Bang!

  Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

  That morning, at 05:17, I woke up.

  But it wasn’t only the sound of gunfire that woke me.

  It was the change in air pressure. A wrong kind of silence. The birds in the garden—normally chirping before dawn—were completely silent.

  Then came the first human sound: a scream cut short, followed by the broken hiss of a radio from the guard post beneath my window. The sound was muffled by bulletproof glass, but its tone was unmistakable—suppressed panic.

  My body moved before my mind caught up.

  Rolling out of bed, grabbing the pants and sweater hanging on the chair.

  My movements weren’t panicked, but measured, efficient. As if my muscles remembered something they shouldn’t remember—automatically waking in a state of readiness, a sharp inhale before entering a danger zone.

  No. That was before. This is now.

  But the body doesn’t care. The body only reacts. I felt my heart pounding, but it was a steady pounding, like a machine just switched on.

  In my head, a flat voice—not my current voice, but an echo from another memory, another time—issued commands: Assess. Move. Breathe.

  In the hallway, I collided with Isabella, already out of her room, her face pale. She was carrying the small cloth bag she always kept under her bed—water, bandages.

  She had woken faster than me (as usual), but this time out of pure fear from the chaos outside.

  I had a different kind of fear—a fear I had carried since long ago, like an old jacket that still fit but smelled unfamiliar.

  “Eleanor,” she whispered.

  “Mother,” I replied.

  We split without further words.

  She went to Eleanor’s room.

  I went to Mother’s.

  Mother was already standing in front of her window, the curtain pulled slightly aside. Her face looked like a statue in the gray dawn light.

  “They’re breaching the eastern gate,” she said without turning around.

  “Not a frontal assault. Infiltration.”

  “Who? Mendez?”

  “No.” Mother turned her head. “Their uniforms… aren’t palace troops. And they’re moving… sloppily.”

  Rebels.

  Javier.

  The logic was brutal in its simplicity.

  Mendez locked down the city. Javier needed a decisive blow—one with wide impact.

  Storming the palace—the former symbol of the old regime, now the symbol of the new one—was irresistible propaganda.

  And inside it, there was us. The family of a leader. Symbolic.

  Perfect hostages.

  Or perfect martyrs.

  “Safe room,” I said.

  Mother nodded. But before we could move, another sound came—closer, inside our wing of the palace.

  BOOM!

  Not gunfire.

  Impact.

  The sound of a steel door being forced open. Shouted commands distorted by helmets.

  They were already inside.

  “Too late,” Mother muttered. Her eyes scanned the room, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. A flower vase. A pen on the desk. A decorative mirror.

  My mind worked fast. If they were already inside, heading to the underground safe room would be like rats entering a trap. One exit. They’d only need to wait.

  We needed room to maneuver.

  “The small library,” I said quietly. “Double doors. One high window. Can be locked from the inside.”

  Mother looked at me, then nodded again. In situations like this, any decision was better than paralysis.

  ***

  We met Isabella and Eleanor in the corridor. Eleanor was half-asleep and terrified by the explosions, clutching her stuffed rabbit. Isabella held her hand tightly.

  “Where?” Isabella asked.

  “Library. Fast walk. Don’t run.”

  Running draws attention. Walking quickly, with purpose, looks like someone doing their job—maybe a servant, maybe staff. In chaos, you can disguise yourself as something unimportant.

  The palace corridors felt like a foreign labyrinth. Red emergency lights glowed, casting long, swaying shadows. Sounds grew clearer—sporadic gunfire, shouting, boots pounding on marble.

  We turned a corner, and there they were.

  Two men in dark green and brown uniforms, not the government’s blue-gray military. One carried a long rifle, the other a pistol, opening doors one by one. Their faces were covered.

  They saw us.

  Time seemed to slow.

  Don’t stare. Don’t show challenge. Lower your head slightly—but not too much. Too much fear invites predation.

  The thoughts came automatically.

  I looked at the man with the pistol—young eyes, wide, full of adrenaline. He didn’t raise his weapon. He was surprised. He’d expected soldiers, guards, maybe Mendez himself. Not a woman with a cold expression, a teenage girl, a little girl, and a boy.

  “Stop!” he shouted, his voice hoarse.

  We stopped. I stepped slightly in front of Eleanor—not a heroic shield, just a simple visual barrier.

  “We are the Guerrero family,” Mother said, her voice clear and calm, as if introducing herself at a dinner party. “We’re heading somewhere safer.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. I could see him thinking—hostages. High value. But also baggage.

