It was the summer of 2006.
Back when gas was cheap enough that you didn't check the price before filling the tank. Back when flip phones snapped shut with a plastic clack that felt final. When you burned CDs on a home computer and loaded them onto your iPod Nano, feeling like you were carrying the future in your pocket.
MySpace pages glittered with custom backgrounds and autoplay songs. MSN Messenger blinked late at night. AIM away messages were dramatic for no reason. People still printed MapQuest directions and kept them folded in the glove compartment.
School was out.
Lockers empty.
Textbooks forgotten.
Across the country, boys were trying to grow out their hair like the bands on MTV. Girls wore layered tank tops and oversized sunglasses. Hollister bags got reused as gym bags. Everyone had at least one ringtone that was too loud and way too proud.
On the radio, it was Nelly Furtado, Sean Paul, Shakira, maybe "Ridin' Dirty" if the bass was heavy enough. T-Pain was everywhere. So was the promise that if you just hustled hard enough, you'd make it.
The world felt steady.
Not perfect.
But steady.
The news hadn't yet learned how to live inside your pocket. You could go a whole day without doom finding you. The future felt like something you were walking toward—not something running at you with teeth.
It was the kind of summer you remember later and say, Yeah. That was good.
And somewhere far from beaches and sprinklers and burnt burgers on backyard grills, two brothers were driving north through mountain roads where nobody lived.
A rented black Lincoln climbed an old logging trail that had been carved into the side of a quiet mountain decades ago. Not a dramatic peak. Just high enough that the trees swallowed the world.
Sugar maple. Birch. Pine.
No houses.
No mailboxes.
No witnesses.
The sun hammered the hood. The air shimmered. Cicadas buzzed like faulty wiring in the woods.
Inside the Lincoln, the AC blew cold like the car didn't understand where it was.
From the speakers blasted "Ridin' Dirty," bass turned up too high for factory panels. The beat thumped through the doors, through the floor, through the trunk.
Miguel drove one-handed, suit sharp, jaw sharper.
The suit was rented.
The car was rented.
The confidence was rented.
Beside him, Javier kept touching the Glock in his lap like it might disappear if he didn't.
Seventeen rounds.
Nine millimeter.
A mountain road with no one around.
And in the trunk behind them was opportunity.
Or something else entirely.
"Do you think… they really gonna show up?" Javier asked.
His voice slid under the music, small and tight, like he didn't want the trees to hear him.
Miguel didn't look over. Eyes forward. Hands steady on the wheel.
"They'll come," he said.
Javier swallowed. "But if they don't—"
"They will," Miguel snapped, then caught himself. He exhaled through his nose like he was trying to blow the fear out. "Stop, güey. Stop talking like that."
The Lincoln bucked over a rut, and the bass stuttered for a second. Then the beat caught again—loud, heavy, stupidly confident.
Javier's knee bounced. He pressed his palm to the Glock in his lap like it was a rosary.
"I just… I don't like this road," he muttered. "It's… too far. Nobody here."
"That's the point," Miguel said.
The trail curved. Pines rose on both sides like walls. The sky above was brutally blue, and the sun baked the hood until the air shimmered.
Miguel kept talking, like the words could keep the car moving.
"They said the place is up here," he said. "We get there, we wait. They come. We hand her over. Boom. That's it."
Javier's mouth worked.
"She been back there a long time, man," he said. "Like… hours."
Miguel's jaw tightened.
"She's fine."
Javier's eyes flicked to the back like he could see through leather and steel.
"You put a lot of tape, bro. Like… a lot. What if she can't breathe? That trunk— it's hot. It's—"
Miguel reached over and turned the volume up.
The bass hit harder.
It thudded through the seats.
It thudded into the metal behind them.
"Bro," Javier said, louder now, voice shaking, "what if she's not breathing?"
Miguel stared at the road like if he looked away he'd lose control of more than the car.
"She was screaming before," he said. "Then she stopped. That means she tired. Or sleeping. That's what kids do."
"That's not—" Javier started.
Miguel cut him off again, quick.
"We check when we get there."
His mouth twitched into a smile, but it wasn't humor. It was teeth. It was a man holding a mask to his face with both hands.
"Remember what they said," Miguel went on. "Remember the deal. After this, we pay what we owe. The debt is gone. Gone."
Javier looked down at his knees, at the gun, at the trembling of his own hands.
"And… the papers?" he asked. Like he didn't trust the word to exist unless he said it.
Miguel's eyes flicked to him, hungry.
"Sí," he said. "Real papers. Real name. No more hiding. No more running when you see a cop. No more sleeping with one eye open."
He said it like it was a prayer. Like it was a spell.
"They told me," Miguel added, voice dropping, thick with belief and fear, "they told me after this we're… like normal people. Citizenship. Work. Like we belong here."
Javier gave a weak little laugh that didn't sound like laughter.
"Since when them people do favors," he muttered.
Miguel's smile cracked at the edges.
"Since they need us," he said. Then he leaned into the fantasy harder, because the fantasy was the only thing keeping him from thinking. "And the money. Don't forget the money."
Javier stared straight ahead. The road narrowed. The forest swallowed the light in patches, and then spat it back out again. Shadow, sun, shadow.
"How much you think they really gonna pay?" Javier asked.
