Chapter 4 - The Safehouse in IztapalapaCallejon del Niño was a narrow, winding alleyway in Iztapalapa where humble brick houses stood shoulder-to-shoulder, draped in a web of overhead electrical wires and colorful laundry lines. Stray dogs barked in the distance as I parked my car two blocks away, pulling my coat collar up to blend in with the early morning commuters heading to the metro stations.
I found number 42—a modest, two-story house with bright blue trim and pots of geraniums lining the concrete steps.
I knocked twice, paused, and knocked three more times in the specific rhythm Rosa had told me to use.
A small peephole in the wooden door slid open. A pair of cautious, exhausted eyes peered out at me.
"Who is it?" an elderly woman’s voice whispered in Spanish.
"I'm Rosa's employer. Alejandro Valdés. Rosa sent me. She's safe at the hospital, but we don't have much time."
The locks clicked—three separate deadbolts sliding open—and the door swung inward. An elderly woman with silver hair pulled back in a tight bun stared up at me, holding a heavy iron frying pan like a club. Behind her, standing near the kitchen table, was a little boy.
He was around seven years old, with dark, curly hair and wide, intelligent hazel eyes that stopped my heart cold. He looked so much like Nicolás when we were children that it felt like looking through a time portal.
"Are you... Uncle Alejandro?" the boy asked quietly, clutching a worn-out stuffed bear.
I dropped to my knees, ignoring the dirt on the floor, and felt tears prick the corners of my eyes. "Yes, Mateo. I'm your uncle."
The elderly woman lowered the frying pan, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. "Thank God. Rosa called me an hour ago before her phone went dead. She said men in black suits were asking questions near her apartment complex."
"We have to move," I said, standing up and scanning the narrow street outside through the window. "Camila’s men know about this place, or they will very soon."
Before the old woman could reply, a low rumble of diesel engines echoed from the end of the alleyway. Two unmarked black vans crept slowly down Callejon del Niño, their headlights turning off as they stopped directly in front of the blue house.
Car doors slammed shut. Heavy boots hit the pavement.
"They're here," I muttered, adrenaline surging through my veins.
I grabbed Mateo’s small hand. "Stay close to me. Do not make a sound."
The front door shook under a massive, synchronized kick. The deadbolts splintered, and the wooden door flew inward, crashing against the hallway wall. Three men in tactical gear, armed with submachine guns and wearing balaclavas, poured into the small living room.
"Clear!" one shouted.
I pushed Mateo and the elderly woman behind the kitchen counter as the lead mercenary raised his weapon toward our corner.
"Don't move!" he roared.
Just as he raised his rifle, the front window shattered into a million glittering pieces. A stun grenade landed right between the mercenaries' feet with a blinding flash and a deafening bang.
The men screamed, stumbling backward, clutching their ears and eyes.
"Grupo Valdés security! Down on the ground! Now!" Héctor Morales bellowed, leaping through the shattered window with three of his veterans, their weapons drawn and trained on the intruders.
A chaotic firefight was averted as Camila’s mercenaries realized they were outgunned and surrounded. Two of them bolted back toward the broken door, dragging their blinded comrade behind them, and scrambled into their van, peeling rubber down the alleyway.
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Héctor lowered his weapon and strode into the kitchen, his face grim. "Mr. Valdés! Are you alright?"
"We're alive, Héctor," I said, pulling a trembling Mateo into my arms and shielding him against my chest. "Get us out of here. We're going to the federal prosecutor's office."
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