The first thing I noticed was the plate shaking in the boy's hands.

We reached the outskirts of Del Rio at 3:15 a.m.

The air was heavy, humid, and smelled of creosote and river mud. The town was dark, save for the sickly orange glow of streetlights along the highway.

Arthur’s investigator had tracked the last known address of Bernie’s private transport: a remote, dilapidated property on the shores of Lake Amistad, five miles outside town.

We parked the SUVs in a dense thicket of mesquite trees two hundred yards from the cabin.

The house was a single-story wood-frame structure with a rusted tin roof. A single light burned in the back window. Parked in the dirt driveway was Deputy Vance’s marked county cruiser and a dark gray minivan with blacked-out windows.

"That’s the van," Mateo whispered, waking up and peering out the window. "That’s where they put me."

"Stay in the truck with Arthur and Sergeant Hayes, Mateo," I instructed, checking the flashlight in my pocket. "Elena, you stay here too."

"I’m coming with you, Daniel," Elena insisted, her jaw set.

"Elena, if Vance is inside, things could get violent," I argued.

"Bernie saved my child," she snapped, her voice leaving no room for negotiation. "I am going in there."

I knew better than to argue with her. I nodded to my two security guards, Hayes and Miller. "Concealed weapons only. We are executing a citizen’s intervention under the federal protective order."

We crept through the dark brush, our boots making no sound on the dry sand. The night was alive with the hum of crickets and the distant lap of lake water against the shore.

We reached the back window of the cabin.

I peeked through the dusty glass. Inside, the room was bare—a single cot, a folding table, and several medical monitors humming quietly.

Lying on the cot was an frail, elderly man with thin white hair and an oxygen tube pinned under his nose. Bernie.

Standing beside the cot was Clara Vance.

She was in her late forties, wearing a tailored navy blazer and slacks, her blonde hair pulled into a tight, severe bun. She was holding a clipboard, speaking sharply to a man wearing a paramedic uniform.

"...get the IV prepped," Clara was saying through the thin wall. "We transfer him across the border to the clinic in Ciudad Acuña by four a.m. Once he’s across the river, he isn't our problem anymore."

"What about the kid?" the paramedic asked. "Deputy Vance said he slipped away in San Antonio."

"My brother is handling the kid," Clara said coldly. "The Hart family won't risk a public scandal over some nameless flood orphan. Once Bernie is out of the country, there’s no physical paper trail left."