Page 12 of Born of Vengeance

The silence in the safehouse wasn’t empty. It was heavy.

Rafael stood shirtless before a cracked mirror, the kind you find in discount stores, warped slightly at the edges. It hung crooked on the concrete wall, barely held by a bent nail.

The man staring back at him looked like someone he used to know.

The scars were more visible in this light—one along the ribs, another across his shoulder, a smaller one just under the jawline. All healed. All earned. But it was the eyes that had changed most.

Before, there had been something else behind them. Hope, maybe. Faith. A sense of duty that wasn’t weighed down by ghosts.

Now, they were hollow.

Still sharp. Still watching.

But hollow.

He touched a bruise under his ribs—fresh from the dock ambush two nights ago. Purple, wide, tender. He pressed on it briefly, testing. Then let it go.

Pain was familiar now. Expected.

He moved away from the mirror and dropped to the floor. Push-ups. Pull-ups on the overhead pipe. Controlled breathing. Focused pain. Sweat rolled down his spine, his shoulders, his chest. He didn’t count reps—he never did anymore. He just worked until the burn gave way to something clean, something quiet.

When his arms trembled, he stopped.

Wrapped his hands in gauze and threw punches into the air—faster, tighter. Each strike had a name behind it.

Runner Twelve.

Santiago.

Valderrama.

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After the workout, he cleaned his weapons with methodical precision.

The pistol first. Wiped down. Reassembled.

Then the tactical knife—freshly sharpened.

The SMG, compact and clean.

He laid them out on the table like instruments before surgery. The tools of a surgeon with no oath.

________________________________________

A soft buzz broke the silence.

The burner phone on the nightstand vibrated once.

He walked over and flipped it open. One message. No number.

“The Jackal is hosting a gathering. Two nights. Private estate, Cordillera. Your ghost is expected to attend.”

No name. No greeting. Just information.

The Jackal. Real name: unknown. Ex-cartel financier turned broker for power players. Hosted parties once or twice a year. High walls. No cameras. Guests included arms dealers, diplomats, former generals, and men who were technically “dead” but still ran countries from shadows.

The Cordillera estate—a fortress buried in the highlands east of Medellín. Private airstrip. Military-grade security. No digital footprint.

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