SIXTY KNOTS IN THE THROAT FOR A SACRED OATH BEFORE THE FADED LIGHT AND A HIDDEN TRUTH

My wife died years ago. Every month I sent her mother $300. Until I found out…
Joaquín Hernández stared at his cell phone screen as if it were an alarm that wouldn’t stop blaring.
$300.
Same day, same amount, same account number.
Five years. Sixty transfers. Sixty times pressing “Send” with the same lump in his throat.
Marisol had extracted that promise from him in the hospital, her voice rasping from chemotherapy, her hand trembling on top of his.
“If I’m not here… please don’t leave my mother alone. Send her even a little. She’s tough, but… she’s my mother.”
Joaquín had nodded, weeping. A vow made in a room that smelled of antiseptic felt sacred. And he was a man of his word.
But that Thursday afternoon, the bank notification pierced him like a needle. Not because of the transfer. Because of what came after: another warning.
Electricity: $2,950 due. Service scheduled to be disconnected on Monday.
Joaquín swallowed. He leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at the refrigerator covered in old magnets and school drawings. He worked as an electrician in Monterrey, earning “well” for what he did, but raising an eight-year-old girl alone was like trying to stretch a wire beyond its gauge: sooner or later, it would overheat.

“Dad, can we order pizza today?” Camila asked, coming in with her backpack slung over her shoulder and a smile identical to Marisol’s.
That smile always disarmed him… but today it hurt more.
Joaquín bent down, straightened one of her braids, and forced himself to smile.
“Let’s make quesadillas with that bread you like. Okay?”
Camila pursed her lips for a second, then nodded with a resignation unbecoming of a child.
“Okay…” she said, and went to wash her hands as if she didn’t want to ask any more questions.
Joaquín stared at his phone. “Send” was still there, bright, easy to use. But his finger wouldn’t move.
Then it vibrated with a message.

Leticia Rangel: “I need to talk to you about the payment method. Call me today.”
Joaquín blinked. Doña Leticia, his mother-in-law, never “needed to talk.” For five years she had coldly accepted the money, without asking about Camila, without showing any interest in school, without a single “How are you?” When Joaquín tried to talk, she would give curt replies, as if he were to blame for his daughter leaving.
That night, when Camila fell asleep, Joaquín opened the closet and took out the box he almost never touched: “Marisol’s Things.” He had stored it up high, as if pain, too, could be filed away.
He lifted the lid.
The wedding ring. Two photographs. A hospital bracelet. And in the background, a funeral home card with a note on the back: “Pick up cremation certificate — LR” signed by Leticia.
Joaquín froze.
Because that handwriting… that handwriting was different from the one on the paper where, on the day of the funeral, Leticia had written the bank account details for the monthly transfers.
Different. Completely different.
A chill ran down his spine, like when you feel a short circuit in an electrical system and you don’t know where it is.
“No…” Joaquín whispered. “It can’t be.”
But his body told him what his head was still refusing: something is wrong.
The next morning, there was a knock at the door at 7:30.
It was Óscar Salas, his friend from high school, with two coffees in hand and a serious expression that wasn’t like him.
“Don’t be alarmed,” Óscar said as soon as he came in. “But I need to talk to you… about that account you send money to.”
Joaquín felt his stomach clench.
“What happened?”
Óscar worked in the bank’s customer service department. He wasn’t an “investigator,” but he knew how to read patterns, just like Joaquín could identify a burnt wire just by smelling the air.
Óscar handed him some printed sheets.

“Last night, when you told me about your mother-in-law’s message, I checked what I could… without getting into trouble. I can’t see “everything,” he said, “but I do see transactions, and… Joaquín, that account doesn’t behave like an elderly lady’s.”
Joaquín looked down.
Deposits of $800, $1,200, $2,000… every week. And what chilled him to the bone: every time he deposited $300, the next day that money would be transferred to another account Joaquín didn’t recognize.
“This isn’t for paying the electricity bill or rent,” Óscar said, lowering his voice. “This is moving money around, like… traffic.”
Joaquín crumpled the papers.
“And the account address?”
Óscar swallowed.
“It’s not what you think. It’s registered to an apartment building in the San Bernabé neighborhood. It’s not a lady’s house, Joaquín. It’s one of those places where nobody asks any questions.”
Joaquín felt a void beneath his feet. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“And my mother-in-law’s phone number?”
Óscar pulled out his cell phone.
“I looked it up. It’s under someone else’s name. Leticia Rangel isn’t even listed.”
A heavy silence hung between them.
Óscar handed him a card.
“I don’t want to scare you, but… hire someone. Valeria Cruz, a private investigator. She specializes in financial fraud. And another thing: that account receives payments from other people too. You’re not the only one.”

Joaquín felt the weight of the business card in his hand as if it were made of lead. Valeria Cruz. Private Investigator. The card was cheap, matte white with black lettering, without any ostentatious logos.

—Do you think it’s necessary, Oscar? —Joaquin asked, his voice breaking, his gaze lost in the steam rising from his untouched coffee cup.

Oscar sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair.

“Buddy, if it were just your mother-in-law spending money on bingo or expensive medicine, I’d tell you to leave it alone. But this…” He gestured to the crumpled papers on the table. “Multiple depositors. Immediate withdrawals to shell accounts. Fake names on the phone lines. This reeks of organized fraud. And if your name’s on it, putting money in every month, when the bomb explodes, the prosecutor’s office isn’t going to ask if you did it out of love for your late wife. They’re going to take you down.”

The mention of the prosecution was like a bucket of ice water. Joaquín thought about Camila. About who would braid her hair if he wasn’t there. About who would explain to her why her father was in jail for financing who knows what.

—Thank you, Oscar—he murmured, putting the card in his work shirt pocket, right over his heart.

When his friend left, the silence in the house felt oppressive. It was eight in the morning. He had to go to work; he had an installation pending at an office in San Pedro, a well-paying job he couldn’t afford to lose. But the engine of his life seemed to have broken down.

Camila came out of her room, rubbing her eyes, wearing the unicorn pajamas that were already getting too short for her.

—Who came, Dad?

—Your uncle Oscar, honey. He came by quickly before going to the bank.

—Ah… —she yawned—. Is breakfast ready yet?

Joaquín looked at her. He saw Marisol’s eyes. The same way she raised her left eyebrow when she was hungry. He felt a surge of rage so intense he had to clench his fists on the kitchen counter to keep from screaming. Someone was taking advantage of this. Someone was using the memory of this sacred woman, the mother of his daughter, to extract money he barely had.

—Yes, my love. Sit down. The quesadillas will be ready in a moment.

As he cooked, his mind worked faster than his hands. He remembered the last few times he’d tried to see Leticia. “Don’t come, son, I’m really sick with the flu, I don’t want to give it to the baby.” “I can’t today, I’m just leaving for the doctor.” Always excuses. Always by text or brief calls where her voice sounded distant, tired.

Was it really her?

She pulled out her phone. The message from the night before was still there, blinking like a silent threat.
*“I need to talk to you about the payment method. Call me today.”*

Joaquín took a deep breath. If he wanted answers, he had to go into the lion’s den, but carefully. He dialed the number.

One, two, three tones.

-Well?

The voice on the other end froze him. It was raspy, dry. Yes, it sounded like Leticia, but there was something… a metallic undertone, a lack of warmth he didn’t remember, not even in his worst moments of grief.