  “Come with us,” he ordered, gesturing with the pistol. “Don’t make a sound.”

  Then, from the adjacent corridor, came the sound of disciplined, rapid bootsteps. Many of them. Blue-gray uniforms.

  Mendez’s troops.

  The rebel cursed. “In here!” he hissed, shoving us into the next room—a linen storage room, packed with shelves and stacks of towels.

  He and his partner followed, shutting the door. Only a thin line of light seeped from beneath it. We were squeezed between shelves, the smell of camphor and clean cloth filling the air.

  Outside, Mendez’s troops passed.

  “Clear!”

  “Next corridor!”

  We stayed silent. In the darkness, I could hear Eleanor’s fast breathing, close to sobbing. Isabella covered her mouth with a trembling hand.

  My own breathing felt shallow. Old instincts took over. I focused on details—the pattern of shadows on the floor, footsteps fading away, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

  One of the rebels—the one with the rifle—whispered into his radio.

  “Alpha, we have a package. East wing, storage room. Awaiting orders.”

  The reply hissed back.

  “Hold. Don’t move. Main defense collapsed. We’re pulling back to the rally point.”

  Pulling back.

  They were overwhelmed. Their attack was a symbolic suicide strike, and now they were cornered. And we were here, with them.

  The rebel with the pistol—the young one—looked at us in the dark. His eyes gleamed.

  “You’re our ticket out,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

  Ticket.

  Meaning human shields or bargaining chips.

  This was bad.

  Mendez’s troops would clear every room. When they found this one, there would be a firefight. And in a confined space, bullets don’t care who’s right and who’s wrong.

  We had to get out. But how?

  Two armed men. Us, unarmed. The only exit guarded.

  Unless…

  My eyes adjusted to the darkness. Tall linen shelves, floor to ceiling. At the far end, a small ventilation duct for airflow. Too small for an adult. But for an eleven-year-old?

  My mind jumped to memory—a palace layout I’d once seen. This storage room bordered a service corridor along the outer wall. Across that corridor was a door to the garden and a small kitchen, then the perimeter wall.

  If I could reach the vent, get inside, drop into the service corridor, I might get out. Get help. Or at least draw Mendez’s troops here, giving Mother and the others a chance.

  A terrible plan. A very terrible plan.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  But better than waiting for a stray bullet.

  I caught Mother’s gaze. I nodded almost imperceptibly toward the vent. Her eyes widened, then she shook her head slightly. She understood—and refused.

  I nodded again, firmer.

  Trust me.

  Because I had… experienced something like this before. Not exactly this situation. Just fragments—running through different corridors, in a different uniform, a firearm in hand. The same fear, under a different name.

  Then I looked at the shelf beside me. Stacks of towels and sheets. And on the floor, a small bucket and mop—probably left by cleaning staff.

  An idea surfaced. Ridiculous. But maybe the only one.

  I bent down slowly, picked up the bucket. It was half-filled with soapy water. I plunged my hand in, feeling the cold.

  Then, very slowly, I nudged the bucket away from us with my foot, toward the opposite shelf.

  The water sloshed softly. But in the tense silence, it sounded like thunder.

  The rifleman snapped his head around. “What was that?”

  The young rebel raised his pistol. “Who’s there? Move!”

  I didn’t move. But my foot gave the bucket one last push. It bumped into the shelf with a dull thunk.

  “Rats,” Isabella suddenly whispered, her voice trembling but convincing enough. “Maybe big rats.”

  The young rebel grumbled. “Just shoot it.”

  “Don’t waste ammo,” the other said. “I’ll check.”

  The rifleman moved slowly toward the sound, his weapon angled down. His back turned to the vent.

  This was my chance.

  I slid sideways, slipping behind a stack of sheets near the vent. My movement was smooth, using shadows and their distracted attention. Lateral movement, not straight. Don’t draw attention with speed.

  The vent was covered by a metal grate secured with screws. I tested it with my fingers. Not too strong. But I needed a tool.

  My eyes caught a safety pin attached to the sheet—large, used to mark linens needing repair.

  I pulled it free and began loosening the screws with its sharp tip. Small hands were lucky—the screws were loose, probably unchecked for years.

  One.

  Two.

  The grate started to wobble.

  “There’s nothing,” the rifleman muttered, returning. “Empty bucket.”

  He sighed irritably, then scanned the room again.

  “Where’s the boy?”

  My heart stopped.

