Page 8 of Born of Vengeance

One of the smugglers tried to flank him—Rafael caught him mid-step, driving his boot into the man’s knee, then finishing him with a shot to the temple.

Sirens echoed in the distance—someone had finally called the local police.

But Rafael knew better. They wouldn't come here. Not fast. Not unless someone paid them to.

He had minutes, maybe less.

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He ran back to the girls, heart pounding.

“Go. Now!” he barked in Spanish. “Run east! Down the hill. There’s a church. Find someone there. Tell them—tell them Ana sent you.”

He watched them scatter into the night like birds fleeing a storm.

Except one.

The girl who had spoken to him—still there, frozen, shaking.

He grabbed her shoulders gently. “You have to go.”

She looked up at him, and through tears said:

“The man who sent us here… he works for a senator.”

Rafael paused. “Which senator?”

She hesitated. Then:

“Valderrama.”

A name.

Full. Clear. No whisper this time.

Rafael’s breath slowed.

He stood, listening to the growing wail of sirens and the buzz of approaching motorcycles. Not gang bikes—locals. Armed response.

Too hot to stay.

He grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled her with him through the back route he’d memorized. They ran through puddles, across flooded alleyways, into the darkness.

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An hour later, in a safe corner of the old city, Rafael left her with a retired nun who owed him a favor. The girl clung to him, terrified. He handed her a small stack of Colombian pesos and whispered something only she heard.

Then he vanished again, leaving no trace behind.

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Back in the safehouse, Rafael stood in front of the board.

He stared at the name: Valderrama, underlined twice now.

He picked up a pen and added two words beside it:

Confirmed Target.

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