Page 7 of Born of Vengeance

Rafael crouched low beneath the skeleton of a shipping gantry, watching the dock through a cracked pair of field binoculars. From his perch among the rusted scaffolding, he could see the entire operation unfolding in quiet, well-practiced efficiency.

Three trucks. One boat. No uniforms, no logos—just men in mismatched clothing moving like they'd done this a hundred times. The kind of men who don’t ask what’s in the crates they load, as long as the cash clears.

A fourth truck pulled up. Smaller. Marked “Sanitario Municipal” on the side. It parked near the container office, headlights off. Two men stepped out, one of them holding a clipboard. The other wore gloves.

Rafael’s eyes narrowed. Not waste disposal. Not tonight.

He tapped his comms once, out of habit—but there was no one on the other end. Not anymore.

He checked his gear. Suppressed sidearm. Tactical knife. Two flashbangs. One silenced SMG, tucked tight against his chest. Light, fast, quiet.

He moved.

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The dock reeked of salt, fuel, and fish left too long in the sun. The sound of the wind masked his footsteps as he made his way across stacked cargo pallets and forgotten machinery. He ducked under chain-linked fences, slipped past a sleeping guard in a folding chair, and positioned himself just behind the rows of portable storage units.

Voices drifted on the wind—Spanish, sharp and clipped. Orders. Laughter.

Then: crying.

Rafael froze.

It was faint. But unmistakable. A whimper. Then another.

He followed the sound to a rust-stained container that looked like it hadn’t moved in months. One lock. Two guards.

He waited. Patient. Still.

When one of the guards moved away to smoke, Rafael struck. Quick and silent—the knife slipped between ribs before the man could turn. Rafael eased the body down, then drew his pistol and closed in on the second.

One shot. Suppressed. Neat.

He cracked the container.

Inside: six girls, maybe more. Huddled. Eyes wild. Skin bruised. Some too dazed to even react.

Rafael crouched beside the nearest. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen.

“Tranquila,” he whispered. “I’m not one of them.”

She stared at him. Then, softly: “¿Policía?”

“No,” he said. “Better.”

He moved quickly—cutting zip ties, handing out whispers of comfort in broken Spanish. He heard footsteps approaching and ducked behind the door just as one of the smugglers returned.

Rafael dropped him without hesitation. The suppressed round caught him in the throat.

Shouts followed. The others heard.

The calm was over.

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Gunfire tore through the night.

Rafael fired in tight bursts, moving between shipping containers as chaos erupted around him. Men scrambled for cover, some shouting, some returning fire wildly into the dark. Bullets sparked off metal and tore into crates.

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