Chapter 6 - THE TREMBLING HORIZON
Diego left two private security guards at the villa to protect his mother, then threw himself into his sedan, tearing down the winding mountain roads toward Guanajuato.
The night had fallen quickly, black and absolute, with only the sharp beams of his headlights cutting through the thick mountain fog.
His mind was a storm of legal strategies and survival instincts. He wasn't just a lawyer anymore; he was a man defending his family from a legacy of lies.
The tires shrieked as he took the sharp turns, the elevation rising rapidly as he climbed into the old mining district.
El Nido was a ghost town, an abandoned settlement from the nineteenth century where the earth had been hollowed out for silver.
He turned off his headlights a kilometer before the coordinates, rolling the car to a silent stop beneath a cluster of overgrown mesquite trees.
He pulled a heavy flashlight from the glove box and tucked his legal folder—filled with the real property deeds—under his arm. He stepped into the cold mountain air.
The silence was eerie, broken only by the distant, metallic groan of old machinery shifting in the wind.
He walked down a dirt path, guided by the faint, shimmering glow of portable work lights positioned near the entrance of a collapsed mine shaft.
Javier was waiting for him behind a rusted iron ore car, his face dark, a heavy tactical jacket keeping him warm.
“You shouldn't have come alone, Diego,” Javier whispered, pointing toward the mouth of the shaft. “There are three of them. Two hired muscle, and one guy who matches the description of Mateo.”
“They brought a plasma cutter. They’ve been working on the reinforced steel door inside for the last hour.”
Diego peered over the edge of the iron car.
Inside the mouth of the cave, standing in the harsh glare of a halogen work lamp, was a man who looked terrifyingly familiar.
He had Alejandro Mendoza’s tall, broad frame. He had the same sharp, angular jawline and the same dark, intense eyes.
But where Alejandro had been refined and elegant, this man was rugged, scarred, his sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, calloused forearms covered in dirt and grease.
Mateo Mendoza. The bastard son. The hidden first-born.
He was holding a heavy iron crowbar, watching the two hired men slice through a massive, rusted steel plate embedded directly into the solid rock face of the mine.
Sparks flew in every direction, illuminating the cave walls with brilliant, violent flashes of blue and white light.
“They’re almost through,” Javier murmured, his hand moving toward the holster beneath his jacket. “What’s the play, counselor? We call the federales?”
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“No,” Diego said, his voice turning ice-cold, his eyes locked onto his brother. “The federales will confiscate everything, and Brenda’s lawyers will tie this up in court for twenty years.”
“I’m going down there. Keep your eyes on the guards. If they move, you stop them.”
