The Peugeot crawled through the pre-dawn gloom, its headlights cutting feeble swathes in the mist rising from the Darro river. Ramón drove with a predator's stillness, eyes constantly scanning mirrors and side streets. The Albaicín's winding lanes felt like a trap, every shadowed doorway a potential muzzle flash. Kara sat rigid in the passenger seat, the revolver a cold, familiar weight on her lap, her bandaged arm pulsing with each heartbeat. Rosa's terrified voice echoed in her skull: *"Knock that pattern… if you hear any knock that isn't that… run…"*
They parked a block away from Ramón's laundry, deep in the shadow of a massive bougainvillea spilling over a high wall. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and distant jasmine, but beneath it, Kara sensed the metallic tang of danger. The street was unnaturally quiet.
"On foot from here," Ramón murmured, killing the engine. "Quiet as ghosts."
They slipped from the car, melting into the deep shadows hugging the whitewashed walls. Kara moved with a silence honed in the mountains, every sense screaming. Ramón led, his bulk surprisingly fluid, pausing at every corner, listening intently before moving. The familiar blue awning of *La Lavandería del Sol* came into view, its shutter still down. No light showed from the apartment above. No sign of disturbance. Yet.
Ramón stopped Kara with a touch before they reached the alley leading to the courtyard door. He pressed a finger to his lips, then pointed upwards. Kara followed his gaze. The high window of the apartment above the laundry – the one where they'd sheltered – its shutter hung slightly askew. A fresh, jagged splinter marred the wood near the latch. *Forced.*
Ice flooded Kara's veins. *Rosa.* She fought the impulse to sprint towards the alley. Ramón's hand clamped on her good arm, holding her back. His eyes, hard as flint, scanned the street, the rooftops, the shuttered windows opposite. He held up two fingers, then pointed towards the alley entrance. *Two men. Watching.*
Kara forced her breathing to slow, her gaze sharpening. There. A flicker of movement in a deep doorway across the street. The glint of a watch face beneath a pulled-down cap. Another shadow, too still, near the corner spice merchant's closed stall. Lorenzo's sentinels. Waiting.
Ramón leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. "Back door. Through the ceramics shop. Go. I'll draw them off."
Kara started to protest, but Ramón's look silenced her. It was the same look Dante had given her before diving into gunfire – cold, pragmatic acceptance of the necessary risk. He pulled a small, dark object from his pocket – another flashbang? – and gave her a curt nod. "Five minutes. Get the girl. Get out. Meet at the van. Go!"
He didn't wait. He stepped out of the shadows, walking purposefully *away* from the laundry, towards the main street, whistling a tuneless melody, the picture of an early worker. Instantly, the shadows across the street stirred. One detached, following Ramón at a distance. The other remained, watchful, facing the alley.
Kara didn't hesitate. She ducked into the narrow passage beside the ceramics shop they'd used before. The heavy door was unlocked – Ramón's foresight. She slipped inside, the familiar smell of clay dust and damp stone enveloping her. Up the ladder to the loft in near darkness, her heart hammering against her ribs. The mattress was empty. No sign of Rosa.
Panic clawed at her throat. Had she run? Been taken? Kara scrambled back down, her injured arm protesting. The cellar. The tunnel Mateo had shown Rosa. *The rocks.*
She burst through the hidden door in the ceramics shop's back wall, emerging into Ramón's courtyard. The laundry van was gone. The courtyard was silent, the stone flags slick with dew. The heavy wooden door to the street alley stood closed, bolted from the inside. No sign of forced entry here.
Kara ran to the rear wall, to the thick bougainvillea cascading over it. She shoved aside the vines, revealing the low, dark opening Rosa had crawled through the night Lorenzo's men burned Mateo's hut. The tunnel. She dropped to her knees, peering into the damp, earthy blackness. "Rosa?" she hissed, her voice tight with fear. "Rosa, it's Kara! Are you there?"
Silence. Then, a faint, choked sob from deep within the tunnel.