“Doña Leticia,” Joaquín said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “It’s me, Joaquín. I received your message.”

There was a pause. There was background noise, like heavy traffic or a television playing at full volume.

—Ah, Joaquín. Yes. It’s good that you called.

—Are you okay? There’s a lot of noise.

“I’m… I’m out. I went to the pharmacy,” she replied quickly. Too quickly. “Look, about the money. The bank is charging me a lot of fees on that account. I need you to deposit it this month at Oxxo. To a Saldazo card. I’ll send you a picture.”

Joaquín felt his skin crawl. Óscar had warned him about that. Saldazo accounts were harder to trace, ideal for quick and anonymous transactions.

“Excuse me, Mother-in-law…” Joaquín lowered his voice, turning away so Camila couldn’t hear him from the table. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you. Camila’s been asking about her grandmother. Why don’t I stop by today and drop off the cash? That way you save on the commission and you can say hello to the little girl.”

The silence on the other end lasted so long that Joaquín thought the call had been cut off.

“No,” the voice said, sharp and harsh. “I’m not home. I’m staying with my sister for a few days. I’m not feeling well, Joaquín, I’m not up for visitors. Just deposit the money. I need it by two o’clock today. The medicine can’t wait.”

—But Mrs. Leti…

—Do it for Marisol, Joaquín. You promised me.

*Click.*

The call cut off. Joaquín stared at the phone with a mixture of nausea and disbelief. That last sentence. *“Do it for Marisol.”* It was the exact trigger. The master key they had used for five years to unlock his wallet and his conscience. But this time, the key didn’t turn. It broke inside the lock.

He served Camila breakfast, dressed in his work uniform—thick denim pants, a blue shirt with the faded logo of “Hernández Electricity,” and safety boots—and took the girl to school.

—Be good, shorty. I’ll pick you up at the exit.

—Yes, Dad. Hey… are we going to have electricity on Monday? I heard you were telling Uncle Oscar about some money.

Joaquín felt a pang in his chest. The girls heard everything; they understood more than anyone could have imagined.

—Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. The power won’t go out. I promise.

And he was a man of his word.

Instead of going to San Pedro, Joaquín turned the wheel of his old Ford pickup truck toward downtown Monterrey. He had to see Valeria Cruz.

The address on the card led him to an old building near the Alameda, an area where cheap law offices mingled with dental clinics and pawn shops. He climbed two floors up a staircase that smelled of damp and cigarettes.

The door to office 204 was ajar. Joaquín knocked.

“Come in,” a female voice shouted from inside.

The office was small, crammed with metal filing cabinets, and a pedestal fan whirred furiously in one corner. Behind a wooden desk that had seen better days sat a woman of about thirty-five. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, she wore thick-framed glasses, and she was typing furiously on a laptop.

“Valeria Cruz?” Joaquín asked, taking off his cap.

She looked up. She had dark, analytical eyes, the kind that scan you and know how much money you have in your wallet and what you had for breakfast.

—That’s me. Are you Oscar Salas’s friend? He sent me a WhatsApp message letting me know you were coming. Sit down, move that box away.

Joaquín moved a box full of files and sat down in the plastic chair. He felt out of place, large and clumsy in that small space.

—Oscar told me that you know about fraud.

“I know about a lot of things. Fraud, infidelity, people who don’t want to be found… and people who find what they shouldn’t.” Valeria closed her laptop and interlaced her fingers. “Now, show me what you’ve got.”

Joaquín took out the papers Óscar had printed for him and handed them to Valeria. She reviewed them silently. Her expression didn’t change, but Joaquín noticed how her eyes lingered on the numbers, the dates, the locations.

—San Bernabé— she murmured. — A troubled neighborhood for a grandma’s savings account.

—That’s what Oscar said. And… the phone number isn’t in my mother-in-law’s name.

—Did you talk to her?

—An hour ago. He asked me to deposit money into an Oxxo card. He told me not to go to his house.

Valeria let out a dry, humorless laugh.

—Classic. Look, Joaquín, I’m going to be blunt with you. This looks exactly like a money mule ring. They’re using accounts belonging to elderly or vulnerable people to launder small amounts of money, or worse, someone impersonated your mother-in-law a long time ago.

—Did he impersonate someone? But… the voice sounded similar.

“Older people’s voices change. Or they can imitate them. Or…” Valeria looked at him intently, “your mother-in-law is involved in this, willingly or unwillingly. Sometimes the grandchildren, the nephews, or the ‘caregivers’ take control. They take away their cards, their phones, and leave them living in poverty while they collect the money.”

Joaquín felt the blood rush to his head. The image of Doña Leticia, kidnapped in her own home, or manipulated, made his stomach churn.

—How much do you charge for research?

Valeria sighed and scribbled a number on a small piece of paper. She slid it across the desk.

—That’s for starters. Operating expenses, gas, and my time. If I find something and we have to get lawyers or the police involved, that’s separate.

Joaquín looked at the figure. 3,500 pesos.
It was more than he had available. It was enough for the electricity bill and a little food for the week. Or it was enough for the transfer to his mother-in-law for the next ten months.

He thought about the $300. At the current exchange rate, that was almost 5,500 pesos. He had that money set aside in an envelope at home, ready to be sent today. If he gave it to Valeria, there wouldn’t be a transfer for “Leticia.” And if there was no transfer, what would happen?

“I don’t have all this right now,” Joaquín admitted, looking down. The shame of poverty always stung, even if you worked from sunrise to sunset.

Valeria watched him for a moment. She saw his calloused hands, full of small cuts and burns from cables. She saw his clean but worn clothes.

“Give me half now,” she said, softening her tone slightly. “And the other half when I hand in the first report. But I’m warning you, Joaquín: if we scratch the surface of this, we’ll find snakes. Are you sure you want to know?”

Joaquín thought of Marisol. Of his promise. *“Don’t leave my mother alone.”* If Doña Leticia was being abused, leaving her like that was breaking the promise. And if she was part of the deception, then the promise was a lie. Either way, she had to know.

-Sure.

He took out his wallet and counted the bills he had brought for the materials for the San Pedro project. He would have to come up with something with the architect to get an advance or buy the materials on credit. He put 1,800 pesos on the table.

—Start now —said Joaquín—. Please.

Valeria nodded and put the money in a drawer.

—Okay. First, we need to verify that address in San Bernabé. And I need your mother-in-law’s actual address, the last one you knew.

“She used to live in the Mitras neighborhood, in an old house. But two years ago she told me she was moving to something smaller, that she’d sold the house. She never gave me the new address, she said it was temporary…” Joaquín stopped, realizing how stupid he sounded out loud. “God, I was an idiot.”

—Grief blinds us, Joaquín. Don’t beat yourself up. Leave it to me. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Joaquín left the office with lighter pockets and a heavier heart. He got into his truck. The midday heat in Monterrey was already at its peak, 38 degrees Celsius (100 degrees Fahrenheit) that made the air dance across the asphalt.

He started the engine, but didn’t head for San Pedro.
His hands, of their own accord, turned the steering wheel north. Towards San Bernabé.

He knew it was stupid. Valeria had told him she’d take care of it. He wasn’t a detective, he was an electrician. But helplessness was a powerful motivator. He just wanted to see. He just wanted to walk past those apartments where the bank account that had swallowed five years of his hard work supposedly lived.

He drove down Aztlán Avenue, watching the cityscape change. Glass buildings and shopping plazas gave way to auto repair shops, street taco stands, and unfinished self-built houses, their rebar pointing skyward like accusing fingers.

