CHAPTER 109: THE RAID
CHAPTER 109: THE RAID
San Avelino woke up in a shade of cubicle gray—the kind that warns you bureaucracy is out for blood. It wasn't even eight in the morning when the thunder of heavy boots against the marble lobby of The Urban Spectator reached us. We were in the newsroom, surrounded by dregs of cold coffee and the low hum of servers that, for the first time in years, felt like the center of a bullseye.
—They’ve got that "approved-budget" look —Marco muttered, adjusting his camera strap. His fingers were still stained with gunpowder from the docks, but his eyes were locked on the entrance. —They’re here to break doors.
Ramírez sat at his desk, impassive, lighting one of those cigars he only pulls out when he knows the building is about to collapse. He looked old, tired, but he possessed a spark of tactical malice that made him the best editor in this godforsaken city.
—Steady —Ramírez said, exhaling smoke with a lethargy that gave me the chills. —Let them in. There’s nothing left in this newsroom that hasn't already been blessed by the open air.
The glass doors didn't just open; they were invaded.
In they came: the "Judicial Tech Support" team—or whatever they’re calling the digital cleaners these days—escorted by a dozen uniformed officers. And at the center, wearing a concrete-colored blazer and that R-Δ pin glinting on her lapel like a cyclopean eye, was the Prosecutor. The same woman who had "secured" the incomplete evidence box back on the avenue.
—Raúl Ramírez. Valentina Ríos —the Prosecutor said, extending an envelope with a seal that smelled of fresh ink and "orders from above." —Search warrant and seizure of all digital material. Procedure regarding a security threat to the VENTO system.
I stepped forward. I couldn't feel my legs, but my tongue was primed for combat. I raised my phone, aiming the lens directly at her nose, and hit Go Live.
—Good morning, Prosecutor. You’re up early —I said with my best "I’m about to ruin your day" smile. —We’re live on three mirror servers and an international press network. Tell me, does the procedure include smashing the coffee machines, or are you just here to confiscate common sense?
The Prosecutor looked at me as if I were a grease stain on a clean file.
—Turn that camera off, Ríos. This is a sealed proceeding.
—There is no such thing as a "sealed" raid on a press outlet, unless you’re afraid the public might see what "transparency" actually looks like —I replied, panning the phone toward the technicians who were already yanking cables. —Go ahead. Check under the rugs if you like. But a fair warning: what you’re looking for doesn't live at this zip code anymore.
Ramírez stood up, walked over to the technicians, and gave a sympathetic pat on the shoulder to the one trying to force the central server rack.
—Don't break your backs, boys —Ramírez said with a calm that made me want to cheer. —It’s not here. The "Private Ledger," sub-act 27-C, and the ambulance logs are already in the hands of three federal prosecutors and a handful of newsrooms in Madrid and New York. What you’re taking today is just scrap metal and unpaid electric bills.
The Prosecutor went ash-white. Her lips thinned into a hard, bloodless line. She stepped into Ramírez’s personal space, her hand trembling with suppressed rage.
—You don't understand the gravity of this, Ramírez —she hissed, forgetting for a second that my lens was still tracking her. —You are obstructing a state investigation. You’re playing with the Belmonte name and the very stability of San Avelino.
—San Avelino’s stability is paved with the blood of laborers, Prosecutor —I cut in, stepping between her and my editor. —And the Belmonte name is only good for filling out arrest warrants these days.
She whipped around to face me. Her eyes were twin pits of institutional hatred. She forgot the protocol, she forgot the camera, she forgot that her R-Δ pin didn't make her immortal. She grabbed my arm, squeezing with a force that I knew would leave a bruise, and brought her face inches from mine.
—Listen close, kid —she whispered, and this time the audio caught every drop of her venom. —If that story breaks, there isn't a Moretti bunker in the world that can save you. We will bury you so deep that not even the VENTO system will find a trace of you. I’ll make your name the reason this rag shuts down forever. Delete that video now, or I swear you’re leaving here in cuffs and you’ll never see the light of day again.
I stayed perfectly still. I felt the pain in my arm, but I also felt the "click" of absolute victory.
—Is that an official death threat, or just a professional opinion, Prosecutor? —I asked, keeping my hand steady. —Because you just broadcast it to three continents. "Bury," "never see the light"... wow. I didn't realize the R-Δ protocol included Gothic poetry for illegal detentions.
She realized it too late. She dropped my arm as if it had turned white-hot and looked at the camera. Panic flickered across her face for a heartbeat before she forced the stone mask back on. But the damage was done.
—Seize everything! —she screamed, trying to drown out her mistake with noise. —Everything!
Ramírez looked at me and winked. The technicians began hauling out empty towers, but we had already won the morning. The head of the purge had just confessed her intentions on a live feed.
—Valentina —Marco whispered beside me, glancing at his own tablet. —The clip already has a hundred thousand views. "The Prosecutor’s Excess" is the number one headline.
I smiled, even though my hands were finally starting to shake. I watched the Prosecutor supervise the theft of our equipment with a helpless, impotent fury.
—Safe travels, Prosecutor —I said, adjusting my bag. —The raid was a resounding success. Too bad the only thing you’re taking with you is the proof of your own ruin.
The hook was set. We had the threat. We had the R-Δ system losing its mind in front of all San Avelino.
The city no longer just suspected the lie; they had just seen the monster’s teeth.