Chapter 3 - The Race Through Guadalajara The rain stung my face as I squeezed through the narrow bathroom window and dropped heavily onto the metal fire escape of the adjacent building. Pain shot up my right ankle, but adrenaline masked it instantly. Behind me, heavy boots pounded against the floorboards of my room.
"He's out the back!" a shout echoed into the damp night air.
I didn't look back. I scrambled down the rusted stairs, leaped the final six feet into the muddy alley, and broke into a desperate sprint. Guadalajara at midnight is a labyrinth of shadows, narrow colonial streets, and winding cobblestone paths. I knew these shortcuts better than anyone; I had spent three years dodging late-night shifts and rushing to early morning classes.
I ducked into a maze of market stalls covered by tattered blue tarps, the smell of rotting fruit and wet asphalt filling my lungs. Footsteps slapped wetly against the pavement behind me—close, too close. The men in suits were surprisingly fast for urban professionals.
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I darted around a corner and slammed straight into a stack of plastic crates, sending them clattering across the street. Cursing under my breath, I scrambled to my feet and kept running, my chest burning as if swallowed by fire. I needed a safe haven, someone who wouldn't ask questions, someone who had known Carmen before her world shrunk to the confines of that dark alley.
I headed straight for the old marketplace downtown, where Doña Clara, a sharp-eyed woman who ran a vegetable stall and had known Carmen for forty years, was known to stay late prepping her inventory. If anyone knew why Carmen’s family wanted that house so badly, it was her.
