Chapter 6 - MIDNIGHT VISITORSBy 2:00 AM, the neighborhood of Coyoacán was dead silent. The historic cobblestone streets were wrapped in a thick, eerie fog rolling in from Lake Texcoco.
I sat at the dining table in the dark, the screen of my encrypted laptop casting a cold blue glow across my face. I had set a tactical perimeter alert using micro-sensors deployed along the courtyard wall.
Blink.
A silent red dot flashed on my screen.
Front gate. Movement. Three heat signatures.
They weren’t local police. They weren’t bailiffs. Their movement was disciplined, synchronized, and deadly—the unmistakable footprint of professional mercenaries.
I didn't panic. My heart rate slowed down, settling into the rhythmic, ice-cold focus of a sniper in a combat zone. I quietly stood up, checked the magazine of my suppressed Glock 19, and moved up the grand staircase to secure the second-floor landing where Mateo was sleeping.
Downstairs, the heavy oak front door didn't shatter—it gave way with a soft, mechanical click. Master keys. Professional lock-picks.
Three dark figures slipped into the foyer, clad in tactical black gear, their faces hidden behind night-vision goggles and balaclavas.
“Clear,” a harsh whisper cut through the dark.
“The target is upstairs with the laptop,” the second man muttered in a heavy northern accent. “Get the drive, eliminate the woman, leave the kid. Make it look like a botched robbery.”
They began to ascend the stairs, their boots making barely a whisper on the antique wood.
They reached the top landing, weapons raised, moving with lethal precision toward the master bedroom. The lead operative kicked the door open with a crash—
And found an empty room.
The bed was made. The window was open, letting the cold night air sweep inside.
“Trap!” the leader barked, spinning around—
Too late.
“Drop your weapons,” I said, stepping out from the shadows of the hallway alcove, the barrel of my Glock locked dead center on the leader's chest.
All three mercenaries froze. But operatives trained by cartels don't surrender easily. The second man twitched, lifting his submachine gun toward my direction—
Bang.
The suppressed shot echoed like a heavy stapler in the hallway. The man dropped instantly, his shoulder shattered, his weapon clattering to the floor.
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The leader froze, slowly lowering his rifle. “You’re… you’re Ghost-Actual. The government said you were retired.”
“I never retired,” I whispered, stepping closer, my eyes burning with a fury that could melt steel. “I was just on maternity leave.”