He arrived at the location Oscar had written down for him:
Fresnos Street, number 402.

It was a three-story building, painted a peeling melon color. On the ground floor, a metal shutter was closed with a sign that read “Cell phones and computers repaired.” Upstairs, the windows had rusty bars. Laundry hung from the balconies.

Joaquín parked on the opposite sidewalk, with the engine running and the air conditioning struggling to cool the cabin.

He watched.
For ten minutes, nothing happened. Just a stray dog looking for shade and a couple of children playing with a deflated ball.

Then the side door of the building opened.
A young man, in his early twenties, came out. He was wearing a tank top, had tattoos on his arms, and wore a baseball cap backward. He walked with that characteristic swagger of someone who feels like he owns the sidewalk. He stopped at the corner, took out a cell phone, and started typing.

Joaquín squinted. The guy had two cell phones in his hand. He was typing on one, then looking at the other.

Suddenly, Joaquín’s cell phone vibrated in the passenger seat.
He looked at it.
Message from Leticia Rangel: *“Did you make the deposit yet? I need to buy the pills before the pharmacy closes. Don’t do this to me, son.”*

Joaquín looked up at the guy in the corner.
The man had just taken a cell phone out of the car and was scratching his nose, waiting.

A coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. There were millions of people in Monterrey sending messages at the same time.

Joaquín felt a suicidal urge. He picked up his phone and typed: *“I’m on my way to Oxxo. I’ll get it for you.”* And he pressed send.

He glanced at the guy in the corner.
A second later, the man looked at one of his cell phones, read something, and smiled. A crooked, mocking smile. He started typing again.

Joaquín’s phone vibrated: *“Thanks, son. God bless you. Send me a picture of the receipt.”*

Joaquín’s world stopped. The noise of traffic disappeared. Only the buzzing of his blood in his ears remained, and the image of that man, that stranger, calling him “my son” with his fingers, pretending to be Camila’s grandmother.

The rage she felt wasn’t hot. It was cold. Calculating.
That guy had Camila’s money. That guy had mocked Marisol’s death.

Joaquín turned off the truck’s engine.
He knew he shouldn’t get out. He knew he had a daughter waiting for him. He knew Valeria Cruz was the professional.

But he also knew that if he left then, he’d never be able to look at himself in the mirror again.
He reached under the seat. There he kept a heavy, wrought-iron, 18-inch pipe wrench, his tool for the most stubborn pipes. He weighed it in his hand. The metal was hot from the sun.

He wasn’t going to hit him. He wasn’t a murderer. He just wanted to scare him. He just wanted to know who he was and where Leticia was.
He opened the truck door and got out. The heat hit him full force.
He crossed the street.

The guy in the cap was still engrossed in his phones, leaning against the melon-colored wall. He didn’t see Joaquín coming until his shadow fell right on top of him.
The man looked up. His bloodshot, glassy eyes shifted from surprise to a quick assessment. He saw the electrician’s uniform, he saw the wrench in his hand, he saw the unfriendly face.

“What’s up, boss? Can I get you anything?” the guy said, putting the cell phones in the wide pockets of his pants.

—Yes —said Joaquín, and his voice sounded deeper than usual, vibrating in his chest—. I’d like to know how my mother-in-law is doing.

The guy frowned, confused for a second.
“What? What are you talking about, old man? Calm down or…”

“Leticia Rangel,” Joaquín interrupted, taking a step forward. He raised the Stilson wrench, not to attack, but to make it perfectly clear. “You just sent me a message pretending to be her. I want to know where she is.”

The guy’s expression changed. Confusion gave way to a grimace of recognition, and then to a nervous laugh.

—Ah… I see. You’re the stupid son-in-law. The one with the $300.

The phrase hit Joaquín harder than a punch. *That stupid son-in-law*. That’s what they knew him as. That’s how they had him listed in their database of victims.

“Where is she?” Joaquín growled, closing the distance.

The guy spat on the ground, near Joaquín’s boots.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only get paid to answer messages and keep things moving. If you want to know more, you’ll have to ask upstairs. But I’m warning you, boss… we don’t fix short-term issues here. We’ll ruin you.”

The man whistled loudly, a high-pitched sound that echoed off the alley walls.
Two other men emerged from the side door of the building. Bigger, heavier. One was carrying an aluminum baseball bat.

Joaquín took a step back, tightening the pipe wrench. He had made a mistake. A beginner’s mistake. He had confused a 110-volt cable with a high-voltage one.

“I’ll give you three seconds to get the hell out of here,” said the guy in the cap, pulling a switchblade from his pocket. “And keep depositing, or we’re going to go find that girl you keep talking about in your messages. Camila, right?”

Hearing her daughter’s name on that piece of trash’s lips was the last straw. Fear vanished, replaced by a primal instinct to protect. But logic returned too. It was three against one. If she fought there, she’d die there. And Camila would be left all alone.

Joaquín looked them in the eyes, memorizing their faces. Memorizing their tattoos.
“This isn’t over,” he said, with a calmness he didn’t feel.

Dio media vuelta y caminó hacia su camioneta, esperando en cada segundo sentir el golpe en la nuca o el filo en la espalda. Pero no lo siguieron. Solo se rieron.
—¡No se te olvide el Oxxo, pendejo! —le gritaron.

Joaquín subió a la camioneta, arrancó quemando llanta y salió de ahí. Le temblaban las manos tanto que apenas podía sostener el volante.
Condujo varias cuadras hasta que encontró una gasolinera y se estacionó. Apoyó la frente en el volante y respiró, tratando de controlar las náuseas.

Habían amenazado a Camila. Sabían su nombre. Sabían que existía.
Durante cinco años, él mismo les había dado toda la información. En sus mensajes de “Aquí le mando lo del mes, Camila sacó dieces”, “Aquí le mando un extra para su cumple, Camila le manda saludos”. Él les había dado el mapa de su vida.

Sacó el teléfono. Tenía que llamar a Valeria. Tenía que decirle que esto era mucho más grande y peligroso de lo que pensaban.
Pero antes de marcar, entró una notificación del banco.

*Depósito recibido: $25,000.00 MXN.*
*Concepto: Liquidación Seguro M.H.*

Joaquín parpadeó. ¿Seguro M.H.? No reconocía eso.
Entró a la aplicación del banco. El dinero estaba ahí. Veinticinco mil pesos caídos del cielo en su cuenta de nómina.
Y luego, otro mensaje de texto. De un número desconocido.

*“Joaquín. Soy Valeria. No contestes este número. Borra este mensaje. Salte de tu casa hoy mismo. Lo de San Bernabé es una colmena de Los Zetas vieja escuela. Acabo de encontrar el acta de defunción de Leticia Rangel. Murió hace tres años en un asilo público. Alguien ha estado cobrando su pensión y tus depósitos. Pero lo peor no es eso. La cuenta a la que depositas está ligada a una empresa fantasma de seguridad eléctrica. Tu jefe está metido. No vayas a la obra de San Pedro. Te están esperando. Vete.”*

Joaquín leyó el mensaje dos veces.
Leticia muerta. Tres años.
Su jefe.
La obra de San Pedro.

Miró el depósito de 25 mil pesos. “Liquidación”. Lo estaban liquidando. Lo estaban despidiendo… o algo peor. Su jefe sabía que Óscar estaba investigando. El sistema bancario avisó.

