BOUND BY SCARS AND BLOODLINES

Mateo was on his feet in an instant, extinguishing the kerosene lamp on the counter and pulling Clara down behind the thick brick structure of the woodstove. The cabin plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the faint red glow of the emergency diode.

""Stay down and don't make a sound,"" Mateo whispered, chambering a round into his spare rifle—a compact submachine gun retrieved from the floorboards.

Outside, the crunch of heavy boots on pine needles was slow, deliberate. A single shadow crossed the frosted glass of the front window.

""Mateo! Don't shoot, kid! It's Marcus!"" a gruff, aging voice called out from the darkness of the porch.

Mateo kept his weapon raised, his thumb resting on the fire selector. ""Step into the doorway with your hands above your head, Marcus! Slowly!""

The wooden door swung open, and an elderly man in a damp trench coat stepped over the threshold, his silver hair plastered to his forehead by the rain. His hands were held high, his weather-beaten face etched with exhaustion and guilt.

Mateo stepped out from the shadows, the muzzle of his rifle aimed dead center at Marcus's chest. ""Give me one reason why I shouldn't put a bullet through your forehead right now.""

Marcus gave a heavy, remorseful sigh, slowly lowering his hands to show they were empty. ""Because if I wanted you dead, Cruz, I would have brought an airstrike, not a bottle of bourbon."" He pulled a flask from his pocket and tossed it onto the sofa. ""Montoya didn't learn about you from me. He didn't have to.""

""Then who sold me out?"" Mateo demanded, his voice dangerously low.

Marcus looked past Mateo, his eyes resting on Clara, who was peeking out from behind the brick chimney, clutching the blanket around her shoulders.

""Nobody sold you out, Mateo,"" Marcus said softly, his voice trembling with an emotion Mateo had never heard from the hardened veteran. ""Montoya didn't find you through a rat. He found you through a routine DNA match in the national missing persons registry.""