“Precisely,” Delegate Treviño nodded grimly.
“We require physical, irrefutable proof that the patient is alive and that the certificate is a fraudulent instrument. We need a federal medical examiner to certify Valeria and the child’s status inside the hospital, before Alejandro can transfer them to the family’s private mortuary or to an incinerator.”
“I am going back in,” I said, taking a step forward.
“You have lost your mind, Carlos,” my grandmother snapped, fixing me with a stern gaze.
“They are actively hunting you. If you step near that facility, your mother’s men will put a bullet through your skull before you reach the elevators.”
“I am not entering through the front doors, Grandmother,” I countered, recalling the years I spent shadowing my father through structural maintenance inspections when I was a teenager.
“My father engineered the industrial boiler rooms and the underground utility tunnels linking the laundry facility to the specialty wing. There is a maintenance hatch feeding in from the Santa Catarina riverbed runoff system. It hasn’t been accessed since Hurricane Alex, but the old iron gate can be unlatched from the inside if you know the manual bypass. If the delegate assigns a medical examiner and two armed operators to accompany me, we can reach Operating Room Three without being detected by Alejandro’s surveillance network.”
Delegate Treviño turned to my grandmother, awaiting her judgment.
Doña Elena stood quietly for a long moment, watching the gray ribbon of smoke from her cigarette drift into the chill morning air.
Her cane trembled slightly, not out of frailty, but from the suppressed rage of sending her only grandson into a trap to salvage the remnants of her family line.
“Go, Carlos,” my grandmother whispered at last, her words carrying the gravity of a wartime decree.
“But if you enter that den of wolves, make sure your teeth are sharper than theirs. Bernardo, equip the boy with whatever he requires. If my son Alejandro dares to resist, inform your men they have my explicit authorization to bring down the building around him.”
Ten minutes later, I found myself in the back of an unmarked white van tearing through the Loma Larga tunnel toward the dry basin of the Santa Catarina River.
Beside me sat three men: Doctor Saucedo, a veteran federal medical examiner whose face bore the wear of countless forensic investigations, and two operators from the Attorney General’s special operations unit, outfitted in black tactical gear, heavy ballistic plates, and suppressed short-barreled carbines.
No one spoke.
The only sounds were the metallic rattle of magazines and the clink of diagnostic reagents packed to confirm the presence of toxins in Valeria’s bloodstream.
The vehicle killed its engine beneath the Venustiano Carranza bridge, deep in the absolute blackness of the riverbed.
The operators slid the rear doors open in total silence.
The damp subterranean air carried the stench of wet earth, trash, and stale drainage water.
One operator clicked on a low-intensity red tactical light, keeping the beam tight against the ground, illuminating the gaping concrete mouth of a stormwater conduit running beneath the city’s arteries.
“Follow my lead, gentlemen,” I whispered, pulling the Kevlar vest tight over my dirtied clothes.
“Stick to the industrial pipes along the right wall. The concrete is slick, and several inspection shafts drop straight down.”
We pressed forward into the dark concrete pipe.
The splash of our boots echoed along the curved walls, a steady, dripping percussion that set my nerves on edge.
We navigated that underground passage for what felt like miles, climbing gradually beneath the city, directly below the structures supporting my family’s fortune.
I remembered the directions my father had shared years ago, like a game: “Carlos, if the city ever falls to chaos, the hospital maintenance tunnels are your only secure path. Follow the high-pressure copper line; it leads straight to the building’s spine.”
We reached a structural junction where modern concrete gave way to antique masonry and red brick.
Before us stood a wrought-iron security gate, choked with rust and dust.
A heavy chain wrapped with a brass padlock hung across the center.
One of the tactical operators stepped up with hydraulic bolt cutters.
With a single muffled crunch, the chain snapped, dropping into the mud without a sound.
We slowly pushed the gate open.
The ungreased hinges let out a faint metallic groan that made me freeze.
Beyond the opening lay a spiral iron staircase winding upward into the basement beneath the central laundry facility.
The atmosphere shifted, turning warm and dense with the familiar scent of laundry detergent and steam.
We climbed the steps one by one, the operators keeping their weapons trained on the ceiling, covering every blind corner.
At the top, we hit the access hatch leading into the boiler room.
I pushed the iron lid up an inch, scanning the room.
The boiler floor was empty, but the deafening roar of the heavy diesel engines masked our movement entirely.
We climbed out onto the concrete floor of the basement.
Doctor Saucedo adjusted his examination gloves and checked his watch: 3:15 AM.
The facility should have been asleep, but as we approached the reinforced door leading to the service elevators, the reality outside became clear.
Peering through the wire-reinforced glass, we spotted three armed guards from my uncle Alejandro’s outfit.
They wore tactical pants and polo shirts lacking official security patches; these were the mercenaries my mother kept to patrol her ranches and properties in San Pedro.
Sidearms hung loosely in tactical holsters as they searched every laundry cart sent up to the upper floors.
“They have the service lifts locked down,” whispered the point operator, callsign Alpha.
“If we neutralize them here, one of them will trigger his radio and the surgical floor will go into full lockdown. We need a diversion.”
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