El pánico se transformó en claridad absoluta.
Camila. La escuela salía a la una. Faltaban veinte minutos.

Joaquín tiró el teléfono al asiento del copiloto y pisó el acelerador a fondo. La vieja Ford rugió como una bestia herida. Ya no le importaba la luz, ni el dinero, ni la promesa.
Ahora era una carrera. Y tenía que ganarla.

The Ford’s speedometer read eighty on a sixty-meter avenue. The chassis vibrated as if the truck were about to fall apart, adding its own groan to the chaos of midday traffic in Monterrey. But Joaquín didn’t care. He only saw patches of color: the gray of the asphalt, the red of the traffic lights he ran when no cars were coming, and the blinding white of fear that clouded his peripheral vision.

Engineer Roberto Maldonado. Your boss.

Joaquín’s mind, trained to follow logical circuits, tried to complete the diagram, but the wires were frayed and sparking. Maldonado was the one who lent him money for Marisol’s initial treatments. Maldonado was the one who gave him paid time off when she died. Maldonado, the man who patted him on the back at the wake, saying, “We’re here for whatever you need, Joaquín. We’re family.”

Family.

The word tasted like bile to him. That deposit of twenty-five thousand pesos wasn’t a settlement. It was the price on his head. Or worse, it was bait to confirm that the account was still active and that he was still under control. If Maldonado was involved with the people from San Bernabé, then they didn’t just know where he lived. They knew his routes. They knew what time he came and went. And, of course, they knew where Camila studied.

The Benito Juárez Elementary School appeared at the end of the street. There was a double line of cars waiting for dismissal. Mothers with umbrellas for the sun, shaved ice vendors, the usual hustle and bustle of one in the afternoon.

Joaquín didn’t wait in line. He drove his truck onto the sidewalk, half a meter from a lamppost, earning honks and curses from a taxi driver. He didn’t turn off the engine.

He ran downstairs. His heavy boots hit the concrete.

“Don Joaquín!” shouted the woman from the cooperative who was coming out with some bags. “You can’t park there!”

Joaquín ignored her. His eyes scanned the crowd of school uniforms. He was looking for the braids. He was looking for the pink backpack.

And then he saw something that stopped his heart.

Near the gate, leaning against a black Jetta with tinted windows, stood a man. He wasn’t the one with the San Bernabé cap. This one was better dressed, in a blue polo shirt and dark sunglasses, but he had the same relaxed posture, like a predator waiting. The man was looking toward the schoolyard, holding a cell phone to his ear.

Joaquín felt time stretching out. Was he one of them? Or was he just a father waiting for his son? Paranoia is a lens that distorts everything, but Joaquín couldn’t afford to doubt.

The bell rang. The tide of children began to flow out.

Joaquín pushed his way through the ladies.

—Excuse me, excuse me…

He saw Camila. She was chatting with a friend, laughing, her innocence intact. That laughter he had sworn to protect.

The man in the Jetta straightened up. He took a step forward, removing his sunglasses.

Joaquín didn’t wait to see what she would do. He ran the last ten meters.

—Camila!

La niña volteó, sorprendida por el grito y por ver a su papá a esa hora, con la cara bañada en sudor y los ojos desorbitados.

—¿Papá?

Joaquín la tomó del brazo, tal vez con demasiada fuerza, porque ella hizo una mueca de dolor.

—Vámonos. Ya.

—Pero papá, me toca guardia de…

—¡Dije que vámonos! —rugió él, jalándola hacia su cuerpo, interponiéndose entre ella y el hombre del Jetta.

Cargó la mochila de la niña en un hombro y prácticamente la arrastró hacia la camioneta. Miró de reojo al hombre del polo azul. El tipo lo observó pasar, frunció el ceño extrañado y luego levantó la mano para saludar a un niño gordito que salía corriendo hacia él.

—¡Papi!

Era un padre. Solo un padre.

Joaquín sintió una oleada de vergüenza, pero no se detuvo. Metió a Camila en el asiento del copiloto, cerró la puerta y subió él.

—Papá, me lastimaste —se quejó Camila, sobandose el brazo. Sus ojos se llenaron de lágrimas—. ¿Qué tienes? ¿Por qué llegaste así?

Joaquín arrancó la camioneta, bajándose de la banqueta con un golpe seco de la suspensión.

—Perdóname, mi amor. Perdóname —dijo, con la voz temblorosa, mirando por el retrovisor cada tres segundos—. Es que… hubo un accidente en la obra. Una fuga de gas. Tenemos que irnos rápido.

—¿Vamos a la casa?

—No.

La respuesta salió demasiado tajante. Joaquín respiró hondo, tratando de bajar las revoluciones de su propio pánico. Tenía que pensar. Si iba a casa, lo atraparían. Si iba con Óscar, pondría a su amigo en peligro. Si iba con Valeria… Valeria le había dicho “salte de tu casa”. No le había dicho “ven a mi oficina”. Llevar a la niña a un lugar donde se investigan crímenes era una locura.

—Vamos a jugar a algo, Cami —dijo Joaquín, forzando una sonrisa que se sentía como una máscara de yeso—. ¿Te acuerdas cuando mamá decía que a veces hay que ser espías invisibles?

Camila lo miró con desconfianza. Era lista. Demasiado lista.

—Papá, me estás asustando.

—No, mi vida. Escúchame bien. Hoy somos invisibles. Nadie puede saber dónde estamos. Ni la abuela, ni el tío Óscar, nadie. Es… una sorpresa. Un viaje sorpresa.

Condujo hacia el sur, alejándose de San Bernabé, alejándose de su casa en la colonia obrera, alejándose de todo lo que conocía. El mensaje de Valeria resonaba en su cabeza: *”Tu jefe está metido… La cuenta está ligada a una empresa fantasma”*.

Joaquín golpeó el volante. ¡Maldita sea! Recordó los papeles. Hacía dos años, Maldonado le había pedido firmar como “Supervisor de Obra” para unos proyectos en bodegas industriales en Santa Catarina. “Es puro trámite, Joaquín, para que Protección Civil no nos la haga de tos. Tú eres mi mejor técnico, necesito tu firma para avalar la instalación”.

Y él había firmado. Había firmado planos, había firmado recepciones de material que nunca vio, había firmado bitácoras de mantenimiento para naves industriales que, según recordaba, siempre estaban cerradas y con guardias armados en la entrada.

He wasn’t just a victim of the “mother-in-law” scam. He was, legally, the technical manager of the facilities where those criminals were operating who knows what. Money laundering, server farms, laboratories… whatever it was that consumed electricity on an industrial scale.

That’s why the deposit. That’s why the threat. They didn’t want his $300. They wanted to keep him quiet and under control because his signature was at the heart of their operation. And now that Óscar had started to stir things up in the banking world, Joaquín had become a loose end.

“Dad, where are we going?” Camila insisted.

Joaquín saw a sign for “Shopping Plaza” in the distance. A plan began to form. A desperate plan.

—Cami, I need you to be very brave. We’re going to leave the truck.

—The truck? Why?

“Because it’s malfunctioning. Can’t you hear the noise?” he lied. “Let’s take a taxi and go to a hotel with a pool. Do you like the idea?”

The mention of the pool softened the fear on the girl’s face.

