Page 85 of Loco

Chapter 27

Sayla

The basement was cold, the air around us damp and heavy with the scent of concrete and old dust, but I barely noticed. I was too focused on the tiny bodies pressed against me, their warmth was the only thing anchoring me to the moment. Kaida had finally fallen asleep in my lap, with her little face turned into my stomach and one hand still curled into my hoodie like she needed to hold on even in her dreams. Kairo was tucked in close too, curled against me and into his sister as well—like keeping her safe was part of how he coped.

He hadn’t spoken in a while. His little face was buried against my chest, but I could feel the uneven rhythm of his breath. It hitched every now and then, like he was fighting tears or fear, or both, too young to understand what to do with it.

I leaned my head down and whispered softly into his hair. “You’re going to be okay, baby. I’ve got both of you. No one’s going to hurt you, I promise.”

He nodded against me just once, the movement small but sure. Then, in the quietest voice, he said my name as if it meant safety, and he trusted I could fix everything simply because I was here. And, God, I wished I could.

“Roque’s going to find us,” I whispered next. “He’s coming, and when he does, we’re going home. I’ll ask Auntie Heidi to make you and Kaida your very own cakes—any flavor you want. And we’ll order burgers or pizza. Maybe both.”

Kairo lifted his head just a little and murmured, “Both.” Then, after a pause, “Fanks.”

That broke me a little. Even in this terrifying place, not knowing where we were or who had taken us, he was still the sweetest, most polite little boy. And Kaida—my fierce, loving girl—was the kind of child who would sleep through fear if she thought I needed her to. They were so small, so brave, and I had never loved anything more fiercely than I loved them in this moment.

Then we heard the footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving overhead—along with the creak of floorboards and two voices speaking quietly. I couldn’t make out the words, but they were getting closer.

I stiffened, instinctively pulling the kids tighter into me as the footsteps stopped just above the stairs. My heart pounded so loudly that I was sure it could be heard through the floor. Kairo went rigid against me, and Kaida stirred, sensing the shift in the air even in her sleep.

The door at the top of the stairs opened with a groan. A moment later, the light in the stairwell flicked on, a harsh fluorescent glow flooding the room as a man began to descend.

I squinted into the brightness, shielding the kids as best I could. My breath caught as I registered the figure—tall, stocky, moving with purpose. Then I saw the person behind him, another man, thinner, holding a clipboard.

But it was the glint of silver on the first man’s belt that made my breath catch in my throat. He had a badge—shiny, official-looking, gleaming under the harsh light of the stairwell. Relief surged through me so quickly that it nearly knocked me sideways. Maybe Roque had already found us.

Another set of footsteps followed the first two, these slower and heavier. A third man descended the stairs, carrying a small stack of pillows, a bundle of folded blankets under one arm, and a plastic bag that crinkled in his hand. Without a word, he dropped everything on the floor a few feet from us—pillows, blankets, juice boxes, and what looked like individually wrapped snack bars. His gaze swept over the kids, then landed briefly on me. There was nothing behind his eyes—no cruelty or warmth—just a hollow indifference. Then he turned and walked back up the stairs, his footsteps retreating without pause.

I didn’t move, not yet.

The man who’d come down first didn’t follow. Instead, he crouched down, reached under the bottom step, and pulled out a wooden crate that’d been tucked into a shadowed gap. I mentally kicked myself for not checking every inch of this place earlier, but at the time, keeping the kids calm and collected had taken everything I had. Still, it stung, I hated missing details.

He dragged the crate across the floor and flipped it upright, then sat on it like he had all the time in the world. His eyes settled on us, blank and unreadable, and when he finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost philosophical.

“Sometimes people do things they don’t want to,” he said. “But to survive in life, you have to. It’s one of the first rules no one teaches you. You either become the hunter or the hunter, surely you understand that.”

I didn’t answer. I looked instead at the cop who stood behind him—arms folded tightly over his chest, his face unreadable, and his posture loose but alert. He didn’t react to the man’s words at all, he just stood there, as if nothing happening in this basement concerned him.

The man on the crate tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was waiting for something. Then he said, “Take my associate here—Officer Briggs, for instance. He chose to become the hunter. He decided he wouldn’t be the one running.”

He turned slightly like he was inviting Briggs to speak for himself.

Briggs didn’t hesitate. “No regrets,” he confirmed with a small, smug smile. Then his eyes shifted to me, the expression behind them sharpening like broken glass. “I don’t appreciate feeling hunted by Roque and his band of do-gooders.”

The man on the crate nodded once like they were in perfect agreement. “Neither do I.”

I looked back at him, memorizing every detail like the sharp cut of his jaw. Slowly and meticulously, he smoothed down the front of his shirt. There was something about him that tickled the edge of familiarity, but I couldn’t place it.

“I’ve been rude,” he sighed after a beat. “We’ve met under less-than-ideal circumstances, but introductions are important. My name is Vincent Russo, you may have heard of me.”

I didn’t blink. “Can’t say that I have.”

Briggs let out a soft, sarcastic laugh. “What about Titian?”

Roque never brought his work home. He kept it all locked away behind his steady, quiet strength—especially around the kids and even more so around me. He didn’t talk about ongoing cases or mention names or details. I knew it was his way of protecting us from the darkness he dealt with daily, and I appreciated that even if it meant I was often in the dark. So, when Briggs said the nameTitian, it meant nothing to me. It was just one more piece in a puzzle that I hadn’t even seen the edges of.

But the way he said it—the smugness in his voice and the way his eyes watched me like he was waiting for something to click—told me everything I needed to know. It was an important name meant to hold weight.

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