The name Ismael echoed in my mind like a ghost refusing to rest.
Emma and I didn't waste time. We dug deep—old court records, hidden financial transactions, and death reports that didn't add up. Ismael Gómez, once a respected prosecutor, had supposedly died in a house fire… but no autopsy had ever been filed. No body was ever officially confirmed.
"Either he's alive," Emma said, scanning through encrypted emails, "or someone used his name to cover up something massive."
As we worked through the night, something else weighed heavily on me—Amara's silence.
When I got home the next morning, I found her pacing. "Israel couldn't sleep last night. She said she saw a man outside the window."
My heart sank.
"Did you see him?" I asked.
"No. But I felt it. Like someone was watching us."
I looked at my daughter, curled up on the couch with her stuffed bear. I knelt beside her. "Did the man say anything?"
She nodded slowly. "He said… 'Tell your dad he should stop looking.'"
That was the moment I knew: this wasn't just corruption. This was war.
Emma and I traced a shell company connected to Ismael's name to a remote location outside the city. A warehouse—abandoned on paper, but still active.
We drove out that evening, our weapons holstered, phones turned off. As we got closer, Emma whispered, "You sure we're ready for this?"
I stared at the warehouse. "No. But I'd rather walk into hell than let them get near my family again."
We slipped inside through a side door.
Inside: rows of documents, hard drives, and something we never expected—a wall covered in photos. Us. The judge. Our families. Even Israel.
"They've been tracking everything," Emma said in shock.
And then we heard the voice.
"I was wondering when you'd come."
We turned. A man stepped out from the shadows.
Older. Cold eyes. Confident.
"Ismael?" I asked.
He smirked. "You never bury a man who isn't dead."