Joaquín entered the mall’s underground parking garage. He looked for the darkest corner, far from the security cameras if possible, although he knew that these days it was impossible to hide completely. He parked the Ford. That truck he had bought with three years’ worth of savings, the one he had used to take Marisol to her chemotherapy treatments, the one where he had learned to drive.

He turned off the engine. The silence was deafening.

—Leave your backpack, Cami. Just take out your sweater.

—And my notebooks? I have homework.

—I’ll buy you new ones. Let’s go.

They got out of the car. Joaquín closed the door, but didn’t lock it. He left the keys in the ignition. He wanted it stolen. He wanted someone to take it far away, to throw off the trail.

They walked toward the pedestrian exit. Joaquín felt like the tag on his work shirt, with the company logo, was burning his skin. He stopped at a public restroom.

“Wait for me out here, don’t move an inch,” he ordered Camila.

He went into the bathroom. He took off his blue shirt. He was left in his white undershirt, stained with sweat and dust. He crumpled up his uniform shirt and threw it at the bottom of the trash can. He washed his face with cold water, trying to get rid of the look of a fugitive.

As they left, he took Camila’s hand and they walked towards the avenue to hail a taxi on the street, no apps, nothing that would leave a digital trace.

“To the center,” he told the taxi driver, “through the Juárez Market.”

As the taxi moved forward, Joaquín pulled out his cell phone. He knew it was a tracker in his pocket. Valeria had told him not to answer, but she hadn’t told him to turn it off. Mistake. He turned it off immediately. Then, on second thought, he removed the back cover, took out the SIM card, and snapped it in two with his fingernails, breaking one in the process. He rolled down the window a little and threw the pieces onto the moving asphalt.

He put his cell phone, now just an inert device, away. It could be used to connect to public Wi-Fi in an emergency, but for now, he was cut off from communication.

Se bajaron unas cuadras antes del mercado. Caminaron bajo el sol inclemente hasta encontrar un hotel de esos viejos, de fachada de cantera sucia y letrero de neón que apenas funcionaba de día. “Hotel Regis”. No pedían identificación si pagabas en efectivo por adelantado.

Joaquín pagó dos noches con los billetes que le quedaban del material. La recepcionista, una mujer mayor que masticaba chicle con desgano, ni siquiera los miró a los ojos. Le entregó una llave pesada con un llavero de plástico rojo.

—Habitación 304. No se permite ruido después de las diez.

La habitación olía a humedad y a tabaco rancio impregnado en las cortinas. Había dos camas individuales con colchas que alguna vez fueron floreadas y ahora eran de un color indefinido.

Joaquín cerró la puerta y pasó el pestillo. Puso una silla trabando la perilla, un truco que había aprendido de su padre.

—¿Aquí vamos a dormir? —preguntó Camila, arrugando la nariz—. Huele feo. Y no veo la alberca.

Joaquín se sentó en el borde de la cama, sintiendo que el peso del mundo finalmente lo aplastaba. Se cubrió la cara con las manos.

—La alberca la están arreglando, mi amor. Perdón. Mañana buscamos otro lugar mejor. Ahorita… ahorita necesito que prendas la tele y veas caricaturas un rato. Papá tiene que pensar.

Camila, percibiendo la fragilidad de su padre, no protestó más. Se quitó los zapatos, se subió a la cama y prendió la televisión vieja.

Joaquín se quedó mirando la pared despintada.

Estaba solo. Sin trabajo. Con 25 mil pesos en una cuenta que no podía tocar sin alertar a sus verdugos. Con una hija de ocho años en un hotel de mala muerte. Y con la certeza de que la mujer a la que le había llorado cinco años, su suegra, había muerto sola en un asilo mientras alguien, probablemente el mismo Maldonado o sus socios, usaba su nombre para ordeñarle la vida a él y a quién sabe cuántos más.

La rabia volvió, pero esta vez mezclada con una claridad fría.

Valeria había dicho que encontró el acta de defunción. Eso significaba que había un rastro de papel. Si Leticia murió en un asilo público, hubo un ingreso, hubo doctores, hubo un registro.

Joaquín necesitaba hablar con Valeria, pero no podía usar su teléfono.

—Cami, tengo que bajar a comprar agua y algo de comer. No le abras a nadie. A nadie. Si tocan, no contestes. ¿Entendido?

—Sí, pa.

—Te voy a dejar la tele prendida fuerte. Vuelvo en diez minutos.

Joaquín salió, asegurándose de que la puerta quedara bien cerrada. Bajó las escaleras de dos en dos. En la esquina había un Oxxo.

Compró dos botellas de agua, unos sándwiches empaquetados y, lo más importante, un teléfono barato, de esos de “cacahuate” que costaban 300 pesos, y una recarga de tiempo aire.

Salió de la tienda y caminó hacia un parque cercano para hacer la llamada. Sus manos temblaban al marcar el número que venía en la tarjeta de Valeria Cruz, la cual había guardado en su cartera como un amuleto.

Uno. Dos.

—¿Sí? —contestó ella al segundo tono. Su voz sonaba tensa.

—Soy yo —dijo Joaquín—. El electricista.

He heard a sigh of relief on the other end.

—Damn it, Joaquín. Where are you? I went to your house. There’s a patrol car parked outside. And it’s not one of the ones that patrol the neighborhood.

Joaquín felt a chill.

—I’m not home. I’m… safe. With the girl. I threw away my cell phone SIM card.

—Good. That’s good. Listen, the situation is critical. Your name appears in three shell companies as the majority shareholder and legal representative: “Soluciones Eléctricas del Norte,” “Mantenimiento Industrial Regio,” and “Seguridad MH.”

—MH… —whispered Joaquín—. Marisol Hernández. They used my wife’s initials.

“They’re cynical. Joaquín, those companies have billed millions of pesos in the last four years. Money coming in and going out. If the Financial Intelligence Unit catches you, they’ll give you twenty years without question. Maldonado used you as a front man. Today’s deposit was to link you to a recent withdrawal of funds. They want it to look like you stole that money and ran away. They’re framing you to make you the scapegoat.”

Joaquín leaned against a tree, feeling like he couldn’t breathe.

—What do I do, Valeria? I don’t have money for lawyers. I have no one.

—You have me. And you have Oscar. He made copies of the bank statements before they blocked him from the system.

—Did they block Oscar?

—He was fired an hour ago. “Violation of customer privacy.” But Óscar is smart, he took the data. Look, we need proof that clears you. Something that shows you were a deceived employee and not the mastermind. Do you have the contracts? Emails? Messages from Maldonado giving you orders?

Joaquín thought. The papers… the company kept the originals. He only had copies of the work orders.

“I have my logbook,” he said suddenly. “I always write everything down. Addresses, materials, entry and exit times. And I write down… I write down strange things.”

—Weirdous things like what?

“Excessive power consumption for the cable gauge. Underground installations not shown on the plans. Armed people on the construction site. I have it all written down in my notebooks. I’m a technician, Valeria. If something doesn’t add up with the electrical load, I note it down so I don’t get blamed if something burns out.”

“That’s it!” Valeria exclaimed. “Those logs can prove that you were the only one doing the technical work and that you were reporting any anomalies. Where are they?”

Joaquín’s silence was the answer.

“They’re in my house,” he said, his voice lifeless. “In the big toolbox. In the laundry room.”

Valeria cursed under her breath.

—Your house is under surveillance. You can’t go back there.

“I have to go. Without those notebooks, I’m a dead man.” And Camila is left alone.

