Chapter 7 - Flight from the Cathedral
The wail of my newborn son was the only pure sound in a room suffocated by betrayal.
I pressed him against my chest, shielding his tiny body beneath the heavy wool of my overcoat. Through the fabric, I could feel the erratic, frantic thump of his heart, harmonizing with my own. He was so light, so fragile, yet the weight of his survival felt like an entire galaxy resting in the crook of my arm.
Across the ancient stone aisle of the chapel, Teresa was coming apart at the seams. Her carefully sculpted facade of grieving, dignified matriarch had disintegrated into something feral.
"That bastard isn't legal!" she shrieked, her voice bouncing shrilly off the centuries-old stained glass. Spittle flew from her red lips as two federal marshals stepped between her and me, their sidearms holstered but their hands resting squarely on their belts. "He has no birth certificate! No registration! Rodrigo, tell them! Tell them Camila died childless!"
Rodrigo didn't answer. He couldn't. My brother-in-law remained crumpled on the stone floor, his forehead pressed against the freezing marble, weeping in ragged, shuddering gasps. The illusion of his power, bought with stolen signatures and forged medical charts, had vanished the moment Dr. Méndez carried my breathing child out of the shadows.
"Shut her up," Marco barked, not breaking his stride as he moved toward me. His trench coat billowed around his muscular frame, his eyes sweeping the vaulted shadows of the rafters. "Julián, we don't have time to savor the victory. Alvarez didn't leave through the main doors. He took the back vestry."
"Where does that lead?" I asked, my voice dangerously low.
"To the private catacombs beneath the rectory, which spill out onto the rear service alley," Marco said, pulling a Glock from his shoulder holster and checking the chamber with a sharp, metallic snap. "He's got private security waiting, and more importantly, he's got the ear of the provincial chief of police. If Alvarez gets to the municipal precinct before our federal escort reaches the perimeter, he will declare this entire raid an illegal overreach and impound that baby under protective custody."
A cold rage, sharper than any grief, sliced through my veins. "He won't touch my son."
"Then we move. Now."
Marco whistled sharply, signaling the tactical unit. Four heavily armed federal agents formed a tight diamond perimeter around Dr. Méndez, myself, and the child. As we turned our backs on Teresa's hysterical curses, I glanced one last time toward Camila’s open casket. The medical examiner’s team was already draping a black velvet shroud over her body, preparing her for transport to the federal forensic facility in the capital.
*Hold on, my love,* I thought, the memory of her stiff, frozen knuckles burned into my mind. *We're finishing what you started.*
We burst through the heavy oak doors of the cathedral into the blinding grey chill of the late afternoon. Rain was falling in thin, icy needles, slickening the stone steps. Across the courtyard, three black Chevy Suburbans sat idling, their exhaust pluming into the freezing air.
Suddenly, the crack of high-caliber gunfire shattered the courtyard.
The stone balustrade next to my shoulder exploded into a spray of jagged debris.
"Sniper! East bell tower!" one of the federal agents roared, instantly shoving me and the baby down toward the pavement.
I dropped hard onto my knees, curling my entire torso around my son, taking the impact on my elbows and back. The baby let out a terrified screech, buried against my ribs.
"Return fire! Suppress that tower!" Marco screamed, drawing his weapon and firing three rapid rounds toward the belfry above the rectory.
The courtyard turned into a war zone. Automatic rifle fire tore through the silence of the holy grounds, blowing out the windows of the parked funeral limousines. Shards of safety glass rained down on the cobblestones. In the chaos, I heard the throbbing roar of a heavy diesel engine approaching from the service alley.
An armored transport truck smashed through the iron perimeter gates, tires screeching on the wet stone. Through the tinted windshield, I caught a glimpse of Judge Alvarez in the passenger seat, his face pale and twisted with desperation, a burner phone pressed tightly to his ear.
"They aren't trying to kill you, Julián!" Marco yelled over the deafening cacophony of gunfire, grabbing my collar to haul me toward the nearest Suburban. "They’re trying to pin us down until the local swat team arrives! If local law enforcement boxes us in, Alvarez controls the narrative!"
"Get the door open!" I shouted back.
Agent Vance, the point man, lunged forward, throwing the reinforced door of the middle SUV open. A burst of rounds peppered the vehicle’s armor plating, creating dull, resonant thuds that sent vibrations rattling through the chassis. Vance took a round to his tactical vest, grunting as he staggered back, but managed to shove Dr. Méndez into the back seat.
I scrambled in right behind her, keeping my baby shielded under my coat. Marco dove into the front passenger seat as the driver slammed the vehicle into reverse, tires burning rubber against the wet stone before hurtling backward, spinning 180 degrees, and rocketing out through the shattered wrought-iron gates into the crowded city streets.
Behind us, the cathedral faded into a haze of smoke and flashing blue lights. My son was crying violently now, his lungs expanding with raw, terrified power.
"Check him," I pleaded, my hands trembling as I pulled back the fabric to expose his red, tear-streaked face to Dr. Méndez. "Check him, please. Did the fall hurt him?"
Dr. Méndez’s hands were remarkably steady despite the adrenaline pumping through the cabin. She quickly felt along his delicate skull, his tiny collarbones, his ribs, and his limbs.
"He's unharmed, Julián," she said softly, her breath trembling with emotion as she wrapped him in a fresh thermal blanket from her medical bag. "He's just frightened. He knows his father is holding him. Keep talking to him."
I looked down at the tiny miracle my wife had died to deliver. "You're safe, little man," I whispered, kissing his damp forehead, tasting the salt of his tears and the cold mountain air. "I swear to God, you're safe."
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From the front seat, Marco lowered his radio, his face grim in the rear-view mirror.
"We just intercepted provincial police chatter," Marco said, his voice laced with dread. "Alvarez has already called it in. He’s claiming federal impersonators assaulted a grieving family and kidnapped an infant from a private funeral. Every squad car within fifty miles is hunting this vehicle."
