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"El Diablo," Viktor replies succinctly. "Ramsay Vasquez is our concern, and his disrupting key routes essential to both LSD and LSC's networks. His strategic stronghold in Pampanga enables his Halimaw ng Hilaga Cartel to challenge our logistics effectively."
The assassination of a senator is what pushes us to the Philippines, adding a layer of complexity to our discussion. "The senator's murder," I muse aloud. "That's escalated our urgency."
"Correct," Viktor acknowledges. "El Diablo's move to eliminate the senator was strategic, aimed at removing a barrier and broadcasting power. Given his corrupt yet obstructive role, his death has only intensified scrutiny on our operations."
The conversation veers quickly into the countermeasures we're deploying. "With the political landscape now more treacherous, how are we adjusting?" I inquire, keenly aware of the delicate balance we must maintain.
"Our technical teams have fortified our communication networks, ensuring our activities remain concealed," Viktor assures. "Ground operatives are already blending in, securing intelligence. Beyond the safehouses, we're crafting a network invisible to El Diablo."
"Señor Marco, the value of this mission rests with us," Viktor adds, his tone imbued with the gravity of our task. "Maintaining Don Melchor's trust in us to recalibrate the balance of power is paramount. Defending operational routes is part of the charge; however, guarding what is ours, our sacred legacy, is and will always be the goal.
Our intense discussion solidifies the detailed, meticulous plan with unwavering resolve.
Staying the course with an indomitable determination to emerge victorious is what needs to be done.
Chapter Two
Marco
The humid Manila air wraps around me like a second skin when I step off the plane, a tangible reminder of the new battleground I've entered. Despite the internal storm—echoes of past horrors mingling with the dread of what's to come—I straighten my shoulders.
A sleek, black SUV waits, engine purring softly amid the commotion of the airport's arrival zone. My guards, Tomas and Luis, veterans of conflicts too dark to name, scan the crowd with practiced ease. They're more than bodyguards; they're my shadows, my shields. And the Águilas Nocturnas are already concealed in the crowd.
We weave through the traffic, and the city's heartbeat syncs with my own—a rhythmic pulse of life and danger. The drive is silent, all of us lost in our thoughts until we reach Don Melchor's residence. This mansion marries Filipino elegance with fortress-like security.
Don Melchor Santos is waiting, his presence commanding even the warmth of his welcome. "Marco, my boy, it's been too long," he says, his voice rich with genuine affection as he pulls me into a tight embrace, the kind reserved for family.
"Tito Melchor, it feels good to be here, despite the circumstances," I reply, allowing a moment of vulnerability to show. This man has known me since I was a child; here, in his presence, I'm not just a mafia heir but an adoptive nephew.
Over lunch, we discuss strategies and alliances, our conversation a delicate dance around the unspoken tensions that brought me to Manila. "We'll get through this, Marco. We always do," Don Melchor assures me, clapping a hand on my shoulder with a confidence I envy.
The day turns to evening, then tonight, growing heavier, anticipation thick in the air as we prepare to depart for the private airport. The convoy is a silent promise of protection and power. Don Melchor's men mingle with mine. We approach a seemingly abandoned stretch of road; every instinct screams that something's wrong.
Shots crack, slicing through the night, and a jolt of fear lances through me, so sharp it's almost physical. Time slows, each second stretching into eternity. Once a trusted ally, the familiar adrenaline rush now feels like a betrayal, stirring the specter of memories I've fought so hard to cage.
I'm back in the gym, the smell of gunpowder and blood choking the air, the screams of the fallen echoing in my ears. My heart hammers against my chest, a prisoner trying to escape its bone cage. I can't breathe—the walls of the SUV close in, a metal coffin on wheels.
I see my therapist's face, her words a mantra. "Focus on the here and now, Marco. You're safe."
But safety is a lie.
"Luis, left flank!" Tomas's voice cuts through the fog of my panic, a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters.
I want to fight, grab my weapon, join the fray, and prove I'm not the broken man those moments of darkness claim me to be. Yet, my hands tremble, refusing to obey. Fight, flight, freeze—the options cycle through my mind, but they're abstract concepts, words without meaning in the face of my terror.
Then, amidst the chaos comes clarity. Don Melchor's voice, steady and calm: "Marco, stay with me." It's not just a command. It's a reminder of who I am, of the strength I've drawn from the depths of despair.
I force my hands to still, gripping the seat to ground myself in the now. The gunfire outside is relentless, a storm we must weather. I can't let my fear, my PTSD, be the thing that unravels us. Not here. Not now.
With a deep breath, I shove the terror aside, locking it down along with all the memories I wish I could forget. It's a temporary measure, a dam holding back the flood, but it's all I have. My focus narrows to the car, to my men, to survival. And finally, recalling the Águilas Nocturnas is likely the reason the shooting died down.
"We need to move, now." Don Melchor's urgency pulls me back wholly, the immediate danger a balm to my frayed mind.
As we regroup and set off for the airport once more, the aftermath of the ambush surrounds us. Still, inside, I'm facing my own aftermath—of a fight against the ghosts of my past and the reality of my present. This isn't a victory. It's a reprieve, a momentary stand against the tide.
But it's enough for now.
Our flight descends into Baguio, and the cloak of night masks the beauty I know lies beneath. Baguio, with its cooler climate and pine-scented air, is a stark contrast to the sweltering atmosphere of Manila. The darkness does little to reveal the city's charm. Still, we are not at our destination. Don Melchor's home is in Caba and the anticipation of rediscovering it buzzes under my skin. A silent promise of revelations.
