Swallow the soup, you useless old woman, or I’ll pour it over your head!” Karina’s voice echoed through the house just as I placed my key in the front door. It was 4:20 on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Is there another way out?" I asked urgently, shoving the survey maps, the photographs, and my father's signed affidavit into my leather backpack.

"The old tunnel beneath the crypt," Father Thomas whispered, pointing to a small, low wooden door set into the back wall behind a stone sarcophagus. "It leads under the plaza to the drainage canal near the market. It hasn't been opened in fifty years!"

"It has to work tonight," I said, zipping the backpack shut and slinging it over both shoulders.

Above us, heavy footsteps pounded across the sanctuary floorboards.

"Check behind the altar!" a voice barked. "And if the priest gets in the way, put him to sleep!"

Father Thomas grabbed a heavy iron candle-snuffer from the table and stepped toward the spiral staircase. "Go, Alejandro! I will delay them!"

"No, Father! They'll hurt you!"

"I am eighty-two years old, my boy," the old priest said, a look of fierce determination shining in his eyes. "I have served God all my life, and I am not afraid of Jorge Mendoza's thugs. Protect your mother and bring justice for your father. Now GO!"

Father Thomas pushed me toward the small wooden door, turned around, and began climbing the stone stairs, shouting prayers at the top of his lungs to create a distraction.

I dropped to my knees, pulled back the rusted bolt on the low tunnel door, and yanked it open. A blast of freezing, stagnant air hit my face.

I crawled inside, dragging my backpack behind me, and pulled the wooden door shut just as I heard loud shouts and the sound of falling metal from the crypt above.

The tunnel was barely four feet high, carved directly out of the dark volcanic stone beneath Coyoacán. Water dripped from the arched ceiling, soaking through my jacket, and the floor was covered in slippery mud.

I pulled out my phone, turning on the flashlight beam, and began scrambling forward as fast as my hands and knees could carry me.

Behind me, through the thick wooden door, I heard a muffled thud, followed by a harsh laugh.

"The crypt is empty! But the lock on the blue box was broken!"

"He's in the walls! Find the hatch!"

Panicking, I pushed harder, ignoring the sharp stones cutting through my trousers into my knees. The air grew thicker, heavy with the stench of sewage and wet rot. My lungs burned as I scrambled through thirty yards of narrow rock.

Up ahead, the flashlight beam reflected off a rusted vertical iron ladder leading up to a circular concrete manhole cover.

I reached the ladder, grabbed the wet iron rungs, and climbed up.

I pressed my shoulders against the concrete cover and pushed with all my strength. It didn't budge.

"Come on!" I grunted, setting my feet firmly on the ladder and pushing upward with my legs.

The rusted seal around the manhole shattered with a loud crack, and the heavy concrete disk slid back two inches, letting fresh night air and rain pour into the shaft.

I squeezed through the gap, climbing out into a dark, trash-filled alleyway behind the Coyoacán municipal market, two blocks away from the chapel.

I pulled the manhole cover back into place, checked my backpack to make sure the documents were dry, and sprinted down the rain-slicked alley toward the street where I had parked my car.

As I turned the corner onto Calle de la Amargura, my heart sank into my stomach.

Two black SUVs were parked in front of the Chapel of Santa Catarina, their hazard lights flashing in the rain. Four men in dark tactical jackets were running out of the main doors, jumping into the vehicles.

I ducked behind a parked delivery van, holding my breath.

One of the SUVs backed up aggressively, turned its high beams toward my direction, and began driving down the street—slowly searching every sidewalk and doorway.

I didn't dare go back to my sedan. They had likely spotted it already and disabled the tires.

Instead, I slipped into a narrow pedestrian footpath between two residential walls, keeping to the deepest shadows, and began running north toward the Metro station.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I pulled it out while running under the dripping trees. It was Inspector Reyes from the Financial Crimes Division.

"Alejandro!" she said, her voice filled with tension over the static line. "Where are you? We just received a report of a break-in at the Chapel of Santa Catarina!"

"It was Mendoza's men!" I gasped out, struggling for air as I ran. "I have the trunk, Inspector! I have the original 1968 land survey, the presidential title grant, and a signed affidavit from my father naming Jorge Mendoza in his murder!"

There was a sudden, heavy silence on the line.

"Inspector?" I asked, stopping under a streetlamp. "Did you hear me?"

"Alejandro," Reyes said slowly, her voice dropping into a strangely flat, official register. "You need to bring those documents to my office immediately. Do not go to the media. Do not go back to the hospital. Come straight to the Third District Precinct on Avenida Universidad."

Something in her tone sounded wrong. It was too controlled. Too calculated.

"Is my mother safe?" I asked, my instincts screaming at me.

"Your mother is being transferred to a secure facility under my personal authority," Reyes replied. "Just bring the files to me. I have... guests waiting in my office."

In the background of the call, muffled by the phone's microphone, I heard a soft, distinct sound.

A silver lighter flicking open.