Diego's legs burned as he ran.
His lungs clawed for air. The night was thick with moisture and the metallic sting of adrenaline. Behind him, the voices of the Los Garra soldiers echoed across the concrete, bouncing between the walls of adjacent warehouses and alleyways.
"¡CORRE POR LA DERECHA!"
"¡NO LO DEJES ESCAPAR!"
Their boots thundered behind him, slamming against pavement like war drums. Diego's heart beat faster than their footsteps, each thud threatening to burst through his chest. He could almost feel the heat of their breath on his neck.
His hand clenched the USB in his coat pocket like it was the last lifeline between him and death.
They knew.
La Garra knew.
He took a sharp turn and bolted through a narrow passage between two dumpsters, nearly slipping on a slick patch of oil. The alley was tight and dark, lit only by a failing bulb that flickered like it, too, was afraid.