—Don’t be stupid. If you go near them, they’ll pick you up. That patrol car isn’t there to arrest you, it’s there to hand you over.

—I know my house, Valeria. And I know my neighbors. I can get in through the back, via the rooftops.

—It’s too risky.

“It’s the only option. Listen, Valeria. I’m going tonight. I need you and Óscar to analyze what they have. If I get the logs, where do I meet them?”

There was a long pause.

—No vayas a mi despacho. Ve al estacionamiento del Hospital Universitario, piso tres, zona C. A la medianoche. Si no llegas a las 12:30, asumo que te atraparon.

—Ahí estaré.

—Joaquín… ten cuidado. Esta gente no juega. Ya mataron a tu suegra. Bueno, la dejaron morir, que es lo mismo. No les importas tú ni tu hija.

—Lo sé —dijo Joaquín, y su voz sonó dura, irreconocible para él mismo—. Por eso voy a ir. Porque a mí sí me importan.

Colgó. Sacó la batería del teléfono barato y guardó todo en sus bolsillos.

Regresó al hotel con la comida. Camila seguía viendo la tele, hipnotizada por colores brillantes que contrastaban con la oscuridad de la habitación.

—Aquí está tu sándwich, mija. Come.

Joaquín se sentó frente a ella y la vio comer. Grabó en su memoria cada gesto, cada peca de su cara. Si algo salía mal esa noche, quería que esa fuera su última imagen.

—Cami, voy a tener que salir un ratito en la noche. Cuando te duermas.

La niña dejó el sándwich.

—¿Me vas a dejar sola?

—Solo una hora. Voy a ir rápido y volver. Te voy a dejar encerrada con llave y con la silla en la puerta. Nadie puede entrar. Tienes el teléfono aquí. Si pasa algo, aprietas el número 1 y le marcas a la amiga de papá, Valeria. Ella vendrá por ti.

—No quiero que vayas. Tengo miedo.

Joaquín se acercó y la abrazó. Olía a vainilla y a sudor de niña. Olía a vida.

—Yo también tengo miedo, chaparra. Pero el miedo sirve para estar alertas. Tengo que ir a buscar algo que nos va a ayudar a que nadie nos moleste nunca más. Lo hago por ti. Y por mamá.

La mención de Marisol funcionó, como siempre. Camila asintió, secándose una lágrima con el dorso de la mano.

—Está bien. Pero regresas rápido. Promételo.

—Te lo prometo.

Y él era un hombre de palabra. Aunque últimamente, sus palabras le estaban costando la vida.

Esperó a que cayeran las nueve de la noche. Camila se quedó dormida con la televisión encendida y el volumen bajo. Joaquín revisó sus bolsillos: la llave Stilson seguía en su cinturón, oculta bajo la camiseta que ahora llevaba por fuera. No tenía arma, pero tenía conocimiento.

Salió del hotel como una sombra. La noche de Monterrey era caliente y pesada. Tomó otro taxi y pidió que lo dejara a cinco cuadras de su casa.

Caminó pegado a las paredes, evitando las luces de las farolas. Su barrio, que antes le parecía un refugio de gente trabajadora, ahora se sentía como territorio enemigo. Cada auto estacionado le parecía sospechoso.

Llegó a la calle trasera de su casa. La casa de Doña Chuy, su vecina, tenía una barda baja que daba acceso a los techos. Joaquín trepó con agilidad sorprendente para su cansancio. Se movió sobre las losas de concreto, saltando los tinacos y las líneas de ropa tendida. Los perros ladraron a lo lejos, pero en ese barrio los perros siempre ladraban.

Llegó a su azotea. Se agachó detrás del tanque de gas.

He peered out into the street.
There it was. The Civil Force patrol car, lights off but engine running. Two officers were inside, checking their cell phones. And further on, at the corner, a gray sedan that didn’t belong to any of the neighbors.

They were waiting for him.

Joaquín slipped out into the backyard. He had a window in the laundry room that he always left unlocked because it jammed. He prayed it would stay that way.
He descended the service spiral staircase, holding his breath. The metal creaked under his weight. He froze.
No one came out.

He reached the window. He pushed the aluminum frame. It gave way with a soft creak.
He stepped inside.
The house was dark, but he knew every inch of it. The smell of his home, of fabric softener and the wood of his furniture, hit him with a painful nostalgia.

He groped his way to the metal shelf.
There it was. The red toolbox, dented from years of use.
He opened it carefully so the tools wouldn’t bump into each other.
He moved aside the screwdrivers, the multimeter, the electrical tape.
In the false bottom, under a piece of cardboard, were the notebooks. Five hardcover Scribe notebooks, one for each year.

He pulled them out. They were his safe-conduct. They were proof that he had documented every irregularity: *“October 12, Warehouse 4. Installation of three-phase service connection for undeclared server. Engineer Maldonado orders direct connection without meter. Authorization signature pending.”*

Joaquín tucked the notebooks into his waistband, secured with his belt.
He was about to leave the way he’d come in when he heard a noise.
The front door. Someone was trying to pick the lock. They weren’t forcing it; they were using a key.

Joaquín froze. Maldonado had keys. He had asked for them once “in case there was an emergency with Camila” when Joaquín had to go on a trip.

The door opened.
Heavy footsteps entered the room. It wasn’t one. It was two.
The lights suddenly switched on.

Joaquín crouched behind the washing machine. From his position, he could see through the crack in the half-open laundry room door.

“He’s not here,” said a gruff voice.

“Look carefully. The boss says the phone’s GPS died downtown, but the idiot’s a creature of habit. He’ll come back for clothes or money.”

Joaquín recognized the voice. It was the guy in the cap. The one from San Bernabé. He was in his living room.

—Check the rooms. I’ll check the kitchen.

The footsteps drew nearer. Joaquín gripped the Stilson wrench with both hands. His heart was beating so loudly he was afraid it would be heard in the silence of the house.

The guy in the cap came into the kitchen, which was next to the laundry room. He opened the refrigerator, took out one of Joaquín’s beers, and opened it.
“Damn cheapskate,” he muttered, taking a swig. “He doesn’t even have any ham.”

He approached the laundry room door.
Joaquín stopped breathing.

The man pushed the door open with his foot. The kitchen light illuminated the small space.
Joaquín was pressed against the wall, in the blind spot behind the open door.
The hitman stepped inside, looking toward the washing machine.

“There’s nothing here, just dirty rags,” he shouted towards the room.

He turned to leave.
It was now or never.

Joaquín didn’t think. He acted on the muscle memory honed by years of manual labor, where precision and strength were everything.
He raised the Stilson and delivered a sharp, brutal blow to the base of the intruder’s neck.

The sound was disgusting. Bone against metal.
The guy didn’t even scream. He collapsed like a sack of cement, spilling the foamy beer on the floor.

Joaquín caught him before he hit the ground hard, cushioning his fall. He pulled him inside and gently closed the door.
The man was breathing, but he was unconscious. His eyes were blank.

“What fell?” the other one shouted from the rooms.

Joaquín looked around. He saw the cord of an old extension cord hanging from a hook.
In seconds, he tied the fallen man’s hands and feet. He stuffed a dirty rag in his mouth.
He searched his pockets. He found a 9mm pistol and a cell phone.
He picked up the gun. It weighed more than he’d imagined. He’d never fired one before, but he knew how the safety worked. He took it off.

“Kevin?” the other’s voice drew closer. “What’s up, dude? Answer me.”