  I felt—rather than saw—their gazes sweep the room. Three screws removed. One left.

  “I’m here,” I said from behind the sheets, forcing my voice small and frightened. “I’m scared.”

  My voice bought time. But now they were looking at me.

  The last screw came free. I pulled the grate loose; it made a faint screech.

  “Hey!” the young rebel shouted.

  I didn’t look back. I crawled into the vent. Dark. Tight. Smelling of dust and metal. I pulled myself in, feeling sharp metal snag my pants.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Gunshots.

  Not at me. At the ceiling—a warning. The sound in the enclosed space was like thunder in a tin can.

  Eleanor screamed.

  Don’t stop. Move. Don’t care about the noise.

  That wasn’t my thought. It was instinct—muscle memory of survival in extreme situations. A body that once, in another life, had heard the same sound from much closer.

  I felt my shoulder twitch, anticipating an impact that never came.

  I crawled deeper. The duct ran horizontally, then sloped downward. I let gravity pull me, sliding through the dark metal tunnel, my clothes catching, skin scraping.

  With a crash and a thud, I fell out of the duct’s end, landing on a pile of grain sacks—or something similar—in a quiet service corridor.

  Pain.

  I stood, dizzy. The corridor was long and low, lit by emergency lights. At one end, the sounds of battle. At the other, silence.

  I had to choose.

  Go back to Mendez’s troops and lead them to the storage room? They might shoot first.

  Or go the other way, find an exit, find help outside?

  My choice was cut short by footsteps at the far end of the corridor. Not heavy boots. Light, fast steps.

  Someone appeared around the corner.

  A servant’s uniform.

  Mother Rosa.

  Her usually stone-carved face was pale. In her hand wasn’t a tray, but a long iron rod—perhaps a curtain hook.

  She saw me, eyes widening. “Young Master! Here!”

  I ran to her. “Mother. Isabella. Eleanor. Linen room, east wing. With two rebels. They’re hostages.”

  Her face tightened. She didn’t waste time on questions.

  “Mendez’s troops have secured the east wing. But they’re shooting anything that moves. We need… a mediator.”

  “A mediator who?”

  “Someone they won’t shoot.”

  Then we heard it. Heavy bootsteps approaching from the direction I came from. Many of them. And calm, cold orders.

  Mendez. Or one of his officers.

  Mother Rosa pulled me into a small door, into a cramped room full of electrical panels. She closed the door, leaving a small crack to peek through.

  Mendez’s troops passed—six men, fully armed, moving with perfect discipline. At the front, an officer with a cold face I didn’t recognize.

  They were heading to the east wing. To the linen room.

  “We have to get ahead of them,” I whispered. “Or warn them.”

  “Warning them means condemning Madam and the children,” Mother Rosa whispered. “They’ll storm in. They won’t care who’s inside.”

  She was right.

  Mendez wanted the rebels dead. Hostages were acceptable losses—especially hostages from a former leader’s family he didn’t want around.

  Even if it was risky, he might do exactly that.

  We needed something to change that calculation.

  My mind spun.

  What did Mendez want? Control. Cleansing. But also… legitimacy. And for that, he needed a narrative.

  The Guerrero family dying as martyrs at rebel hands was a good story.

  But the Guerrero family surviving because of him? Even better. He become hero and de facto ruler.

  “We need Mendez himself there,” I said. My voice sounded insane even to me.

  Mother Rosa stared at me. “How?”

  “We give him a stage. Show him he can save us. But we make sure he can’t just attack.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “We send a message. Not a plea for help. An offer.”

  I looked around the panel room. There was a small internal radio on the wall—probably for technicians. A different frequency.

  “What are you doing?” Mother Rosa asked as I grabbed it.

  “I’m contacting command. But not as Mateo. As… one of the rebels.”

  She understood. Her sharp eyes gleamed. She nodded, then stood by the door, listening.

  I turned on the radio, adjusted the dial. Some frequencies were crowded—position reports, calls for backup. I searched for something quieter, maybe command.

  Then I heard his voice.

  Mendez.

  Cold. Controlled.

  “…clear remaining elements in the west wing. No captures. Neutralize.”

  I inhaled deeply, pressed the transmit button, and spoke in a voice I tried to make deeper, strained.

  “Command, command, this is unit in the east wing. We have the Guerrero family. Held by rebels. They’re threatening to… execute them if there’s an assault. They want to negotiate. Only with Mendez. Repeat, only with Mendez. They say… they have an offer. An exchange.”

  I released the button. My heart hammered.

