Chapter 2 - Blood and Seaweed
The beam shifted, carving out the silhouette of a man holding a heavy pump-action shotgun. Sofia rolled onto her side, shielding her belly with her forearm, her jaw clenched tight.
""If you're Julian's dog,"" Sofia rasped, her throat raw from brine, ""make it quick.""
The man lowered the weapon an inch. He was weathered, his skin like dried leather, wearing an oilskin deck coat. He stepped closer, peering at her ruined silk shirt, the faint outline of the parachute harness marks on her bruised shoulders, and her protruding belly.
""Julian Navarro doesn't drop his garbage this far south,"" the old man said gruffly. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder and extended a calloused, scarred hand. ""I am Mateo. Come. The tide will swallow this inlet within the hour.""
Sofia hesitated, but her legs gave out the moment she tried to rise. Mateo caught her under the arm, surprisingly strong for his age, half-carrying her up a narrow goat path cut into the cliffs. At the summit sat a dilapidated boathouse, invisible from the sea, tucked within a crevice of rock. Inside smelled of kerosene, dried cod, and old grease.
He set her on an army cot by an iron stove crackling with driftwood. Without a word, he tossed her a heavy wool blanket and poured a tin cup of boiled chicory water.
""You fell from the sky,"" Mateo said, cleaning a gutting knife at a crude wooden table. ""I heard the bird hover, then run. Who is he?""
""The father,"" Sofia replied, drinking the scalding liquid in short, desperate sips. ""And the man who just tried to murder his own child.""
Mateo glanced up, his one good eye gleaming with an ancient sorrow. ""Then you have three days before he realizes the ocean didn't do his dirty work. He owns the ports. He owns the police in Ensenada.""
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""I don't need the police,"" Sofia said, her eyes burning cold. ""I need a weapon, a satellite uplink, and a name.""
Mateo reached beneath the floorboards, pulling out a battered pelican case. He slid it across the table toward her. ""The name is Hector Salazar. But he thinks you died five years ago.""
