“I’m sorry,” she says, staring at my boots like she’s waiting for me to wind back for a kick. “I didn’t mean to get in the way, Sergeant Roth.”

I flinch. “My name is Theo,” I say, still holding out my hand. She takes it this time, and I lean in close. “Theo Wright.”

Why did I just say that? What if she’s one of Valeria’s falcons? It just seems worth the risk, vital even, that someone knows my real name. I’m not a Roth.

The girl collects the clothing brush from me and feigns wiping dust from my uniform jacket. The handle pushes up the starched sleeve, and she stares at the cuts marking my right wrist.

Mierda. Shit. Does she recognize the mark as a Common tattoo?

I shove my sleeve down and try to take my leave with a nod—I don’t trust myself to say anything further—but the girl grabs hold of my arm. A bold look stirs behind her eyes.

“What will you do with Andrés?” she asks.

This girl’s more than just a servant.

I hold her gaze, hoping to see through her, right past whatever role she’s playing. Is she a puppet? A falcon? A militia mouse, maybe?

A rebel, like me?

“I’m going to do with him just what he deserves,” I say carefully, knowing my translator will project my words to anyone listening.

Valeria probably has surveillance on me from a dozen different angles.

“Would you like to assist me?” I ask, a normal request to a servant.

The girl studies me, then nods, a brisk, forceful gesture.

She’s a member of the People’s Militia. I feel it in my bones and blood.

I’ve just found my means to pull off tonight’s show.

“Good,” I say, motioning for her to follow. “Then let’s get started.”

MIRA

Ava drapes the soiled layers of my infinity scarf over my shoulders and forehead, taking minute care to ensure all strands of my red and blonde-tipped hair stay hidden.

I help my sister pull on a long, loose duster and wide hood, covering her charcoal-black uniform and fiery head. Despite washing every stitch of cloth and leather on us, we both still stink of javelina. That sharp, musky scent that’s meant to mark territory.

Salazar territory.

I exit the back of the transport, a beat-up cargo van belonging to the People’s Militia, and gaze out in the direction of the cartel’s northern stronghold.

The lieutenant of Monterrey’s mansion. Lucía’s former residence.

Her prison, she called it.

Roth, are you in there?

Theo. Please be in there.

The puncture wounds on my lower legs pulsate with a dull ache, made worse by every one of my footsteps. I found Ciro’s cutting-edge surgical glue in our packs to seal the swollen gashes, and before we left the small town, Ava and I accepted the doctor’s rabies vaccines. But we staunchly refused the pain medications.

We must keep our minds clear. Focused.

No pain, no gain, I imagine Kano would say.

It felt impossible to leave Kano behind. Wrong and disloyal. There was no choice, I keep stressing this point to my conscience. We could do nothing for him. The doctors will save him.

The only thing I can do for Kano right now is make certain our side wins.

“We’ll return for you,” I whisper, looking at each member of our team, trying and failing to stop my mind from contemplating which of us will make it through this.

Stay focused. The endgame is within reach.

Lucía and Haven throw on scarves and loose coveralls identical to mine, while Alexander, Skye, and Barend cloak themselves in ankle-length jackets and hoods like Ava’s.

In this harsh afternoon sun, our black uniforms stick out like crows against a pale sky.

You look like police, Matías told us.

And neither the federal nor state law enforcement have set foot in Monterrey in over a decade, he further explained.

The water lords paid them all off, Lucía said, her voice taut with tempered fury as she handed us our civilian disguises. Everyone has a price.

I think of the woman at the border bridge running off with Lucía’s offer of gold. Hush money.

Ava always said those with the guns always win. But maybe it’s money that holds the most power.

Tightening the straps of my shoulder holster concealed beneath the folds of my baggy scarf, I set off to join the line forming behind Matías.

Two steel platform carts piled high with bags of soil and mulch wait beside him. Today, rebels are disguised as gardeners, workers who tend to the lieutenant’s prized grapefruit groves.

The militia leader’s plan won in a unanimous vote, after only a minor grumble from Alexander.

“Father to father, I’ll trust you,” Alexander told Matías, finally accepting that this was our only strategy and we were wasting precious time. “Help me bring back my son and I will fight with you for yours.”

While I’m glad to have Alexander’s sharpshooting skills for the mission, a selfish bitterness festers inside of me like an old wound. He tells a stranger he trusts him, but he’d never trust me.

And I know Alexander would happily throw me into his father’s arms if it meant he could get his son back.

Why do I care if I’ve earned his confidence? I chastise myself. The task at hand. Focus.

Once we’re through the gate and on the stronghold’s property, we’re to break into two teams. Team One will be led by Matías and Alexander to locate the captives, their two sons. Most agreed Theo would be locked with Andrés, somewhere in the interrogation chambers.

But I think Theo will be somewhere near Roth.

I’m convinced Roth will be keeping his grandson, his presumptive heir, close. And if my gut is correct, I’m mere minutes from confronting both of our objectives, because Team Two, led by Ava, Lucía, and myself, is going after the former governor.

Lucía knows every nook of this mansion like the grooves in the beads of her rosary. There are only so many places you can run and hide, Roth. Your time is up.

Matías’s whispered warning repeats through my ear cuff. “Remember, stealth is our greatest strength.”

Deep wrinkles crease the militia leader’s eyes. Before he took the role of a fighter, Lucía said he was the owner of a fruitful plot of land. He must be used to planting seeds and waiting for something to grow.

Well, today is reaping day.

“Do not break the line,” he says, leaning his weight on his oakwood staff. He scrutinizes the teams and the gardening bags filled with explosives, then lowers the wide brim of his palm straw hat over his brow and waves the line forward.

Ava walks at my front, Haven behind. Our procession moves in a slow, leisurely pace toward the mansion’s side entrance, but I feel far from relaxed.

“The streets were supposed to be empty,” Barend whispers.

Just like in Texas, people here normally choose to hole up indoors in the oppressive heat of the daylight hours. But right now, the street in front of the stronghold is teeming.

Something draws a crowd to the gate of the mansion’s main entrance.

Or someone.

A militiaman, a bareheaded teen who doesn’t hide beneath a hat or scarf, breaks from the front of our file. He elbows into the crush of onlookers and umbrellas to get to the copper barrier with its spiked golden tops.