Chapter 1 - The Concrete Riverbank
The water dragged at my shins, cold and churning with runoff from the morning storm, smelling of wet asphalt and old silt. Up on the highway bridge, the tires hummed a steady, indifferent drone that cut through the roar of the river. Then I saw him break the surface—a dark blur of soaked fabric spinning in the shallow current near the concrete pylons. I didn't think; my boots slipped on the slimy green moss as I lunged forward into the rush, fighting the weight of the water until my hands caught the thick wool of his suit jacket.
"Hold on! I've got you!" I shouted, my voice cracking against the wind.
He was dead weight, his slicked-back hair matted against his forehead, the water slicking down a white dress shirt that clung to his ribs. A heavy gold chain glinted against his chest, and an expensive gold wristwatch caught the gray daylight as I hauled him toward the sloping mud bank. Above us, tires crunched sharply on the gravel shoulder. Three black SUVs had cut their engines, and a line of men in dark suits scrambled down the dusty slope, shouting indistinguishable orders.
I dragged him onto the flat concrete shelf where the bridge's shadow met the mud, my breathing coming in ragged gasps. He doubled over, coughing violently, hacking up muddy water onto the gray stone while his bodyguards closed the distance, heavy footfalls pounding down the embankment.
"Come on, Vargas," I muttered, half to myself, steadying his shoulder as he spat another mouthful of river water and wiped a hand across his face.
He pressed a wet palm over his eyes to catch his breath, his soaked white shirt sticking to his skin, the gold watch heavy on his wrist. For a second, he just wheezed, his chest heaving under the charcoal suit jacket. Then his head snapped up. His eyes didn't look like those of a man who had nearly drowned minutes ago; they were sharp, calculating, and entirely steady. He gripped his hand into a tight fist, staring up at me with a fierce, unsettling intensity that made the surrounding shouts fade into background noise.
"What is your name, boy?" he demanded, his voice raspy but carrying an absolute, unyielding authority.
"Leo," I said, my pulse hammering against my ribs as the first of the bodyguards reached the bottom of the slope, hovering nervously behind us.
Vargas didn't blink. He reached out and grabbed me firmly by the shoulders, his fingers digging into my cotton t-shirt with a grip that left no room to pull away. He stared straight into my eyes, bringing his face inches from mine, his expression shifting into something heavy with a secret that felt entirely too large for the damp concrete under our feet.
"Your grandmother did not die the way they told you," he said.
May you like
Before I could ask what he meant, two of the suited men reached us, pulling Vargas up by his elbows with practiced urgency. They hoisted him toward the waiting SUVs parked above, shielding him from the open air as more shouts echoed off the concrete piers. I stood frozen on the riverbank, the sound of rushing water filling the sudden silence left behind, watching the black vehicles kick up dust and vanish up the winding highway ramp.
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