The tactical room was a space usually off-limits to us. Its walls were covered in maps, screens with deadened lights, and a large central table.

  Mendez stood there, flanked by several officers. His face was like stone hacked with an axe.

  Mother led us in, her head held high. We took the chairs provided on one side of the table—like defendants in a military tribunal.

  "Se?ora Guerrero," Mendez began, without preamble. "Did you hear it?"

  "We felt the vibration," Mother replied.

  "Comms station Eagle's Peak was hit. Sabotage, not a frontal assault. Someone with detailed internal knowledge disabled the generators and severed the main antenna array. We're deaf in the northern sector now."

  He stared at each of us in turn, his eyes like drills trying to pierce our skulls.

  "Technical information like that," he continued, "isn't available to street-level rebels. It requires access to restricted documents. Documents that exist in only a few places. One of them is the technical archive in this palace."

  I kept my breathing even. My face blank. Like a confused, frightened kid.

  "Is the Colonel accusing us?" Mother asked, her voice icy. "We have been confined to this palace. Our access is limited."

  "Not accusing. Merely stating facts." Mendez paced slowly along the side of the table. "The attack was perfectly timed. Just before your public statement deadline. As if someone wanted to create a distraction. Or chaos to exploit."

  "Or," I spoke up, letting my voice tremble just slightly, "maybe the rebels are smarter than the Colonel thinks. Or maybe there's a traitor among your own technical staff."

  Every eye snapped to me. Mendez stopped, his gaze on me unreadable.

  "A clever thought, boy. But a traitor needs a motive. What motive would my technical staff have to aid rebels?"

  I shrugged, playing the part of a kid trying to sound mature. "Maybe they're tired. Or scared. Or... they didn't like shooting children in the fish market."

  The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the sudden silence.

  One of Mendez's officers, a major with a scarred face, let out a low hiss. Mendez himself didn't flinch.

  "Those rumors," he said slowly. "You must have heard them within these walls."

  "The guards were talking about it," Isabella spoke up suddenly, her voice clear. "They thought we couldn't hear. But we did. They said it was a mistake. That the soldier was young and panicked."

  Mendez looked at Isabella, then back at me. This small battle wasn't about information anymore. It was about psychology. About who could keep their cool.

  "Very well," Mendez said finally, taking his seat. "Tomorrow at dusk, your public statement will be broadcast. Whatever happened at Eagle's Peak, it doesn't change the fact that the Guerrero family supports the legitimate government in fighting terrorism. Understood?"

  It wasn't a question. It was a final command.

  "We understand," Mother said.

  "You may return to your quarters. But be advised, security will be tightened. For your own safety."

  We stood and left the room. In the hallway, surrounded by guards, I felt cold sweat on my back.

  We'd passed through the meeting without arrest. But Mendez wasn't stupid. He knew something was off. And now he was locking us down tighter.

  Back in the family wing, Mother Rosa waited, her face pale.

  "Captain Rios," she whispered, pretending to help Mother with her shawl. "He sent word. The underground network heard from Mendez's headquarters. He's dispatched special forces to Sector Delta. They're looking for Javier. And... they have triangulation equipment. To trace unusual transmissions."

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  Mother Rosa's eyes met mine. "They'll trace it back to its source. To the palace."

  Time was almost up. Maya would be found. Then they'd find us.

  "Is there any way to warn her?" I asked.

  Mother Rosa shook her head. "Every channel is monitored now. Even Fantasma can't get out."

  We were trapped. And the clock kept ticking.

  ***

  04:30 hours. Dawn was still distant, but the sky was leaching from pitch black to a murky gray.

  I sat in my room, staring at the city. My mind spun, searching for a crack, any way out.

  Then, I saw it. Movement in the garden. Not a guard. Something small, dark, moving swiftly through the shrubbery.

  Fantasma.

  She wasn't supposed to be able to get out. But here she was. And in her mouth, she carried something. Not a metal tube. Something small and white.

  I eased the window open slowly—it was supposed to be locked, but the frame was old and loose. Fantasma leapt inside, deposited the object on the floor, then rubbed against my leg.

  It was a scrap of paper, rolled tight and tied with thread. Inside, cramped, shaky handwriting.

  THEY KNOW. CHANNEL BEING TRACED. I DELETED LOGS BUT MY TIME'S UP. IF YOU CAN, RUN.

  TUNNEL UNDER LIBRARY - PANEL BEHIND COLONIAL LAW SHELVES. GO DOWN, FOLLOW THE WATER. EXIT AT OLD WAREHOUSE ON DOVE STREET. NO PROMISES OF SAFETY. - M

  Maya. Her final message. And she'd given us a way out.

