For turning caution into reckless momentum.
For leading us straight into the trap.
I didn’t blame her.
Not even for a second.
I just wanted her alive.
“Al-Chapo,” I said, forcing my voice into something steady, controlled—commanding, even as my insides burned. “You claim to have values. Codes. I’m certain those values don’t include torturing women.”
His smirk deepened, slow and knowing.
He exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes flicking lazily between Amy and me.
Instead of answering, he tilted his chin.
The metal door opened again and Elena was shoved inside.
Elena stumbled but didn’t fall, catching herself with instinctive balance.
Her clothes were intact—no torn fabric, no visible bruises—but her eyes told a different story. Wide. Too bright. Haunted. She moved with the rigid control of someone holding herself together by sheer will alone.
Relief and dread hit me at the same time.
Elena was a teammate. A soldier. A friend forged in blood and fire.
But Amy was blood.
Amy came first.
Always.
“Killing the three of you would have been very simple,” Chapo said conversationally, as if discussing weather. “Youwould never have awakened from the gas.” He shrugged lightly. “But where is the lesson in that?”
His gaze shifted to Elena.
“You, Miss Vasquez.”
Elena met his eyes without flinching.
“You will deliver one hundred punches to your friend’s face,” Chapo continued calmly. “Eyes. Mouth. Cheeks. Anywhere above the neck.” He smiled faintly. “Do it properly, and you walk out of here alive. Free.”
The words cut deep, not because of what he was asking, but because of how easily he said it—like survival was a simple transaction and cruelty just part of the price.
Elena didn’t hesitate.
“She won’t survive that,” she said evenly.
Her voice didn’t waver or crack. “By ordering me to strike her a hundred times in the face, you are asking me to kill my own colleague. You’re making me responsible for her death.” She met his gaze without blinking. “I doubt even you could take half that many full-force blows to the face without losing consciousness—let alone survive them.”
I stared at her, stunned—not by fear, but by the steel in her tone. The clarity. The refusal to be broken easily.
For the first time, Chapo’s expression darkened.
“If I were you,” he said softly, “I would speak to Alonso Chapo with more respect.”
He reached into the pocket of his jalabiya and produced a small remote control.