  I wasn’t sure it would fool them. It sounded like a trap. But a plausible one for cornered rebels.

  A long pause.

  Then Mendez’s voice again, flat.

  “Identify unit. Code.”

  I pressed the button again.

  “No time for codes! They’ll kill one in two minutes! Linen room, east wing! Only Mendez!” I cut the radio.

  “That’s extremely risky,” Mother Rosa whispered. “He might not come. Or he might send a kill squad.”

  “But he’s ambitious and egotistical. He wants to be seen as the problem-solver. Better than Father. This is his chance.”

  I hoped my analysis was right. This was a bet on the psychology of a man I barely knew.

  ***

  We waited.

  In the distance, gunfire faded. The battle was over. Mendez had won.

  Then, from the far end of the corridor, came a different set of footsteps. Not many. Just a few pairs of boots. And calm, authoritative commands.

  Mendez.

  He passed the crack in our door. His face looked just like on TV—firm, controlled. Behind him, only two personal guards. Confident. Or pretending to be.

  They headed to the east wing.

  “Mother Rosa,” I whispered. “Do you know a shortcut to the linen room? From another direction?”

  She nodded. “Through the old kitchen. But—”

  “Take me there. Now.”

  We left the panel room and ran through narrower corridors. Mother Rosa knew the palace like the back of her hand—turns, down steep stairs, past a hot boiler room.

  My mind raced. What would I do when we arrived? I had no weapon. No solid plan. Only one goal: be there. Be a witness. Be an unexpected variable.

  We reached a heavy wooden door.

  “This is the storage next to the linen room,” Mother Rosa whispered. “Thin wall. We can hear.”

  She opened it carefully. We entered a dark room filled with old garden tools. Through the wall, voices carried.

  Mendez’s voice, cold and clear.

  “…so what’s your offer?”

  The young rebel’s voice, tense, full of hatred.

  “We release them. You give us safe passage out. With a vehicle.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  “Because if you don’t, we kill them. Starting with the smallest one.”

  My stomach churned.

  Eleanor.

  “You can do that,” Mendez said calmly. “And then you’ll die. And history will record you as child killers. While I… become the man who avenged them. Easy choice, isn’t it?”

  He was playing cold.

  Now he didn’t care about our lives. Only the narrative. Whether we lived or died, he won.

  I had to change the game.

  I scanned the storage room. A small high window with bars. But near the ceiling, an access panel for pipes—leading into the adjacent room.

  “Help me,” I whispered to Mother Rosa.

  She understood, clasped her hands. I stepped on them, she lifted me. I reached the panel and pushed. Unlocked.

  I opened it and crawled inside. A narrow space above the ceiling, filled with dust and cables.

  I crawled toward the voices.

  Through a gap in the boards, I could see part of the linen room below.

  Mother stood near the shelves, shielding Isabella and Eleanor behind her. Pale, but her expression was marble.

  The two rebels faced the door, where Mendez and his two guards stood. Weapons raised. No one firing. A fragile stalemate.

  Mendez looked at Mother.

  “Mrs. Guerrero. Apologies for the inconvenience.”

  “Colonel,” Mother replied flatly. “Are you here to rescue us, or to observe?”

  “To resolve this.” Mendez looked at the rebels. “Your time is up. Lay down your weapons. The family lives. That’s the only offer.”

  “Hey!” the young rebel shouted. “You think we’re stupid? We drop our guns, we die!”

  “You’ll die faster if you shoot,” Mendez said, like a teacher losing patience. “Choose.”

  Tension climbed. Fingers tightened on triggers. I saw Mendez’s guard’s eyes—focused, ready. They were waiting for the signal. The rebels trembled, sweat soaking their masks.

  They were going to shoot. And when they did, everything would end.

  I had no weapon. No strength in this child’s body. All I had was the fact that above the ceiling, there was me. And sometimes, uncertainty is a weapon.

  Distraction. We needed a distraction.

  I grabbed a handful of dust and debris from the ceiling and dropped it through the gap, right between the two groups.

  Dust rained down like fine gray ash in the emergency light.

  Everyone flinched. They looked up.

  “There’s someone above!” one guard shouted.

  At that moment—when their attention snapped upward—I screamed.

  Not words.

  A long, raw scream, echoing everywhere in the enclosed room.

  “AAAAAA—!”

  It was unexpected. Primitive. Disruptive. It shattered the measured rhythm of the standoff.

  And in that split second, Mother moved.

