—Can you turn it off?
“I can do something better than turn it off,” Joaquín said, and a suicidal thought crossed his mind. “I can overload it. Make the main pills explode. It’ll sound like a bomb and plunge everything into darkness.”
“Do it,” Valeria said. “Óscar and I will distract those on the ramp. As soon as the lights go out, you run, circle around, and get to Maldonado. Don’t negotiate. Finish them off.”
—And Camila? —Joaquín asked.
—I already alerted a trusted contact in the state police to go to the hotel. They’re five minutes away. She’ll be safe. Trust me.
Joaquín nodded.
“Give me the lug wrench,” he asked Óscar.
Oscar, with tears in his eyes, opened the glove compartment and handed him a multi-tool and a flashlight.
Joaquín got out of the car. He crawled between the parked vehicles toward the concrete pillar.
He saw two armed men near the exit ramp. They were smoking, relaxed, waiting for the dam to come out.
He reached the maintenance cage. It had a simple padlock. Joaquín used the tool to pry it open. The metal gave way.
He opened the gray cabinet.
There was the electrical heart of the floor. Three phases of 440 volts. Thick cables like black snakes.
Maldonado wanted to play with his daughter’s life. Maldonado had used Marisol’s memory to steal from her.
Joaquín wasn’t just going to cut the power. He was going to send a message.
He found a bare ground wire. He disconnected it from the bar.
He took the steel lug wrench.
He took a deep breath.
“This is for you, Marisol.”
He threw the cross wrench directly between the bars of the live phases.
*CRAAAAAACK-BOOM!*
The explosion was brutal. A blue and white electric arc lit up the parking lot like a contained lightning bolt. Sparks of molten copper rained down on the concrete.
The smell of ozone and burning plastic filled the air.
And then, total darkness.
“What the hell was that?!” one of the hitmen shouted on the ramp.
—The power’s out! Turn on the lamps!
Joaquín, momentarily blinded by the flash, blinked to regain his night vision. He knew the darkness. He worked in it.
He emerged from his hiding place.
Chaos reigned. Maldonado’s men were shouting confused orders.
“Shoot at the car!” ordered a voice Joaquín recognized. Maldonado.
Flashes of automatic weapons ripped through the night, aimed toward where Óscar’s car was parked. The sound of shattering glass and pierced metal was terrifying.
But Joaquín knew that Valeria and Óscar would have thrown themselves to the floor of the car.
He ran. Not toward the exit, but toward the source of the gunfire.
He circled the cars, guided by the flashes.
He saw Maldonado’s silhouette, intermittently illuminated by his bodyguards’ shots. He was standing next to an armored truck, shouting into his phone.
Joaquín came up behind him.
He didn’t have a gun; he’d left it at home. But he had his Stilson wrench, which he never left behind.
A hitman was standing about six feet away from Maldonado. Joaquín lunged at him, striking his knee with the wrench. The man fell, screaming.
Maldonado turned around, his eyes wide in the gloom. He pulled out a ridiculous, ostentatious gold pistol.
“You!” he shouted, pointing it at nothing.
Joaquín didn’t give him time. He launched himself into a low tackle, slamming Maldonado in the stomach with his shoulder.
They both fell to the hard ground. The gold-plated pistol skidded away.
Maldonado was a desk man, mild-mannered, used to giving orders. Joaquín was a man who carried rolls of cable and climbed poles all day.
The fight was brief.
Joaquín climbed on top of him. He grabbed the lapels of his expensive jacket.
“Where’s my money?!” Joaquín shouted, unleashing all the fury of five years. “No, not the money! Where’s the respect for my wife?!”
He raised his fist to hit him, but a blinding light stopped him.
Tactical lights. Lots of them.
And the unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors overhead.
—FEDERAL POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! ON THE GROUND!
Men dressed in urban camouflage and tactical vests emerged from the stairs and ramps, moving with military precision.
Maldonado’s hitmen tried to fight back, but were neutralized in seconds with accurate gunfire.
“Get down!” they shouted at Joaquín, with a rifle pointed at his face.
Joaquín released Maldonado and raised his hands. He collapsed to the floor, exhausted.
Maldonado, panting, tried to get up.
“I’m Engineer Roberto Maldonado! I have connections! That man attacked me!”
An officer approached, looked at him with contempt, and tightly handcuffed him.
“Engineer, you have an arrest warrant for organized crime, money laundering, and homicide. And your influence has just ended.”
Joaquín felt hands lifting him up. He expected handcuffs, but instead found a firm arm helping him.
It was Valeria. Behind her came a Federal Police commander.
“Are you okay?” she asked. She had a cut on her forehead, but she was smiling.
“Camila…” was all Joaquín could say.
The commander handed him a radio.
—Listen.
A static voice came from the device:
—*Target secured at the Hotel Regis. The minor is fine. I repeat, the minor is safe and in the custody of victim protection services.*
Joaquín closed his eyes and, for the first time in five years, he cried. He didn’t cry from sadness. He cried because the high-voltage cable that had been straining his soul had finally been disconnected.
***
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