Three days later
Hunger was a living thing inside Valentina's stomach, gnawing at her insides with sharp teeth. She pressed herself deeper into the shadows of the abandoned warehouse, watching a group of street vendors pack up their evening stalls across the narrow alley. The scent of grilled meat and fresh tortillas made her mouth water so violently she had to swallow repeatedly to keep from drooling.
When did I last eat?
The question felt distant, unimportant. Time had become fluid since the massacre—hours blending into days, reality fracturing into moments of clarity punctuated by stretches where she simply existed, breathing in and out like a broken machine.
The flash drive remained pressed against her ribs, secured inside her bra. It had left a permanent indentation in her skin, a reminder of what she carried. What they had died for.
Isabella's laugh. Miguel's gap-toothed grin. Papá's steady hands. Mamá's humming while she cooked.
The memories came in waves, each one feeling like a fresh wound. Valentina pressed her fist against her mouth, biting down hard enough to taste blood. Pain was better than the emptiness that threatened to swallow her whole.
Movement caught her eye. A lone vendor—an elderly woman with kind eyes and weathered hands—was having trouble lifting her heavy cart. The woman struggled, her face creasing with effort and frustration.
Help her, something inside Valentina whispered. Mamá would help her.
But approaching meant exposure. Meant risk. Valentina had survived these three days by staying invisible, by moving only at night, by avoiding any human contact that might lead back to Xavier Herrera's hunting dogs.
The old woman stumbled, nearly dropping a pot of still-warm beans. The scent hit Valentina like a physical blow, and her stomach cramped so violently she doubled over.
I'm going to die here, she realized with stunning clarity. Not from Herrera's bullets, but from starvation. From my own cowardice.
The thought sparked something—not courage exactly, but desperate fury. She had survived her family's murder. She carried evidence that could destroy the man responsible. She would not die whimpering in an alley like a kicked dog.
Valentina emerged from the shadows.
"Señora," she called softly, careful not to startle the woman. "Let me help you."
The vendor looked up, taking in Valentina's appearance—torn clothes, bruised face, feet wrapped in strips of dirty cloth. But instead of fear or disgust, her eyes showed only compassion.
"Ay, niña," the woman breathed. "What has happened to you?"
The kindness nearly broke Valentina completely. She hadn't heard a gentle voice in days. But she forced herself to focus, to be useful.
"Your cart," she managed. "I can help you move it."
Together, they maneuvered the heavy wooden cart down the alley toward a battered pickup truck. The woman—who introduced herself as Carmen Vidal—studied Valentina with sharp, knowing eyes.
"You're running from something," Carmen said. It wasn't a question.
Valentina tensed, ready to flee again. But Carmen continued, "My grandson ran too, a few years ago. From the gangs, from a life that would have killed him." She paused, securing the cart in her truck bed. "Sometimes running is the only smart thing to do."
"Sometimes," Valentina agreed carefully.
Carmen opened the passenger door of her truck. "Come. You eat first, then we talk. But only if you want to."
Every instinct screamed at Valentina to refuse, to maintain her isolation. But her body was betraying her—legs shaking with weakness, vision occasionally spotting with hunger. And something about Carmen's matter-of-fact kindness felt safe in a way nothing had since that horrible dawn.
One meal, Valentina told herself. Then I disappear again.
Carmen's home was a small house in a working-class neighborhood—not wealthy, but clean and well-maintained. The walls were painted bright yellow, and religious iconography mixed with family photos created a warm, lived-in feeling that made Valentina's chest ache with remembered loss.
"Sit," Carmen ordered, gesturing to a worn but comfortable couch. "I'll bring food."
Valentina perched on the edge of the cushions, every muscle tense for flight. But when Carmen returned with a plate of beans, rice, and fresh tortillas, survival instinct overrode caution. She ate with desperate efficiency, barely tasting the food as it hit her empty stomach.
Carmen watched silently, refilling the plate twice before Valentina finally slowed down.
"Better?" the older woman asked.
Valentina nodded, not trusting her voice. The simple act of eating had made her feel almost human again.