  She didn’t attack. She didn’t run. She did something smarter: she pulled Isabella and Eleanor down and dropped behind the heavy linen racks, out of the line of fire.

  The rebels, confused, aimed their weapons at the ceiling, then back at Mendez. Their focus was broken.

  Mendez, however, didn’t lose control. His eyes flicked, just for a fraction of a second, to the ceiling gap.

  He saw me. Eye contact. In his eyes, there was a flash—not anger, but rapid recalculation. A new variable.

  “Get whoever’s up there,” he ordered one guard. Then to the rebels: “Last chance. Drop your weapons.”

  But momentum had shifted.

  The younger rebel saw Mother and the others hiding, saw the chaos, saw his hostage plan collapsing.

  He panicked.

  And panicked people make bad decisions.

  He swung his pistol away from Mendez… and toward the rack where my family hid.

  “We die together!” he screamed.

  It was his last mistake.

  Before his finger touched the trigger, two things happened almost simultaneously.

  First, the storage room door beside me—the one where Mother Rosa had been hiding—burst open.

  Mother Rosa walked in. Not running. Walking steadily. In her hand was not the iron rod anymore, but a small pistol I didn’t recognize—taken, hidden, I didn’t know.

  She didn’t shoot. She simply stood there, blocking the rebel’s line of sight to the racks.

  Second, Mendez, seeing the rebel aim at the hostages, gave an almost invisible signal.

  His remaining guard fired.

  Bang! Bang!

  Two shots. Short. Precise.

  The rebel with the rifle dropped, his chest torn open.

  The one with the pistol staggered, his gun fired into the ceiling, then he fell.

  Bullets clanged against metal. The smell of gunpowder filled the air.

  Then—silence.

  A silence louder than the gunshots.

  I sat frozen above the ceiling, dust in my mouth, heart pounding in my ears. Below, I heard Isabella soothing Eleanor’s sobs.

  Mother slowly stood from behind the racks. Mendez looked at the two bodies with a blank expression.

  Then he looked up again. At me.

  “Come down,” he said. Not angry. Just absolute authority.

  I crawled back to the panel, dropped into the storage room, then entered the linen room. Mendez’s guard watched me, weapon still raised.

  It felt familiar.

  I stood there—dirty, dusty, arm bleeding. Mother rushed to me and pulled me into her arms. Tight. Eleanor grabbed my leg.

  Mendez looked at all of us.

  “The family survived,” he said, as if concluding a report. “Rebels neutralized. Good.”

  He didn’t ask how I got into the ceiling. He didn’t thank Ibu Rosa. He simply shaped his narrative.

  “Unfortunately, two rebels were killed in a firefight while attempting to escape with the leader’s family as hostages. Our timely intervention prevented a tragedy.” He looked at Mother. “Mrs. Guerrero will confirm this. As gratitude.”

  It wasn’t a request.

  It was an order.

  Mother looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded once.

  “We survived. Thanks to the vigilance of the Colonel’s forces.”

  Her words were polished stone.

  Mendez was satisfied. He looked at me once more.

  “A brave boy,” he said. “Or a reckless one.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer.

  “Clean this up,” he ordered his guards, then left—leaving us among corpses, gunpowder, and a bitter new reality.

  We survived.

  But we had just become part of Mendez’s propaganda.

  We had handed him the moral victory he needed.

  Damn it.

  Mother Rosa approached, handing me a glass of water from somewhere. I took it, my hands still shaking.

  “Brother,” Eleanor whispered through tears. “I was scared.”

  “So was I, El,” I said hoarsely, hugging her. “But we’re together. That’s what matters.”

  She hugged me tighter.

  Outside, the true dawn began to rise, illuminating a palace scarred by battle.

  The fight was over.

  Mendez had won today.

  But the war for this country’s future—and for our family—had just entered a new phase.

  ***

  I drank the water, feeling its coldness slide down my dry throat.

  We survived. That was a fact.

  But in my previous world and this one, survival often only means earning the right to fight again tomorrow.

  And tomorrow, we would have to fight smarter.

  Because now, Mendez knew we weren’t just passive hostages.

  We were variables.

  And variables, in the calculations of someone like Mendez, are things that must eventually be eliminated.

  My body still trembled faintly, delayed adrenaline. In my head, echoes of screams and gunfire mixed with echoes from the past—the same sounds, the same fear, only the backdrop was different.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

  The smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air, mixed with camphor from the linen. And the smell of fresh blood.

  We survived.

  But at what cost?

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