Chapter 3 - The Interruption in Iztacalco
While the marble corridors of Paseo de la Reforma echoed with revelations that would alter the geopolitical and cultural landscape of two continents, life in Iztacalco continued at its own frantic, ordinary pace.
The bell at Miguel Alemán Secondary School rang out with a harsh, metallic clang, signaling the end of the morning session. A flood of teenagers in green-and-white uniforms spilled out through the heavy iron gates into the dusty street, shouting, laughing, and buying warm churros from a street vendor whose cart was shaded by a tattered blue tarp.
Among them was Daniel. At twelve years old, he had his mother’s sharp, observant eyes and the quiet, watchful demeanor of a boy who had grown up listening to the world more than speaking in it. He walked with his backpack slung over one shoulder, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark blue windbreaker.
Right near the pocket, the zipper hung stubbornly crooked, jammed halfway up the fabric like a metal snag that refused to cooperate. Daniel sighed, tugging at it one more time before giving up with a sharp jerk.
“Hey, Dani! You coming to the cyber cafe today or what?” called Mateo, his best friend, jogging up to catch pace with him. “My cousin unlocked the new levels on that racing game. We’ve got forty minutes before your mom gets off her shift.”
Daniel shook his head, looking down at his shoes, which were beginning to show wear at the seams. “Nah. Mom said she’d be home early today. She promised we’d fix this stupid jacket together before it gets colder.”
“For real?” Mateo grinned. “Your mom is awesome. Always working, though. My dad says she’s like a machine at that big hotel downtown.”
Daniel didn't answer right away. A strange, prickly sensation crawled up the back of his neck—a sudden, unexplainable heaviness in the air, as if the atmospheric pressure had dropped instantly. He stopped walking, turning his head to look down the narrow side street that led toward the main avenue.
Parked illegally by the curb, blocking a yellow fire hydrant, sat a sleek, obsidian-black Mercedes-Maybach with tinted bulletproof windows and discreet diplomatic plates from a country halfway across the world. Two men in dark suits stood on either side of the vehicle, scanning the pedestrian traffic with terrifying efficiency.
Children and parents walking past gave the luxury vehicle a wide berth, whispering nervously among themselves. In Iztacalco, cars like that didn't belong to accountants or store owners. They belonged to cartel bosses, corrupt politicians, or phantoms from another universe.
“Whoa,” Mateo muttered, stopping in his tracks and grabbing Daniel’s arm. “Look at that ride, Dani. Do not look at them, man, just keep walking. Those guys look like they carry submachine guns under those jackets.”
Daniel felt his feet freeze to the pavement. His heart gave a strange, violent lurch—the exact same sensation his mother often described when she talked about the sudden shifts in the wind back in the old country she never liked to name.
The rear door of the Maybach swung open with a soft, pneumatic hiss.
A man stepped out onto the dusty concrete. He didn't look like anyone Daniel had ever seen in his neighborhood. Impeccably tailored, with a dark coat, a trimmed beard, and an aura of absolute, unshakeable authority that seemed to push the chaotic noise of the street away into the background.
Behind him stepped another person. A woman in a blue hotel uniform, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, carrying a worn canvas tote bag.
May you like
Daniel’s breath caught in his throat.
“...Mom?” he whispered.