Joaquín stood in front of the closed laundry room door. He had the notebooks. He had a gun. And he had an escape route through the window.
But if he fled now, the other man would raise the alarm immediately. The patrol outside would close in.

He had to neutralize the second one.

—Kevin, no way, I’m not playing around.

The doorknob turned.
Joaquín raised the pistol, pointing it at the center of the wood, at chest level. His hand was trembling, but he tightened his grip with the other.

The door burst open.
The second man, a bald, burly fellow, entered with his weapon drawn.
He saw his partner on the floor. He saw Joaquín.

“Stop!” shouted the bald man, raising his weapon.

Time stood still. Joaquín saw the man’s finger tighten on the trigger.
Joaquín didn’t wait. There was no moral thought, only pure survival.
He pulled the trigger.

The noise was deafening in the small room. The retro

The gun struck the man’s right shoulder, spinning him around like a macabre top. The hitman’s weapon flew out, and he fell backward, howling in pain and shock. Blood instantly stained his light-colored shirt.

Joaquín didn’t stay to see the result. The ringing in his ears was deafening.

“Get in! Gunshots were heard!” someone shouted from the street. The patrol car sirens blared, blue and red, painting the backyard walls with flashes of emergency.

Joaquín dropped the gun. He didn’t want it. He wasn’t a killer. He just needed time.
He propelled himself toward the laundry room window. His body, pumped with adrenaline, moved with an agility he didn’t know he possessed. He stepped out into the patio, scraping his elbows against the aluminum frame.

“From the back! Cover the back exit!” he heard an officer shout.

He couldn’t go back up to the rooftop. They’d see him.
He looked around. Doña Chuy’s yard had a fence that bordered a service alley, a narrow passageway filled with trash and debris that the neighbors used to take out the large bins.
He ran toward the fence. He jumped, gripping the edge with his fingernails, and landed on the other side just as his kitchen door was kicked open and the police burst into his house.

It fell onto a garbage bag that cushioned the impact but made a dull thud. He stood still for a second, pressed against the wall, listening.

—Clear kitchen! We have two injured civilians! Call an ambulance!

They hadn’t seen him leave. Yet.

Joaquín got up and ran down the alley, crouching low, blending into the shadows. The notebooks at his waist felt heavy, digging into his skin, reminding him why he was running.
He emerged onto the parallel street, three blocks down. He became one with the night. He took off his white t-shirt, revealing a gray undershirt he wore from construction work. He put on the cap he had stashed in his back pocket.

He walked. He didn’t run. Running would attract attention. He walked quickly, head down, like a worker returning home late.
He needed to get to the University Hospital. But it was on the other side of the city, and he didn’t have a car.

He searched his pockets. He had two hundred pesos left and his old phone.
He saw a Route 23 bus go by. “Cedros – Hospital.”
It was fate, or luck, or maybe Marisol helping him out from wherever she was.
Joaquín flagged it down. The bus screeched to a halt. He got on, paid with trembling coins, and went to the back seat.

He leaned against the cold window. He watched the lights of Monterrey pass by.
He thought about the man he had shot. Had he killed him? The image of the gushing blood wouldn’t leave his mind. “I’m a criminal,” he thought. “Now I really am a criminal.”
But then he touched the notebooks under his clothes.
No. He wasn’t a criminal. He was a father cornered. And if saving Camila meant burning the whole world down, he would light the match himself.

The truck’s clock read 11:15 PM. He would arrive on time.

The University Hospital parking lot was a gray concrete maze, illuminated by fluorescent lights that flickered with an electrical hum that had always bothered Joaquín because it was a sign of a failing ballast. Now, that hum was his only company.

Level 3, Zone C.
It was almost empty, except for a few cars of doctors on duty and family members who were sleeping in their vehicles.

Joaquín saw a gray Nissan Versa parked on a dark corner. The lights flickered on briefly as he approached.
The passenger window rolled down.
It was Valeria. Óscar was in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

—Get in —Valeria said.

Joaquín opened the back door and got in. The air conditioning was on full blast, but the atmosphere felt stifling.

“You look like shit, buddy,” Oscar said, looking at him in the rearview mirror. His eyes were red, as if he had been crying.

“There were problems,” Joaquín said curtly. He pulled the notebooks from his waistband and threw them onto the passenger seat. “There it is. Everything. Five years of fraud, illegal installations, and Maldonado’s signature on the work orders.”

Valeria took one of the notebooks and opened it. She shone her cell phone’s flashlight on the pages.

“My God…” he murmured. “This is pure gold. You have locations of crypto mining farms, labs… Joaquín, this isn’t just money laundering. Maldonado was providing electrical infrastructure for the cartel. That’s why the excessive consumption.”

“Is that enough?” Joaquín asked.

—That’s more than enough for the Financial Intelligence Unit (UIF) to freeze everything and for the Attorney General’s Office to intervene. It’s no longer a state crime. It’s federal. Organized crime.

“Then let’s go,” said Oscar, putting his hand on the gearshift. “I have a contact at the prosecutor’s office in Mexico City. We’re leaving right now on the highway.”

Joaquín felt a momentary relief. It was over. They were going to flee, hand over the evidence, and…

Suddenly, Oscar’s cell phone rang. It was connected to the car’s Bluetooth.
The name on the screen froze the blood of all three of them: *ENG. MALDONADO*.

Oscar stared at his phone in terror.
“I… I blocked him. How is he calling?”

“Answer me,” Valeria ordered, taking a voice recorder out of her bag. “Put it on speakerphone.”

Oscar trembled, but pressed the green button.

-Well?

“Good evening, Óscar,” Roberto Maldonado’s voice sounded calm, almost paternal. That same voice that had comforted Joaquín at the funeral. “I know you’re with Joaquín. And I know you have Miss Cruz with you.”

Nobody spoke. The silence in the car was absolute.

“Don’t bother trying to start the car,” Maldonado continued. “We’ve blocked the parking lot exits. And Óscar… I know you’re a good man. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to your wife, would you? Laura’s on her night shift at the clinic, right?”

Oscar let out a muffled groan.

“What do you want?” Joaquín interjected, leaning forward.

—Ah, Joaquín. Today’s hero. I hear you’re a good shot. Kevin’s in intensive care. What a shame, he was a good kid.

—Stop playing games. I have the logs. I have everything.

—I know. And that’s why we’re going to make a deal. You get out of the car with those notebooks. You walk toward the ramp. You hand them to me. And I’ll let your friends go. And I’ll forget about you and your daughter. I’ll give you a plane ticket and money so you can disappear.

“He’s lying,” Valeria whispered. “If you give him the notebooks, he’ll kill us all.”

“You have two minutes,” Maldonado said. “Or my associates will go into the clinic and get Laura. And then we’ll go to the Hotel Regis, room 304. Yes, Joaquín. We know where Camila is. The taxi driver who brought you here is a cousin of one of my guys.”

The call was cut off.

Joaquín felt like the world was crashing down on him. They knew where Camila was. The hotel. The chair by the door. His little girl all alone.

“It’s a trap,” Valeria said, cocking a small pistol she pulled from her anklet. “Joaquín, you can’t go.”

“I have to go,” Joaquín said. His voice was no longer trembling. He had crossed the threshold of fear. “If I don’t go, they’ll come for her.”

“If you go, they’ll kill you and then come after her,” Valeria replied. “We need a plan. Oscar, is your car fully insured?”