Relief, sharp and dizzying, washed over Kara. "Come out! Quickly! It's safe!"
Rosa crawled out, covered in dirt, her face streaked with tears and grime, the brown poncho torn. She flung herself at Kara, trembling violently. "They came! After you called! They banged on the door! Shouting! It wasn't the pattern! I ran… through the tunnel… hid in the rocks…" She dissolved into sobs.
Kara held her tightly, scanning the courtyard walls, listening for pursuit. Ramón's diversion wouldn't last long. "Shh, it's okay. You did perfect. Smart girl. Brave girl." She pulled Rosa upright. "We need to move. Now. Can you run?"
Rosa nodded, wiping her face with a dirty sleeve, her eyes wide with residual terror but clear. Kara took her hand, leading her not back through the ceramics shop, but towards the alley door. She unbolted it slowly, peering out. The sentinel near the spice stall was gone, likely drawn after Ramón or the first man. The street was empty.
"Stay close. Stay low," Kara whispered. They slipped out, hugging the walls, moving swiftly away from the laundry, back towards the waiting Peugeot. They rounded a corner, the car in sight, when a figure stepped out of a doorway ahead, blocking their path.
Not Ramón. Not Lorenzo's man. A woman. Middle-aged, dressed in a simple, dark dress, her face pale and drawn, framed by a black lace mantilla. Consuela. The Kecents' housekeeper. The woman who had helped Kara dress for her father's funeral.
Kara froze, pulling Rosa behind her, her hand instinctively going to the revolver beneath her poncho. Consuela's eyes, red-rimmed and filled with a profound sadness, locked onto hers. "Kara… *mi niña*…" Her voice was a broken whisper.
"What are you doing here?" Kara demanded, her voice low and hard. Suspicion warred with a treacherous flicker of familiarity. "How did you find us?"
Consuela didn't flinch at the hostility. She took a hesitant step forward. "I… I have been searching. Since that night. I heard whispers… about the mountains… about Granada…" Her gaze flickered to Rosa, then back to Kara's bandaged arm, her eyes widening. "You're hurt."
"Stay back," Kara warned, the revolver halfway out of her waistband.
Consuela stopped, raising her hands, palms out. "I mean no harm, Kara. Please. I loved your mother. I loved you. Like my own." Tears welled in her eyes. "When they… when they killed Isabella… Abuela Rosa… I ran. Hid. But I couldn't leave you alone. Not to them." She looked around furtively. "It's not safe here. Lorenzo… he has men everywhere. He knows you're in the city. He's furious. Wounded, but furious."
"Why should I trust you?" Kara's voice was ice. Trust had gotten Mateo killed. Trust was a luxury she couldn't afford.
Consuela's shoulders slumped. "You shouldn't. Not after everything. But I have something." She reached slowly into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a small, worn leather notebook. Kara recognized it instantly. Her father's private journal. The one Kara had taken from his study the night of the attack. The one she thought lost during their flight. "You dropped this," Consuela whispered. "In the garden. The night… the night they came. I found it. Hid it." She held it out. "It has… things. Things Lorenzo would kill for. Things that might help you."
Kara stared at the journal. The ledger of her father's sins. The potential weapon against Lorenzo. Consuela could be a lifeline… or Lorenzo's most cunning trap. The debt screamed for leverage. Survival demanded caution.
Before Kara could react, the roar of an engine shattered the tense silence. A black SUV screeched around the corner, tires smoking on the cobbles. Ramón's Peugeot. He leaned out the window, face grim. "MOVE! NOW! THEY'RE COMING!"
Kara didn't hesitate. She snatched the journal from Consuela's hand, shoved it into her pocket, grabbed Rosa's arm, and sprinted for the Peugeot. Consuela cried out, "Kara, wait! There's more! The box! Isabella's box! Under the—"
The rest was lost as Kara yanked open the back door, shoved Rosa inside, and dove in after her. Ramón stamped on the accelerator before the door was fully closed, the Peugeot lurching forward. Kara scrambled upright, looking back through the rear window. Consuela stood alone in the street, her figure receding rapidly, one hand outstretched, her face a mask of despair. Behind her, two more dark sedans rounded the corner, accelerating fast.
