Catalina Reyes

The mission had always been spoken about in fragments—coded phrases, clipped confirmations, long silences filled with implication. But when the walkies finally blared to life, sharp and frantic, there was no mistaking it. Eyes on the target.

The words crackled through the room like a gunshot.

Years of planning, months of surveillance, sleepless nights and quiet sacrifices—all of it was about to culminate. The biggest breakthrough of their careers was no longer theoretical. It was moving. Breathing. About to set sail.

Catalina froze.

Her lungs locked as the familiar routine unfolded around her, the cadence of commands she’d heard her entire life echoing through the house. Her parents’ voices—cold, authoritative—cut through the air as they barked orders to the gunmen. Boots thundered across marble floors. Outside, the metallic roar of military vehicles shattered the stillness, engines snarling as they rammed through the front gate, iron screaming against iron.

She wanted to run. To hide. To disappear into some corner of the house where none of this could touch her.

Anything—anything—but look down at the phone clenched in her trembling hand.

The text was still there. Glowing. Unforgiving.

A brief message, professional even in its excitement, detailing her partner’s success. Confirmation that they were closing in. That this would be the largest drug bust of their career. That everything they had worked for—everything she had believed in—was finally happening.

Her vision blurred as memories crashed into her without warning.

Crowded bus rides back to their tiny apartment, knees brushing, laughter shared in whispers. Early mornings wrapped in half-sleep and coffee that was always too bitter. Slow, stolen strolls through pristine neighborhoods near the military bases, where they pretended—just for an hour—that they were ordinary. Safe.

The way I love you sounded when spoken softly, like a secret meant only for her. The promises. The future they sketched out in careless words and hopeful smiles.

All of it—every fragile dream—was a façade.

And it was collapsing.

Shouts erupted nearby, dragging her back into the present. Her parents’ hands were firm, almost rough, as they shoved her backward, positioning her behind a wall of armed men. Rifles were raised. Fingers hovered over triggers. The air grew thick with anticipation and fear.

Then it began.

Gunfire exploded, deafening and chaotic. The night filled with the staccato rhythm of bullets, screams tearing through the darkness. The sharp scent of gunpowder burned her nose as blood spattered against stone, against uniforms, against the life she thought she understood.

Her heart slammed violently against her ribs.

And then she saw them.

Through the smoke. Through the chaos.

The uniform she had grown to love—the one she’d lied about so easily to her parents—came into view. Familiar shoulders. A familiar stance. A pistol raised, steady, unwavering.

Pointed directly at her parents.

“Chéri! No!”

The scream tore out of her, raw and unrestrained.

Catalina broke free, lunging forward before anyone could stop her. She crashed into their arms, clinging desperately as if sheer force of will could undo everything. She turned, placing herself between them and her parents, her body shaking with terror and resolve.

Shame burned through her as she met her parents’ eyes—disbelief, fury, and something heartbreakingly close to betrayal reflected back at her.

“Don’t shoot!” she sobbed, voice cracking as tears streamed down her face. “Don’t shoot! Please—don’t!”