—What? Yes, but…

“Joaquín,” Valeria turned to him. “You’re the electrician. This parking lot… where are the transformers?”

Joaquín looked out the window. He analyzed the structure. He saw the junction boxes. He saw the conduit pipes.
“The main substation is in the basement, but each floor has a main distribution panel. The one on this level is behind that column, in the maintenance cage.”

—Can you turn it off?

“I can do something better than turn it off,” Joaquín said, and a suicidal thought crossed his mind. “I can overload it. Make the main pills explode. It’ll sound like a bomb and plunge everything into darkness.”

“Do it,” Valeria said. “Óscar and I will distract those on the ramp. As soon as the lights go out, you run, circle around, and get to Maldonado. Don’t negotiate. Finish them off.”

—And Camila? —Joaquín asked.

—I already alerted a trusted contact in the state police to go to the hotel. They’re five minutes away. She’ll be safe. Trust me.

Joaquín nodded.
“Give me the lug wrench,” he asked Óscar.

Oscar, with tears in his eyes, opened the glove compartment and handed him a multi-tool and a flashlight.

Joaquín got out of the car. He crawled between the parked vehicles toward the concrete pillar.
He saw two armed men near the exit ramp. They were smoking, relaxed, waiting for the dam to come out.

He reached the maintenance cage. It had a simple padlock. Joaquín used the tool to pry it open. The metal gave way.
He opened the gray cabinet.
There was the electrical heart of the floor. Three phases of 440 volts. Thick cables like black snakes.

Maldonado wanted to play with his daughter’s life. Maldonado had used Marisol’s memory to steal from her.
Joaquín wasn’t just going to cut the power. He was going to send a message.

He found a bare ground wire. He disconnected it from the bar.
He took the steel lug wrench.
He took a deep breath.
“This is for you, Marisol.”

He threw the cross wrench directly between the bars of the live phases.

*CRAAAAAACK-BOOM!*

The explosion was brutal. A blue and white electric arc lit up the parking lot like a contained lightning bolt. Sparks of molten copper rained down on the concrete.
The smell of ozone and burning plastic filled the air.
And then, total darkness.

“What the hell was that?!” one of the hitmen shouted on the ramp.

—The power’s out! Turn on the lamps!

Joaquín, momentarily blinded by the flash, blinked to regain his night vision. He knew the darkness. He worked in it.
He emerged from his hiding place.
Chaos reigned. Maldonado’s men were shouting confused orders.

“Shoot at the car!” ordered a voice Joaquín recognized. Maldonado.

Flashes of automatic weapons ripped through the night, aimed toward where Óscar’s car was parked. The sound of shattering glass and pierced metal was terrifying.
But Joaquín knew that Valeria and Óscar would have thrown themselves to the floor of the car.

He ran. Not toward the exit, but toward the source of the gunfire.
He circled the cars, guided by the flashes.
He saw Maldonado’s silhouette, intermittently illuminated by his bodyguards’ shots. He was standing next to an armored truck, shouting into his phone.

Joaquín came up behind him.
He didn’t have a gun; he’d left it at home. But he had his Stilson wrench, which he never left behind.
A hitman was standing about six feet away from Maldonado. Joaquín lunged at him, striking his knee with the wrench. The man fell, screaming.

Maldonado turned around, his eyes wide in the gloom. He pulled out a ridiculous, ostentatious gold pistol.
“You!” he shouted, pointing it at nothing.

Joaquín didn’t give him time. He launched himself into a low tackle, slamming Maldonado in the stomach with his shoulder.
They both fell to the hard ground. The gold-plated pistol skidded away.
Maldonado was a desk man, mild-mannered, used to giving orders. Joaquín was a man who carried rolls of cable and climbed poles all day.
The fight was brief.

Joaquín climbed on top of him. He grabbed the lapels of his expensive jacket.
“Where’s my money?!” Joaquín shouted, unleashing all the fury of five years. “No, not the money! Where’s the respect for my wife?!”

He raised his fist to hit him, but a blinding light stopped him.

Tactical lights. Lots of them.
And the unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors overhead.

—FEDERAL POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! ON THE GROUND!

Men dressed in urban camouflage and tactical vests emerged from the stairs and ramps, moving with military precision.
Maldonado’s hitmen tried to fight back, but were neutralized in seconds with accurate gunfire.

“Get down!” they shouted at Joaquín, with a rifle pointed at his face.

Joaquín released Maldonado and raised his hands. He collapsed to the floor, exhausted.
Maldonado, panting, tried to get up.
“I’m Engineer Roberto Maldonado! I have connections! That man attacked me!”

An officer approached, looked at him with contempt, and tightly handcuffed him.
“Engineer, you have an arrest warrant for organized crime, money laundering, and homicide. And your influence has just ended.”

Joaquín felt hands lifting him up. He expected handcuffs, but instead found a firm arm helping him.
It was Valeria. Behind her came a Federal Police commander.

“Are you okay?” she asked. She had a cut on her forehead, but she was smiling.

“Camila…” was all Joaquín could say.

The commander handed him a radio.
—Listen.

A static voice came from the device:
—*Target secured at the Hotel Regis. The minor is fine. I repeat, the minor is safe and in the custody of victim protection services.*

Joaquín closed his eyes and, for the first time in five years, he cried. He didn’t cry from sadness. He cried because the high-voltage cable that had been straining his soul had finally been disconnected.

***

Six months later.

The cemetery was quiet that morning. The grass was green thanks to the recent September rains.
Joaquín knelt before the gray marble gravestone.
He wiped away some dust with a rag he carried in his back pocket.

*Marisol Hernández Rangel*
*Beloved wife and mother.*

—Hi, skinny —Joaquin said softly.

She placed a bouquet of sunflowers, her favorites.
She remained silent for a moment, listening to the wind in the trees.

—It’s all over now. Your mom… well, you know she’s with you. We put her plaque next to yours last week, when the paperwork was finalized. Now they can both rest.

Joaquín touched his chest. The scar from the electrical burn on his arm, a reminder of that night in the hospital, hardly hurt anymore.

Maldonado’s never going to get out. Valeria says they gave him forty years. And we recovered some of the money. Not much, but enough. Óscar got a job at another bank, you know how stubborn he is.

Footsteps sounded behind him.
Joaquín turned around.
Camila was running towards him, her school uniform immaculate and her braids neatly done. Behind her, Valeria walked slowly, giving them space.

“Dad!” Camila shouted, hugging him around the neck.

—Hi, my love. Did you say hi to Mom?

—Yes. I told him I got a perfect score in math. And that we’re not afraid anymore.

Joaquín smiled and kissed her forehead.
“That’s right. We’re not afraid anymore.”

He stood up and looked at the grave one last time. The promise had changed. It wasn’t about money anymore. It wasn’t about supporting a ghostly mother-in-law.
The promise was to live. To live well, with his head held high, raising that little girl who had the same smile as the woman he loved.

“Let’s go, Dad. Valeria said she’s treating us to pizza,” Camila said, pulling him by the hand.

Joaquín looked at Valeria, who was waiting on the path with a calm smile.
“Oh, really?” Joaquín winked at his daughter. “Well, if she’s paying, we’ll order the large one.”

They walked together toward the exit, leaving the shadows behind, walking toward the midday sunlight that, at last, warmed without burning.
Joaquín Hernández, an electrical technician, had fixed the biggest short circuit of his life. And now, the current flowed cleanly.

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