"Now," Carmen settled into a chair across from her, "what's your name, child?"
"I—" Valentina hesitated. Her real name was dangerous now. But something about Carmen's steady gaze made lying feel impossible. "Valentina."
"Pretty name. Old-fashioned." Carmen's hands worked methodically, folding clean laundry from a basket beside her chair. "You have family, Valentina?"
The question hit like a physical blow. Valentina's throat constricted, and for a moment she couldn't breathe around the grief lodged there like a stone.
"They're dead," she whispered finally.
Carmen's hands stilled. "Ah. I'm sorry, child."
The simple acknowledgment—no probing questions, no false comfort—somehow made it easier to breathe. Valentina found herself speaking, words tumbling out in a broken rush.
"Three days ago. Men came to our apartment. They killed…" She stopped, unable to finish.
"These men," Carmen said quietly, "they were looking for something?"
Valentina's hand unconsciously moved to her ribs, where the flash drive rested. Carmen noticed the gesture but didn't comment directly.
"Whatever it is," the older woman said, "it must be very important. Important enough to kill for."
"Yes."
"And now they're hunting you."
"Yes."
Carmen nodded slowly, her weathered face thoughtful. "My late husband, may he rest in peace, used to say that sometimes the most dangerous thing you can carry is the truth." She met Valentina's eyes directly. "The question is: what do you plan to do with yours?"
The question hung in the air between them. Valentina had been focused purely on survival, on staying ahead of Herrera's hunters. But Carmen was right—survival wasn't enough. Not anymore.
"I want them to pay," Valentina said, the words coming out like a prayer. "All of them. But especially him."
"Him?"
"Xavier Herrera."
Carmen's intake of breath was sharp. Her hands resumed their folding, but Valentina caught the slight tremor that hadn't been there before.
"That's a dangerous name to speak aloud," Carmen said carefully.
"You know who he is."
"Everyone knows who he is. The question is whether you understand what you're saying." Carmen set down the shirt she'd been folding and leaned forward. "Xavier Herrera isn't just another criminal, child. He's untouchable. Protected. Powerful beyond measure."
"I know what he is," Valentina said, steel entering her voice. "And I know what he did."
"Then you also know that revenge against such a man is suicide."
"Maybe. But living with his unpunished crimes might be worse than death."
Carmen studied her for a long moment, something shifting behind her eyes. "You remind me of someone I once knew. Another young woman who lost everything to men like Herrera."
"What happened to her?"
"She learned that sometimes the only way to fight monsters is to become something monstrous yourself." Carmen's voice carried the weight of old pain. "But that path… it changes you, Valentina. It takes pieces of your soul that you can never get back."
My soul died three days ago, Valentina thought. What's left is just meat and fury.
"I'm already changed," she said aloud.
Carmen nodded slowly, as if she'd expected that answer. She stood and walked to an old wooden cabinet, returning with a small leather pouch.
"This contains enough money to get you far from here," she said, setting it on the coffee table between them. "Bus fare to Guatemala, maybe Honduras. A chance to start over, to build a new life."
Valentina stared at the pouch but didn't reach for it. "And the other option?"
Carmen's smile was grim. "There's a man who might be able to help you. If you're truly serious about this path of revenge. But I warn you—once you meet him, once you step onto that road, there's no going back to the girl you used to be."
That girl died with her family.
"I want to meet him," Valentina said without hesitation.
Carmen sighed deeply, suddenly looking every one of her sixty-odd years. "His name is Mateo Vargas. He used to be… well, let's say he used to solve problems that couldn't be solved legally. Now he runs a small mechanic shop in Doctores. Tell him Carmen sent you. Tell him you're ready to learn."
She wrote an address on a piece of paper and handed it to Valentina. "But think carefully, child. The woman you become on this path might be strong enough to destroy Xavier Herrera. But she might also be someone your family wouldn't recognize."
Valentina folded the paper carefully and tucked it into her pocket. "My family is dead because they lived in a world where monsters like Herrera face no consequences. If becoming a monster myself is the price of changing that…" She met Carmen's eyes steadily. "I'll pay it."