"Hold on!" Ramón snarled, wrenching the wheel, sending the Peugeot fishtailing down a steep, narrow *carril*. Kara braced herself, shielding Rosa as they were thrown against the door. The engine screamed in protest. The pursuing sedans closed the gap, headlights glaring in the rearview mirror like predator's eyes.
"Where to?" Ramón barked, taking another sharp turn, the car scraping against the ancient stone walls.
Kara's mind raced. The hospital was out. The bolt-holes were compromised. The city was closing in. Consuela's desperate words echoed: *The box! Isabella's box! Under the—* Under the orange tree. The villa. Her father's villa in Seville. The panic box her mother had whispered about. Buried treasure in the heart of enemy territory. It was madness. It was the only card left.
"Seville," Kara said, her voice cutting through the chaos. "We go to Seville. To the villa."
Ramón shot her a disbelieving look in the rearview mirror. "The villa? Are you insane? It's Lorenzo's trophy! Guarded! Crawling with police forensics!"
"The box," Kara insisted, clutching Rosa tighter as the car swerved violently again. "My mother's emergency box. Buried in the garden. Consuela confirmed it. Money. Passports. Maybe… maybe something on Lorenzo. It's our only chance to get out. To get Dante out."
Ramón cursed, swerving to avoid a parked delivery van, the pursuing sedans mirroring his move dangerously close behind. A bullet starred the rear window. Rosa screamed.
"Fine!" Ramón roared. "But we need to lose these bastards first! Hang on!" He slammed the accelerator to the floor, the little Peugeot protesting as he plunged down a flight of steps barely wider than the car, sparks flying from the undercarriage. They burst out onto a wider road along the river. Ramón wrenched the wheel, heading for the highway on-ramp. The sedans followed, relentless.
The chase blurred into a nightmare of screeching tires, near misses, and the constant roar of engines. Ramón drove like a man possessed, using the Peugeot's small size to weave through traffic, taking insane risks. Kara held Rosa close, whispering reassurances she didn't feel, her eyes fixed on the pursuing headlights. The revolver was useless at this speed.
Somehow, through sheer nerve and a reckless disregard for traffic laws, Ramón gained a sliver of distance. He took a sudden, unexpected exit, plunging into the maze of industrial estates south of Granada. He killed the headlights, driving by moonlight and memory, navigating narrow service roads between silent warehouses. He pulled into a dark, cavernous loading bay beneath an abandoned factory and killed the engine.
Silence crashed down, broken only by their ragged breathing and the ticking of the cooling engine. Ramón slumped over the wheel, breathing hard. Kara peered out the back window. No headlights. No sirens. They'd lost them. For now.
Rosa was sobbing quietly. Kara stroked her hair. "It's okay. We're safe. For now."
Ramón turned in his seat, his face etched with exhaustion and tension. "Seville," he stated flatly. "Two hours. If we're lucky. If Lorenzo hasn't blocked the roads." He looked at Kara, his gaze piercing. "This box. It better be worth it, Kecent. Because walking into that villa is walking into the lion's mouth."
Kara met his gaze, the leather journal a heavy secret in her pocket, the image of Consuela's despairing face burned into her mind. The villa wasn't just a place; it was a graveyard of her old life, a monument to her father's legacy, and now, potentially, the key to her survival. Ghosts waited there – the ghosts of her family, the ghost of the girl she was. And Lorenzo's living shadow.
"It has to be," Kara said, her voice devoid of doubt. "It's the only move left." She looked down at Rosa, then out at the dark, industrial landscape. The road to Seville stretched before them, a path paved with danger and haunted by the past. The debt demanded its final payment. And Kara Kecent, armed with her father's secrets and her mother's hidden hope, would collect it where it all began. "Drive."