Chapter 9 - THE ABDUCTION
They reached the hospital in twelve minutes.
Teresa was gone.
A nurse had received a call claiming she was being transferred for specialized psychiatric observation.
Two men arrived in scrubs.
They had paperwork.
Signatures.
A hospital transport badge.
All fake.
“They knew her room number,” the nurse said.
Andrés looked at Salgado.
“Renata.”
Salgado shook his head.
“She was in the alley fifteen minutes ago.”
“She planned this earlier.”
Security footage showed the men rolling Teresa through a service entrance.
One wore a mask.
The other didn’t.
Andrés recognized him.
Not personally.
From an old fraud investigation.
César Valdés.
Son of the notary who had stamped Teresa’s forged documents.
The conspiracy was larger than Renata and Mateo.
Andrés called his former prosecutor’s-office colleague, Javier Castañeda.
“Remember Valdés?”
Javier groaned.
“Which criminal generation?”
“The son.”
“What did he do?”
“Kidnapped my mother.”
Silence.
Then Javier said, “Send me everything.”
Salgado raised an eyebrow.
“You still have friends there?”
“I have people who owe me favors.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“Tonight it is.”
Twenty minutes later, Javier called back.
“César owns two properties outside the city. One warehouse. One ranch house.”
“Which one?”
“No idea.”
“Phone?”
“Burner.”
“Vehicles?”
“Black Suburban registered to a shell company.”
Andrés looked at the security video.
Black Suburban.
“Plate?”
“Sending.”
The plate matched.
Salgado issued the alert.
Then Javier said, “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“R&M Consulting.”
The company awaiting Teresa’s 950,000-peso transfer.
“Yeah.”
“Registered owner is César Valdés.”
Andrés closed his eyes.
“Renata was paying him.”
“Looks like it.”
“For what?”
Javier hesitated.
“Maybe not just documents.”
“What do you mean?”
“I found a second transfer.”
“How much?”
“Three hundred thousand.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“From where?”
“Your account.”
Andrés went silent.
His personal savings.
Military salary.
Years of work.
Renata had accessed his account too.
“How?”
“She’s your spouse. Maybe she had credentials.”
“She didn’t.”
“Well, someone did.”
Salgado studied Andrés’s face.
“What?”
Andrés hung up.
“She stole from me too.”
Salgado cursed.
Then an officer shouted from the desk.
“Plate hit!”
The Suburban had passed a toll camera heading north.
Toward the ranch.
Andrés and Salgado drove in separate vehicles.
Forty minutes outside Zapopan, city lights vanished.
The road narrowed.
Dry fields.
Dark hills.
The ranch appeared behind a rusted gate.
No lights.
No vehicles.
Too quiet.
Police surrounded the property.
Andrés stayed behind the line.
Not because he wanted to.
Because Salgado threatened to arrest him if he didn’t.
Officers entered.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Then Salgado emerged.
“They’re gone.”
“And my mother?”
“No one.”
Inside, the place smelled of gasoline.
On the table were blank legal forms.
Sedatives.
A printer.
Fake identification cards.
And photographs.
Dozens.
Elderly men and women.
Properties.
Bank accounts.
Families.
This wasn’t one fraud.
It was an operation.
Andrés saw Teresa’s photograph pinned to a board.
Beside it:
PROPERTY VALUE: 8.7M MXN
ASSETS: 1.4M MXN
FAMILY OBSTACLE: SON — MILITARY
Under that was another note.
CONTINGENCY: DISCREDIT / REMOVE.
Andrés felt cold.
Remove.
He turned to Salgado.
Then someone outside shouted.
“FIRE!”
Flames erupted from the barn.
A vehicle engine roared behind the property.
Andrés ran outside.
Black Suburban.
It crashed through a wooden fence.
Salgado raised his weapon.
“STOP!”
The Suburban accelerated.
Andrés caught one glimpse through the rear window.
Teresa.
Alive.
Hands tied.
Beside her—
May you like
Renata.
And Renata was pointing a gun at Teresa’s head.
