Before Arthur could pull the trigger, my uncle lunged forward with explosive speed, tackling Arthur around the waist. The gun went off—a deafening BANG that shattered the remaining glass in the office windows and sent a shower of plaster down on my head.
The two men crashed into the heavy metal desk, sending the photos and old papers flying into the air. The flashlight dropped to the floor, rolling wildly, casting chaotic, spinning shadows against the walls.
“Get out of here, Diego! Run!” Ramiro screamed, his hands locked around Arthur’s wrist, desperately trying to keep the barrel of the gun pointed away from them.
Arthur was fueled by a manic, desperate rage, punching Ramiro in the face with his free fist, drawing blood instantly. “I’ll kill you both! I’ll finish it tonight!” Arthur shrieked.
I was paralyzed for a split second, the yellow folder clutched to my chest like a shield. My mind screamed at me to help my uncle, but I was fifteen, terrified, and completely outmatched.
Another gunshot exploded.
The bullet struck a rusted pipe above my head, hissed, and a cloud of scalding steam began to fill the room. Through the blinding vapor, I saw my uncle look back at me one last time, his face smeared with blood, his eyes screaming a silent command: Live.
I turned and bolted out of the office.
I ran blindly through the pitch-black labyrinth of the abandoned factory, tears streaming down my face. Behind me, the sounds of scuffling, heavy thuds, and cursed roars echoed through the empty warehouse. I tripped over a rusted iron chain, slamming hard onto the concrete floor. The skin on my palms tore open, and the folder flew from my hands, sliding across the dusty floor.
Panicking, I scrambled on my knees, my hands sweeping through the dark until my fingers brushed against the cardboard. I pulled it back to my chest just as a terrifyingly familiar sound echoed from the direction of the office.
It was the sound of a heavy body hitting the floor.
And then, absolute silence.
No more shouting. No more wrestling. Just the hiss of the broken steam pipe.
I froze, hiding behind a massive, tarp-covered machine, holding my breath so hard my lungs burned. I strained my ears, praying to hear my uncle’s voice calling my name.
Step. Step. Step.
Someone was walking out of the office. The footsteps were slow, deliberate, and heading straight down the main aisle of the factory toward the exit—and toward where I was hiding.
