Page 18 of Born of Vengeance

This was the day.

The plan was simple. Controlled.

Isolate Ortega, neutralize the bodyguard, and extract him to an abandoned textile mill on the edge of the city. Quiet. Clean. Efficient.

Rafael moved early.

He laced Ortega’s car with a modified tracker, planted a low-frequency jammer to disable GPS, and staged a brief delay in the alleyway—two street kids paid to spill fruit near the café entrance.

Everything aligned.

Until it didn’t.

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Rafael intercepted the car on a side street, near a construction site.

He stepped out in front of it, masked, weapon raised, laser-focused.

The driver braked hard, shouting.

The passenger door opened—

—and Rafael’s stomach turned half a second too late.

Ortega wasn’t in the car.

The man in the backseat wore the same jacket, same haircut, but the eyes didn’t match. A decoy.

Then he heard it.

Boots behind him. Fast.

The sting of a needle in his neck.

He swung once—caught someone in the throat—but the world tilted.

Vision blurred. Limbs heavy.

The last thing he saw was a black van pulling up to the curb.

Then darkness swallowed him.

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He woke to pain.

Blinding, immediate, everywhere.

Arms above his head, wrists bound in wire. Ankles zip-tied. Shirtless. Kneeling on concrete soaked in motor oil.

A single bulb buzzed above. The walls were metal—shipping container, maybe. The floor vibrated faintly, like it was on wheels. Moving.

Rafael exhaled slowly.

His left side throbbed. Ribs—at least one cracked. Dried blood crusted along his jaw. His mouth was dry. Tongue swollen. His hands… still numb.

Footsteps approached.

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