She dropped to her knees hard enough to bruise, sobbing violently, forehead nearly touching the floor. “Please,” she whispered, over and over. “Please... I’ll do what you want. Just don’t let her die.”
Chapo raised two fingers.
On the screen, the doctor immediately replaced the mask.
The old woman sucked in air in a desperate, shuddering rush. Her body sagged back into the mattress, limp, eyes fluttering as color slowly returned to her skin. The monitors steadied—but barely.
She looked unconscious now. Or close to it.
Elena stayed on the floor, shoulders shaking, breath coming in ragged sobs.
“I do not make empty threats, Miss Vasquez,” Chapo said softly, almost gently. “You have three seconds to begin.” His eyes sharpened. “And do not comfort yourself with the thought thatonce your grandmother is gone, I will lose leverage. You will still belong to me. I can do far worse than kill an old woman.”
Elena pushed herself up slowly.
Her face was hollow. Empty. Something essential had cracked and drained away.
She turned toward Amy.
Her hands trembled violently at her sides as she took one step. Then another.
Amy finally lifted her head.
Their eyes met.
There was no anger there. No accusation.
Just understanding.
The first punch landed with a sickening crack against Amy’s cheek.
Her head snapped sideways, blood spraying across the concrete.
“Amy, I’m so sorry,” Elena choked, even as her fist drew back again.
“Amy!” I roared, throwing my weight forward, zip ties biting deep into my wrists. I felt skin tear. Warm blood ran down my forearms. “Elena, stop! That’s an order!”
She didn’t hear me.
Her eyes were glassy now, unfocused—trapped in a looping nightmare of a hospital bed, a blue face, a mask being torn away.
The second punch split Amy’s lip wide open.
The third crushed into her eye socket, swelling it shut almost instantly.
I screamed until my throat burned raw. “Elena! Stand down! That’s an order—stand down!”
She didn’t stop.
Each blow snapped Amy’s head back and forth, ropes creaking under the strain. Blood poured freely now—from hernose, her mouth—spattering her chest, dripping to the floor. Her movements slowed. Then weakened.
Then stopped.
Still Elena swung.
Amy’s body went slack, head slumping forward, held upright only by the ropes cutting into her wrists. Blood streamed down her face in dark rivulets. I couldn’t see her eyes anymore. I couldn’t tell if her chest was rising.
“Stop!” I bellowed, voice breaking. “She’s down! She’s unconscious—stop!”
