremor, someone else’s blood on our skin. One mistake and they take her from me. One bad angle and I don’t live to tell it.
I make myself a simple promise, no cute mug quotes: train until the decision doesn’t bite. Make my hands move at the speed of my want. No hesitation when it’s her on the line.
We roll out into the Madrid afternoon. Stoplights, scooters, people with shopping bags, horns now and then.
It all looks normal. Inside, not so much.
This is going to stick. Today I understand what "responsible" really means. It’s not a pretty job title on LinkedIn; it’s swallowing your fear and stepping up for your own.