A bead of sweat ran down the neck of one of the six captives sitting on the back of the Guardia Nacional pickup, their hands and feet secured by zip ties. All had heads bowed, defeat etched into their slumped shoulders.

Claire passed them and entered the house where she had hoped to find Roger. Commander Adkins and Fiscal González led the way.

The harsh, acrid smell from the aftermath of an explosion hung in the air.

A heavy metal door lay tattered from the efforts of the security forces to enter the domicile. Like a macabre connect-the-dots puzzle, the cinder block perimeter fence was riddled with bullet holes.

Inside, the house was strewn with debris, and all its contents were searched for clues. Claire was led through the home to the master bedroom's bathroom. Broken furniture and tattered doors marked the way.

"This is how they escaped," Armando reported in heavily accented English.

She squatted, inspecting the three-foot hole underneath the bathtub. A metal ladder leading down was lost in the darkness of the cavity.

"You followed the tunnel?" Claire asked, frustrated.

"The tunnel leads to a house three blocks away. It's also being searched but was empty when we arrived." The distant sound of commotion from the street punctuated Armando's brief report.

Claire's frustration grew; each word from Armando felt like pulling teeth.

"What about this place? Any clues?" Claire's sharp gaze demanded more, her impatience thinly veiled.

"There is very little as far as documents. Mostly garbage from the people staying here."

"And the people?" she said, sighing, resigning herself to the useless exercise.

The muffled scream of a person disrupted their conversation.

"We will question them," González smiled.

"I need to know where they were being taken. I need to know who's behind this. There's a sizeable reward for the information!" she reminded, dangling the carrot of incentive.

"Esta tarde hablaré con el presidente. Espero me tenga respuestas rapidas, Fiscal González," she asserted in perfect Spanish, hinting at the pressure she could leverage.

"UIF traced this property through some shell companies to a research institute in Chiapas," he quickly answered.

"You should have given us that information when we arrived," Commander Adkins interjected.

González nodded, somewhat taken aback by their intensity. "The property traces back to a research institute in Chiapas—Fundación Yaxche. Established in 1971 by Dr. Elena Márquez and Flavio Catzín," he disclosed, handing her a tablet displaying a faded certificate.

Roger's grandfather?

A second image showed a young woman flanked by two men in what looked like a groundbreaking ceremony.

A surge of shock washed over her. The tablet slipped out of her hands. She went pale and almost lost her balance. Her thoughts raced. Information in the files that hadn't made sense became clear. Deep apprehension gripped her heart. Oh, God. How am I going to fix this?

The man on the right looked exactly like Roger, but that wasn't what had shocked her. The man on the left was a young Chester Williams—her grandfather. What had Gramps done to Roger's family?

Roger lay flat atop the trailer, barely daring to breathe as it approached the border checkpoint. He kept low, using the trailer's curvature for cover. His movements were calculated and silent, evading the guards' flashlights that occasionally swept over his makeshift hideout like a hawk scouting for prey.

The checkpoint buzzed with activity—idling engines and sporadic shouts punctuating the night. Despite the chaos, the trailer slipped through without a hitch, carrying Roger into the night. Relief washed over him as they cleared the last hurdle of official scrutiny.

As he held on to the top of the trailer, he fretted about his future. How quickly life changes. How will I return to school? I should have stayed out of this mess. I should have just slept in the park till I got on my feet. I should have kept my distance from that dangerous woman.

As twilight descended, the truck veered off onto a secluded road and gradually came to a stop. Roger waited for the hum of the engine to die down before he made his move. Dropping to the ground, he melded into the shadows, his senses heightened as he watched the trailer's doors swing open.

A group of weary, disoriented people—men, women, and children with distinctly Mayan features—were herded out into the dim light. Roger's heart clenched at the sight, his initial plan to track the operation's endpoint now tangled with a fierce urge to intervene.

Moments later, a sleek Maybach pulled up, and a woman with auburn hair tinted with streaks of silver emerged. She clutched a tablet, Claire's image visible on its surface.

Her sharp command cut through the air: "No le permitan llegar a la fundación!" Her focus was clear—stop Claire at all costs.

Roger's decision was instantaneous. Claire was in danger, and these people needed him now. He couldn't wait any longer. Dropping fully to the ground, he circumnavigated the crowd, drawing closer to the Maybach under the cloak of dusk.

Channeling his Ch'ulel, he whispered an invocation for strength, "B'alam K'at," and prepared to disrupt the operation before it could move further.

The road to Chiapas wound through lush greenery, a stark contrast to the tranquil silence inside the SUV. Claire sat rigidly in the back seat, her gaze fixed on the horizon through tinted windows. Commander Adkins, seated beside her, scrutinized maps and communications on his tablet, his expression etched with concern.

She mused, remembering the first day they met. How quickly life changes. She could have been more forward. She could have let him know how she truly felt...

Suddenly, the serenity shattered. The first gunshot thudded against the armored side of the SUV, quickly followed by a rapid succession of fire. Claire flinched, her heart racing as the reality of an ambush sank in.

"Contact, right side!" Commander Adkins barked, leaning forward to instruct the driver. "Evade! Evade!"

The SUV lurched dramatically, swerving around debris and skidding back onto the asphalt. Shadowy figures emerged from the treeline, moving with precise, coordinated strides.

Their Mexican escort responded, the fifty-caliber machine guns booming as they hammered the attackers' positions on the hillside.

Adkins shifted to the window, his hand steady as he returned fire. "We're dealing with professionals. Stay down!" he ordered, casting a quick glance at Claire to ensure she complied.

Claire ducked lower, her mind racing. This wasn't a random act of violence; it was a calculated strike to prevent her from reaching the Foundation. Determination surged through her fear—she needed answers about Roger, and she knew these attackers were linked to his disappearance.

The team's tactician, seated in the passenger seat, coordinated with local forces, his voice urgent over the comms. "RPG incoming! Brace yourselves!"

The SUV's armored body vibrated as it absorbed the impact of incoming fire, debris clattering against the metal. Claire clutched the leather seat, her knuckles white.

"Make for the rendezvous point! We'll have air support there," Adkins commanded, then turned to Claire. "We're going to get you out of this, Mrs. Williams. Stay with us."

Claire nodded, pulling herself together. "What do you need from me?" she asked, her voice steady despite the chaos.

"Just keep your head down and be ready to move on my command," Adkins replied, his focus riveted on the road ahead.

The SUV screeched to a halt. Ahead, massive fallen trees blocked the road—deliberately placed. They were trapped in a killing box.