Chapter 108: The Handler

They walked back toward the car as dawn bled gold across the highlands. Maritza was almost to the gate when her phone vibrated once in her pocket. Unknown number. A single image loaded slowly.

A grainy security still: the hacienda courtyard at night. In the foreground, Isabella stood beneath the mesquite tree, speaking to a figure in a dark hood. The timestamp was less than two hours old.

Below the photo, three words: Trust no one. —E

Maritza stopped dead. Cole leaned over her shoulder and cursed softly. Because the hooded figure’s hand rested familiarly on Isabella’s arm—and the sleeve bore the unmistakable insignia of the old Agency: a serpent coiled around an agave plant. The same crest that had sealed Elena’s first letter

The drive back to the hacienda was silent, the dawn light turning the agave fields into a sea of molten gold. Maritza clutched her phone like it might explode. The image burned behind her eyes: Isabella—her fierce, elegant mother—standing in the courtyard at 3:17 a.m., deep in conversation with a hooded figure wearing the Agency’s serpent-and-agave crest.

Cole’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Diego rode in the back, scanning the mirrors for tails that weren’t there. No one spoke until the hacienda gates came into view.

“Straight to Isabella,” Cole said quietly. “No family meeting. No announcements. We confront her alone.”

Maritza nodded, throat tight. Trust no one. Elena’s warning felt like ice in her veins.

They found Isabella in the kitchen, already dressed in linen slacks and a silk blouse, pouring coffee as if the world hadn’t tilted overnight. Her face lit when she saw Maritza—then faltered at the expressions on their faces.

“Mija? What happened at the monastery?”

Maritza didn’t answer. She held up the phone.

Isabella’s hand froze mid-pour. Coffee splashed onto the counter. Her eyes locked on the image, and every drop of color drained from her face.

“That’s not—” she started, then stopped. Her shoulders sagged. “We should sit.”

They moved to the small breakfast nook. Isabella set her cup down untouched.

“Explain,” Cole said, voice flat.

Isabella folded her hands like she was steadying herself for confession. “His name is Mateo Reyes. He was David Kamal’s partner—Elena’s father. He approached me six months ago, claiming he had proof Elena was alive. He said the Agency still had her under leverage and that the only way to free her was cooperation.”

Maritza’s stomach twisted. “Cooperation meaning what?”

“Information,” Isabella said softly. “Small things at first—shipment schedules, security rotations. Then the recipe. He promised that once they had a viable duplicate from the Nevada plant, they’d release Elena and disappear.”

Cole leaned forward. “You fed them intel that nearly got your granddaughter killed. Multiple times.”

Isabella’s eyes filled. “I thought I was saving her. Elena. My… my niece. The child Soledad lost. I couldn’t bear another de León raised in shadows.”

Maritza stood abruptly, chair scraping. “You didn’t trust us to handle it. You went behind our backs. People could have died.”

“I know,” Isabella whispered. “I know.”

Cole’s voice was lethal quiet. “Where is Mateo now?”

Isabella hesitated. “He’s coming here. Today. He wants confirmation that Elena is… neutralized. Or he’ll activate a failsafe.”

“What failsafe?” Maritza demanded.

Isabella reached into her pocket and laid a small black device on the table—a remote detonator, identical to the one Elena had used on the Montoya estate.

“There are charges in the main horno,” she said, voice breaking. “The brick oven where we cook the agave hearts. If he doesn’t get my call by noon, it goes up. The fire will spread to the aging cellars. Everything burns.”

Cole stared at her like he didn’t recognize the woman in front of him.

Maritza felt the floor tilt. “You let him plant bombs. In our home.”

“I thought I could control it,” Isabella said. “I thought—”

The courtyard doors burst open. Rafael stormed in, face thunderous, Freya and Diego behind him.

“We just pulled the security footage,” Rafael growled. “Every night for months. You meeting that hooded bastard. Feeding him our lives.”

Isabella stood, tears spilling now. “Rafael, please—”

“No.” His voice cracked like a whip. “You betrayed this family.”

Maritza stepped between them. “We don’t have time for this. Mateo is coming here. We turn the tables.”

Cole was already moving, mind racing. “We let him in. We play along. Get him talking. Record everything. Then we take him.”

Freya nodded, fingers flying over her tablet. “I’ll wire the sala. Hidden cameras, mics. We’ll have proof.”

Isabella reached for Maritza’s hand. “Forgive me. Please.”

Maritza pulled away. The hurt was too raw. “Later. Right now, you’re going to help us end this.”

They spent the next hours preparing. The family was kept out—told only that a security drill was in progress. Diego positioned snipers in the upper balconies. Cole and Rafael checked weapons. Freya turned the sala into a perfect trap.

At 11:42 a.m., a black SUV rolled through the gates. One man stepped out—tall, silver at the temples, wearing an expensive suit. Mateo Reyes. He carried no visible weapon, only confidence.

Isabella met him at the door, voice steady. “We’re alone, as requested.”

Mateo smiled, charming and cold. “Good girl.”

They moved to the sala. Maritza and Cole watched from the hidden observation room, hearts pounding.

Mateo sat, crossing his legs. “Elena?”

“She’s… considering options,” Isabella said. “But the recipe is secure. The girl won’t give it up.”

Mateo’s smile thinned. “Unfortunate. Then we proceed to Plan B.”

He reached into his jacket.

Cole tensed, hand on his pistol.

But Mateo pulled out only a photograph. He laid it on the coffee table.

Maritza’s blood froze.

The ultrasound was recent and clear. The baby girl's profile is perfect, with a tiny hand near her mouth.

Below it, in red ink: Contingency Subject K-2. Due date: March 15.

Mateo looked straight into the hidden camera—as if he knew exactly where it was.

“Tell Maritza,” he said pleasantly, “that if the recipe isn’t delivered by the end of the week, we take the next de León heir the old-fashioned way. Straight from the womb.”

He stood, smoothing his suit.

“Oh, and Isabella? Next time you try to play both sides, remember—we trained you better than that.”