Chapter 1 - The Midnight Clock Strike
The muffled roar of the New Year’s countdown filtered through the concrete ceiling like a distant tremor, carrying the brassy echo of the live band and the laughter of fifteen unsuspecting guests.
"6!"
In the dim, suffocating humidity of the basement mechanical room, Lorena stood over her bound husband, her designer high heels gleaming beneath the single fluorescent bulb. She leaned her full weight onto Julián’s shattered right knee, pressing her heel into the dark, swollen contusion.
Julián bit his lip until blood ran down his chin, trying desperately to suppress the scream that threatened to tear from his throat.
"5!"
Víctor Mondragón stepped further into the room, adjusting his blazer to conceal the heavy dark handle of the revolver tucked into his waistband. In his other hand, he held a thick legal folder.
"4!"
"You're running out of seconds, Julián," Víctor said, his voice smooth, completely devoid of empathy. "Sign the transfer of the holding accounts. Your father’s logistics empire will be liquidated by sunrise, and you can finally go to sleep."
"3!"
From behind the metal shelving unit, Efraín Salcedo felt the cold sweat trickling down the back of his neck. The camera on his phone remained steadily aimed through the gap between two rusty toolboxes, recording every detail in crisp, high-definition video: the syringe in Lorena’s gloved hand, the gun under Víctor’s coat, and the precise wording on the top page of the legal document.
Efraín zoomed in on the signature line.
The document was an irrevocable power-of-attorney granting full control over Rutas del Bajío—the massive freight company Efraín had spent forty years building—to a shell corporation registered in Querétaro under Víctor Mondragón's name. But it didn't require Julián’s signature. The document claimed that Efraín Salcedo was deceased, and it featured a meticulously forged rendition of Efraín’s own signature, complete with a stolen notary seal.
They weren't just planning to murder his son. They had already declared Efraín dead on paper.
"2!"
Lorena uncapped the needle with her teeth, spitting the plastic cover onto the wet concrete floor. She reached down, grabbing Julián’s bruised arm to find a vein.
"1!"
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
The chorus of shouts from the floor above echoed through the floorboards, followed by the muffled popping of champagne corks and applause.
"Happy New Year, my love," Lorena whispered, raising the syringe.
CLANG.
The heavy steel wrench struck the side of Víctor Mondragón’s skull before anyone in the room could react.
Víctor went down like a felled tree, his gun clattering across the wet floor tiles. Lorena shrieked, dropping the syringe as Efraín stepped out from behind the shelving unit. At sixty-eight years old, Efraín’s hands were no longer young, but decades of driving heavy rigs across the mountains of Michoacán had left his shoulders broad and his grip like iron.
Before Lorena could scream a second time, Efraín grabbed her by the lapels of her black evening dress, slamming her back against the concrete pillar opposite his son.
"Shut your mouth," Efraín growled, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that made Lorena’s eyes widen in absolute terror.
"Efraín..." she gasped, choking as his forearm pressed against her throat. "You... you were supposed to be dead on the highway..."
"Your hitmen in the red pickup tried," Efraín said coldly, pulling a roll of heavy industrial duct tape from his jacket pocket. "They didn't realize I've been driving those mountain passes since before your father was born."
Within forty seconds, Efraín had bound Lorena’s hands and mouth with duct tape, securing her tightly to the secondary iron pipe behind the boiler. He picked up Víctor’s dropped revolver, verified the cylinder was loaded, and tucked it securely into his waistband before kicking Víctor’s unconscious body into the dark space behind the furnace.
Efraín dropped to his knees beside Julián. "Hold on, son. I'm getting you out."
"Dad..." Julián rasped, his eyes swimming with exhaustion and the effects of whatever sedative they had injected into him. "The key... the padlock key is around Víctor's neck..."
Efraín quickly searched the unconscious man, yanked a brass key from a leather cord around Víctor's neck, and inserted it into the heavy industrial padlock securing the chain around Julián’s ankle. With a sharp click, the mechanism released.
"Can you stand?" Efraín asked softly.
May you like
"My knee... it's completely destroyed," Julián whispered, grinding his teeth in pain.
"Then wrap your arms around my neck," Efraín said, lifting his thirty-four-year-old son onto his back. "We built this house together, Julián. Now we're walking out of it."