That night, Valentina lay on Carmen's small guest bed—the first real bed she'd slept in since the massacre—staring at the ceiling and thinking about choice.
Three days ago, she'd been a factory worker with dreams of university, of lifting her family out of poverty through education and hard work. That girl had believed in justice, in the power of legitimate systems to protect the innocent.
That girl was dead now, as surely as if she'd taken a bullet alongside her parents.
What would Isabella think of what I'm becoming?
The question whispered through her mind like a ghost. Isabella, who'd wanted to be a doctor, to heal people. Isabella, who'd seen goodness even in their harsh neighborhood, who'd smiled at strangers and fed stray cats.
Isabella, whose blood had pooled on the apartment floor next to their scholarship celebration cake.
The grief hit fresh and raw, but underneath it, something else was crystallizing. Purpose. Direction. The kind of cold rage that could sustain a person through anything.
She would want me to live, Valentina told herself. To survive. Whatever it takes.
Whether that was true or just what she needed to believe, she couldn't say. But it was enough to let her close her eyes and sleep, her hand unconsciously checking that the flash drive was still secure against her ribs.
Tomorrow, she would find Mateo Vargas. Tomorrow, she would begin learning how to become something dangerous.
Tonight, she mourned the girl she'd been, and tried not to think about the woman she was about to become.
Diego Fuentes sat in his DEA office, staring at crime scene photos he'd been ordered not to investigate. Four bodies in a tenement apartment. A family destroyed. Official reports that classified it as a robbery gone wrong.
He knew better.
The Cruz family. The father who'd worked for one of Herrera's front companies. The mother who'd kept house. Two children—a teenage girl and a young boy—whose only crime had been existing in the wrong place when their father discovered too much.
Diego picked up the photo of Valentina Cruz—the daughter who'd escaped. College-bound. Scholarship winner. Twenty-four years old with her whole life ahead of her, now reduced to a manhunt target.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Have you found the girl yet? -X
Diego's jaw clenched. He'd been stalling for three days, feeding Herrera false leads while secretly hoping Valentina Cruz had somehow made it out of the city. Out of the country, maybe. Somewhere beyond Xavier's reach.
But he knew better than to hope for miracles. In his experience, innocents rarely escaped clean. They either died or were transformed into something else entirely.
Which will you become, Valentina Cruz? he wondered, studying her graduation photo. Victim or survivor?
His computer chimed with a new email. More surveillance footage to review, more dead ends to pursue. All in service of hunting down a girl whose only crime was surviving her family's massacre.
Diego closed the file and rubbed his temples, feeling the familiar weight of his divided loyalties. The FBI handlers who thought he was building a case against Herrera. The cartel boss who thought he was a corrupt agent for hire. The victims caught between them, collateral damage in a war that seemed to have no end.
Three more days, he told himself. Then I'll have to produce results or face Herrera's displeasure.
He hoped it would be enough time for Valentina Cruz to disappear forever.
He had no idea that she had no intention of running anymore.
In his penthouse office, Xavier Herrera reviewed the latest reports with growing irritation. Three days, and still no sign of the Cruz girl. His network of informants had turned up nothing. Security cameras had captured glimpses of movement but nothing concrete.
It was as if she'd simply vanished into the urban sprawl of Mexico City's underworld.
"Impossible," he muttered, closing the folder with more force than necessary.
His assistant knocked and entered. "Señor Herrera? Your daughter is here for lunch."
Xavier's mood immediately brightened. "Send her in."
Sofia entered moments later, radiant in a cream-colored dress that probably cost more than most people earned in a year. At twenty-seven, she was everything Xavier had hoped for in a child—intelligent, beautiful, and completely devoted to him.
"Papá," she kissed his cheek, her perfume light and expensive. "You look tense. Problems at work?"
"Nothing I can't handle, princesa." Xavier gestured for her to sit. "How was your morning?"
"Wonderful. I visited the children's hospital you're funding. The new wing is almost complete." Sofia's eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "The doctors are so excited about the new equipment. You're going to save so many lives."
