Chapter 6 - Shadows at the Greyhound Terminal
The afternoon rain fell in relentless gray sheets, drumming against the roof of Mateo’s black SUV parked across from the Central Greyhound Bus Depot.
The depot was a miserable hub of exhaust fumes, flickering fluorescent lights, and transient travelers clutching wet paper cups. It was the perfect place to hide a secret, and the perfect place for an execution.
Mateo checked his sidearm, securing the silencer before sliding it beneath his heavy wool overcoat. In the rear seats, two seasoned Marcelo soldiers—Rico and Gabe—primed their compact submachine guns beneath their jackets.
"Boss said no civilian collateral," Mateo reminded them, his cold eyes surveying the terminal entrance. "We go in, Gabe covers the western corridor, Rico watches the luggage lockers. I pop the box, get the cross, and we walk. If anyone steps out of line, double-tap and drag them into the maintenance closet."
"Understood," Rico grunted.
They exited the vehicle into the rain, moving with the synchronized, effortless discipline of military veterans.
Inside, the terminal smelled of damp coats, bleach, and cheap coffee. Clara had described the locker precisely: *Locker 412, row G, near the vending machines behind the ladies' restroom.*
Mateo navigated the crowded lobby, his sharp eyes sweeping every face. A homeless man sleeping on a wooden bench. A mother trying to calm a crying toddler. A security guard leaning half-asleep against an information booth.
Then, Mateo’s instincts flared.
Standing fifty yards away, pretending to read a newspaper near the vending machines, stood a man wearing a dark tactical windbreaker. His posture was too rigid. His neck bore a distinct tattoo: a crowned black scorpion—the blood-brand of Hector Morales's personal execution squad.
Mateo tapped his earpiece once. "We have company. Row G. Single tango spotted. Watch the flanks."
"Copy," Gabe’s voice came through the comm. "I see a second one by the emergency exit."
"Take him out quietly," Mateo commanded.
Mateo casually strolled down aisle G. The man with the scorpion tattoo lowered his newspaper just a fraction, his hand dipping beneath his jacket.
Mateo didn't hesitate.
He closed the five-yard gap in two explosive strides. Before the scorpion gunner could draw his weapon, Mateo slammed his elbow directly into the man’s solar plexus, knocking all breath from his lungs. In the same fluid motion, Mateo swept the man's legs, grabbed his skull, and drove it hard into the steel corner of locker bank F.
The cartel hitman went limp instantly.
Mateo caught the body before it hit the floor, dragging him swiftly behind an out-of-order vending machine. He searched the man's pockets, pulling out a silenced 9mm pistol and a laminated photo of Clara Reyes.
Mateo spat on the floor. "Too late, scumbags."
He pulled the small brass key Clara had provided from his pocket and located Locker 412. He slid the key in, turned it, and popped the steel door open.
Inside lay a dusty black canvas duffel. Mateo unzipped the main compartment. Tucked deep inside an old plastic cassette tape case was a heavy, ornately carved silver crucifix on a tarnished chain.
Mateo picked it up. He unscrewed the bottom base of the cross with his thumbnail.
A miniature, high-grade military micro-SD card slid out into his palm.
Mateo’s comm crackled. "Mateo! We got three more incoming from the south entrance! They saw the scuffle!"
"Package secured," Mateo said, slipping the silver cross and the drive into his inner pocket. "Light them up and extract."
Gunfire erupted across the terminal—sharp, muffled thuds echoing behind the roar of bus engines. Panic ensued as travelers screamed and scattered. Gabe and Rico eliminated the two cartel reinforcements near the exit with surgical precision, leaving both men bleeding out behind the luggage carts.
Within ninety seconds, Mateo and his crew burst through the rain and dove into the idling SUV.
Tires screeched on wet asphalt as Mateo punched the gas, leaving the chaos behind.
Mateo keyed the dashboard radio, connecting directly to the penthouse.
"Don Virgilio," Mateo said through the speaker.
"Speak," Virgilio’s deep voice answered.
"We have the cross. And the micro-drive. Morales’s dogs were sniffing the lockers, but we put them down. We’re heading back now."
There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by the quiet, dangerous satisfaction in Virgilio’s response:
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"Bring it home, Mateo. It’s time to call Hector Morales."
***