  How did she know about a secret exit? From intel she'd overheard in comms? I had no idea.

  A tunnel. It matched what I'd seen on the old maps. But was it still passable? And "follow the water"—probably meant follow the watercourse or a sewer line.

  This was an escape. But it also meant abandoning Father. Leaving everything we knew. Becoming fugitives.

  And if we were caught during the escape, we'd be executed on the spot.

  I burned the paper, then went to Mother's room. I showed her the ashes in the ashtray and explained.

  She listened, her face a mask. "When?"

  "Now. Before full dawn. Before Maya breaks under torture and tells them about the tunnel."

  "And your father?"

  "..."

  Tears finally welled in her eyes, but didn't fall.

  "We can't take him. But if we're free... we can work to free him. If we stay here, we all die or become puppets."

  It was the hardest decision of her life. And she made it in thirty seconds.

  "Wake Isabella and Eleanor. Take only the essentials. We meet in the library in five minutes."

  Five minutes later, we were all in the library, dressed in dark clothes with small bags. Eleanor was still sleepy and confused, but compliant. Isabella held her hand tightly.

  I shifted the colonial law shelves—thick, dusty tomes on colonial-era regulations. Behind them, just as Maya said, was a loose wooden panel. I pushed. It swung inward.

  A dark hole. A rusted iron ladder descended into blackness. The smell of damp earth and mold rose up.

  "Who goes first?" Mother whispered.

  "I will," I said. I took the small lantern Mother Rosa had prepared—a shuttered one with minimal light spill. I lit it and started down.

  The ladder groaned, but the sounds of the waking city and the occasional distant siren covered it.

  I reached the bottom, a low chamber with a vaulted brick ceiling. On the floor, a narrow channel of sluggish, murky water flowed.

  The others descended. Mother last, pulling the panel shut above us. Now, there was no going back.

  "Which way?" Isabella whispered.

  "We follow the water. It flows downhill, toward the city. To the Old Warehouse on Dove Street."

  We started walking, hunched under the low ceiling. The drip and trickle of water was the only sound. Our small lantern cast grotesque shadows on the mossy brick walls.

  The tunnel was ancient. Probably from the colonial fort days. Used for smuggling or escapes for hundreds of years. And now, we were using it again.

  After maybe twenty minutes of walking, the tunnel branched. The water flowed left, into a narrower conduit.

  "We follow the water," I repeated.

  We entered the narrower drain. Here, we had to crawl. Icy water soaked through our pants. Eleanor whimpered softly, but Mother shushed her with soothing words.

  Then, ahead, light. Not lantern light. Natural light, faint.

  We crawled faster. The end of the drain was barred by an iron grate, but it was rusted and loose. Beyond it, we saw a weedy courtyard and a stone wall.

  The old warehouse.

  I pushed at the grate. With a metallic groan, it gave way enough for us to squeeze through, one by one.

  We emerged into free air. The gray dawn light washed over the neglected yard. Before us, the crumbling stone warehouse. Behind, the high walls of the palace—we were outside.

  We'd made it.

  But then, sound. Engines. Vehicles approaching.

  We scrambled into the warehouse, hiding behind stacks of old wooden crates. A military truck rolled past on the street outside, slowly, its searchlight sweeping the walls.

  They were searching. Maybe for us. Maybe for rebels. Maybe just a routine patrol.

  After the truck passed, Mother let out a deep breath. "We can't stay here. We have to move. But where?"

  My mind raced. Dove Street was near the old market district. A place of narrow alleys, lots of people, lots of places to hide. And maybe... maybe the network was there. People like Manuel.

  "We head for the market," I whispered. "We look for the fish shop. Manuel's cousin's place."

  It was a slim hope. But it was all we had.

  We moved along walls, slipped into narrow alleys, becoming shadows in the waking city.

  We were the Guerrero family, the ruling family, now fugitives in the city our father once led.

  And somewhere above, in the palace, Mendez would soon know we were gone. And he would throw everything into finding us.

  But for now, we were free. We were together. And we were still moving.

  It was a new beginning. Or a delayed end.

  But at least we weren't waiting for the guillotine to fall anymore. We'd jumped from its path.

  And where we'd land, that was a question for the next minute, the next hour, the next day.

  One step at a time. Like the water flowing in the dark tunnel, seeking its way to the sea.

  As long as we survived, there was a chance.

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