Xavier smiled, basking in his daughter's approval. This was why he worked so hard, why he'd built an empire that spanned both sides of the law. To give Sofia everything—safety, comfort, purpose. To ensure she never knew the poverty and violence that had shaped his own childhood.
"That's good to hear," he said. "Your mother would be proud."
Sofia's expression softened. "I think about her every day. About how she'd want us to help people, to make the world better."
If only she knew the full truth, Xavier thought. But Sofia's innocence was precious to him—perhaps the only purely good thing in his life. He would never taint it with knowledge of how he'd actually built their fortune.
They chatted through lunch, Sofia sharing stories from her charity work while Xavier offered the kind of fatherly advice that came naturally to him in her presence. For forty minutes, he could almost forget about missing flash drives and escaped witnesses.
Almost.
After Sofia left, Xavier returned to his desk with renewed focus. The Cruz girl was a loose end, and loose ends had a way of unraveling everything if left unchecked.
He picked up his phone and dialed a familiar number.
"Lobo," he said when the call connected. "I want you to expand the search. Use whatever resources necessary. Check bus stations, train stations, airports. Question anyone who might have helped her."
"What about collateral damage?" Lobo's voice carried the hint of anticipation.
Xavier's smile was cold. "Whatever it takes to find her. I don't care how many people get hurt in the process."
He ended the call and gazed out at the city sprawling below his office. Somewhere out there, a girl with dangerous knowledge thought she could hide from him. Thought she could survive with evidence that could destroy everything he'd built.
She would learn otherwise.
Xavier Herrera had not become one of the most powerful men in Mexico by allowing threats to go unanswered. The Cruz girl would be found. And when she was, she would join her family in death.
But first, she would suffer. First, she would understand the price of crossing El Arquitecto.
It was only a matter of time.
Valentina woke before dawn, as she had every morning since the massacre. But today felt different. Today, the crushing weight of grief was joined by something sharper, more focused.
Purpose.
She dressed in clothes Carmen had provided—clean jeans, a simple t-shirt, sturdy shoes. The transformation from desperate fugitive to ordinary young woman was remarkable, but Valentina felt the change went deeper than appearance.
I'm not the same person who crawled through that bathroom window, she realized. I'll never be her again.
The thought didn't frighten her anymore. If anything, it felt like a kind of freedom—the liberty that came from having nothing left to lose.
Carmen was already awake, making coffee in her small kitchen. "You're sure about this?" she asked without preamble.
"Yes."
Carmen nodded and handed her a steaming mug. "Mateo will test you. He'll try to scare you away, to make you understand the reality of what you're asking for. Don't let him. Show him the steel in your spine."
"What if I don't have any steel?"
Carmen's smile was sad but certain. "Child, you survived three days on the streets with killers hunting you. You have more steel than you realize."
They sat in comfortable silence, watching the sun paint the sky in shades of pink and gold. Somewhere in this city, Xavier Herrera was beginning his day, confident in his power and invincibility.
Enjoy it while you can, Valentina thought, her fingers unconsciously moving to check the flash drive. Your reckoning is coming.
An hour later, she stood on Carmen's doorstep, ready to step into a new life. The older woman embraced her briefly.
"Remember," Carmen whispered, "monsters can be defeated. But becoming one is a choice you make every day. Don't lose yourself completely in the darkness."
Valentina nodded, though she wasn't sure she believed it was possible to stay human while doing what needed to be done.
The address Carmen had given her was in Doctores, a rough neighborhood known for its mechanics, its street food, and its willingness to mind its own business. Perfect for someone who dealt in secrets and violence.
As the bus carried her through the awakening city, Valentina felt the last vestiges of her old life falling away. The scholarship to university. The dreams of respectability. The belief that justice could be achieved through legitimate means.
All gone, traded for something harder and more dangerous.
By the time she stepped off the bus in Doctores, the sun was high and hot. The address led her to a small mechanic shop wedged between a taco stand and a pharmacy. The sign read "Vargas Auto" in faded letters.
Valentina took a deep breath, steeling herself for whatever came next.
This is where I stop running, she thought. This is where I learn to fight.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving her old life behind forever.