Chapter 7 - THE SIEGE OF AMECA DEPOT"They found us," Garza said without breaking his rhythm on the keyboard.
Progress bar: 92%... 95%...
"How?" Teresa yelled, unholstering her pistol and sprinting toward the front entrance. "This location was secure!"
"Burner phones," Garza shouted back over his shoulder. "One of the local contacts I trusted must have had a tracer on his signal. Defend the door!"
BOOM!
The iron sliding door blew inward in a shower of sparks, smoke, and twisted steel. Through the billowing gray haze, four heavily armed mercenaries rushed into the warehouse, their tactical flashlights cutting through the gloom.
Teresa didn't hesitate. She fired twice, dropping the lead operative with a clean shot to his ceramic-plated vest that knocked him flat on his back, gasping for air.
The remaining three returned fire, sending a hail of 9mm rounds tearing through the rotting wooden crates around her. Splinters exploded in all directions.
"Mom! Get down!" Valeria screamed, dragging an ammo box over to shield her mother’s flank.
"Keep typing, Esteban!" Teresa yelled, firing another controlled double-tap that forced the second operative to dive behind an old railway cart.
"Ninety-nine percent!" Garza roared from the back office.
Suddenly, a heavy boot kicked open the inner office door. A fifth operative had flanked them through the maintenance corridor, leveling a submachine gun straight at Garza’s head.
"Hands on the keyboard, Judge," the operative snarled.
Valeria acted before instinct could process fear. She grabbed a heavy brass wrench off the workbench and hurled it with all her remaining strength straight at the gunman's face.
The heavy tool caught the operative squarely across his tactical helmet with a resounding CLANG, stunning him just long enough for Teresa to pivot, raise her pistol, and fire a single round that punched through his shoulder armor, sending him crashing into the desk.
"Upload complete!" Garza screamed triumphantly from the terminal. "The Federal Attorney General has the file! Warrants are being signed right now!"
A heavy silence fell over the warehouse, broken only by the crackling of the dying fire near the front door.
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From the blown-out entrance, a slow, mocking round of applause echoed through the dusty air.
Rodrigo Alcázar stepped through the smoke, dressed in a pristine white linen suit that looked absurdly out of place among the rusted machinery. He wasn't holding a gun. He was holding a silver cigar cutter, smiling like a man who thought he had already won.
