The watch on her wrist didn't just mark the time; it was a jagged scar across the afternoon. Fourteen-forty-seven—the numbers leaned against each other like tired soldiers in the heat. Only forty-seven minutes of the siesta had bled away, yet it felt like she had been drowning in that memory for a lifetime.

  Miri didn't remember exactly when she drifted off, maybe twenty minutes ago. But the adrenaline from the nightmare was enough to keep her pinned to that greasy chair, forced to stare at the "Wall of Fame" behind her desk. The framed photos of the precinct’s finest—colleagues and bosses with fake smiles—sat under a bold, dusty heading: "Honor y Lealtad al Servicio de la Patria." To Miri, it looked like a gallery of hypocrites.

  She groaned as she lowered her heavy, leaden legs from the desk. They had been up so long they felt numb, stinging as they finally hit the floor.

  "I should go beber una fresca," she muttered to the empty room, her voice a mix of gravel and tired hope. Speaking to herself in two languages was the only way to keep her mind from rotting in this heat.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  But as she braced her hands to stand up, a shadow draped over her shoulders, and a voice like sliding gravel cut through the silence:

  "Ey... mira quién está aquí. Parece que no todos se fueron a comer."

  She didn't have time to turn. One of them—a Sicario who had been scouting the empty station—stepped into her space. Silence swallowed the room. He didn't scream; he greeted her with a cold "embrace" of steel, pressing a machete tight against her carotid artery.

  Miri swallowed hard, her eyes locking onto the dark, grimy monitor. She saw her own reflection, the blade glinting against her skin.

  "?Qué putero, vaquero de mierda?" she spat, her voice dripping with a defiance that shouldn't have been there.

  The man didn't waste breath on words. With a steady, professional flick of his wrist, he drew the blade just enough to bite. A warning cut. Warm blood began to bloom against the cold steel.