Miguel's voice softened, almost tender—like he was soothing a child.
"They said five hundred."
Javier blinked. "Five hundred dollars?"
Miguel scoffed like Javier was stupid. "No, cabrón. Not dollars. Thousand. Five hundred thousand. Each."
Saying it made the air change. The number sat between them like something holy and impossible.
Javier whispered it like it could bite him. "Five… hundred… thousand…"
Miguel nodded fast, eyes bright, almost feverish.
"We pay the debt. We get a place. We buy a truck. A real one. Not this rental shit." He laughed again, and it still sounded wrong. "Maybe we go back for mamá. Bring her here. A real house, bro. No more… no more nothing."
Javier's throat bobbed.
"And if it's a lie?" he said. "What if it's a lie and they keep us anyway?"
Miguel's hands tightened on the wheel.
"It's not a lie," he said. Too fast. Too hard. Like if he said it loud enough, it would become true. "They don't lie. They don't need to. They got our names. They got our faces. They got… everything."
Javier's voice went thin.
"They got our families too."
Miguel didn't answer that.
The Lincoln crunched over loose rock and lurched upward. The suspension groaned like a living thing.
Javier stared at the trees, at the endless green pressing in.
"This feels wrong," he said, almost to himself. "This feels like… like God watching."
Miguel's voice hardened again, the softness burning off.
"God ain't paying our debt," he said. "God ain't giving us papers. God ain't stopping them men from coming."
He swallowed, eyes forward, jaw set.
"We do what we gotta do," Miguel said. "That's it. That's life."
The brothers fell silent.
The bass filled the space between them, thick and heavy, vibrating through the doors, through the floor, through the metal skin of the trunk.
Then—
BOOM.
Both of them flinched.
A deep, violent thud from behind them.
Another.
BOOM. BOOM.
Miguel's hands tightened on the wheel.
"What the hell was that?"
Javier's head snapped toward the back seat. "She's awake."
Another crash. Harder. Not panicked scrambling.
Kicking.
Strong. Deliberate.
Miguel frowned. "I thought we tied her legs."
"We did."
"And her hands."
"Yeah."
The trunk jumped again. The whole rear of the Lincoln shuddered.
Miguel swore under his breath. "How she kicking like that?"
"I don't know," Javier said too fast.
Miguel shot him a look. "Don't start."
"Maybe we stop," Javier said. "Just one minute. Just check her. Maybe she can't breathe good. Maybe—"
Miguel turned the volume knob.
The bass roared.
"She's fine."
Another heavy slam from the trunk—
Then nothing.
Silence.
The music kept playing.
Miguel exhaled slowly. "See? She tired."
Javier didn't answer.
The road kept climbing.
They were deep now. No houses. No cabins. No tire tracks but their own. The mountain wasn't tall enough to feel dramatic, but it was high enough that the trees swallowed the world. Sugar maple, birch, pine—tight and endless. The kind of place where if you screamed, the sound would just hit leaves and die.
The road narrowed until the Lincoln barely fit. Branches scraped the sides. Twigs snapped under the chassis.
Then the trees thinned.
A small ridge opened to the right. The land dropped into a shallow cut where a narrow mountain stream slid over stone, flashing silver in the hard sun. The water made a thin rushing sound, constant and indifferent.
Ahead, near the end of the trail, sat the remains of an old woodcutter's lodge.
Half-collapsed porch. Sagging roof. Windows dark and empty.
It leaned toward the trees like it was tired of holding itself up.
Miguel slowed.
"This is it."
The engine idled low. The music dropped to a murmur.
Gravel crunched as the Lincoln rolled forward and stopped.
For a moment there was only wind in leaves. The thin sound of the stream.
Then—
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The trunk jumped hard enough to rock the car.
Miguel sucked air through his teeth. "Damn. This one crazy."
Javier stared at the back seat like he could see through it.
"You wouldn't think someone that small…" he muttered.
Miguel shook his head. "She didn't fight much before. Remember? Just asking questions. Quiet. Looking at us like—" He stopped.
"Like what?" Javier asked.
Miguel didn't answer.
The trunk slammed again.
Not wild.
Rhythmic.
Three hard kicks.
Then stillness.
Javier's skin prickled. "That ain't normal."
Miguel forced a laugh that didn't stick. "You scared of a little girl now?"
Another kick. Slower.
Deliberate.
Miguel turned the key, cutting the engine completely.
The music died.
And suddenly the silence was too big.
No city noise. No cars passing. No neighbors. Just wind moving through leaves and the faint rush of water somewhere below.
The trunk thudded once more.
Then nothing.
The brothers looked at each other.
Miguel's confidence had thinned. Just a little.
"Okay," he said. "We check her."
Javier nodded too fast.
They both reached into the glove compartment and back seat. Black ski masks came out. They pulled them down over their faces. Miguel tucked his Glock into the front of his waistband, angled against his stomach. Javier kept his in hand.
They stepped out.
The forest air hit them—warm, bright, smelling of sap and water.
They walked around the car.
As they reached the trunk—
Silence.
The kicking stopped.
Completely.
As if whatever was inside was listening.
Javier froze.
"Wait," he whispered. "Maybe we just wait. It's almost eleven. They should be here soon. We're on schedule."
Miguel turned to him slowly.
"What?" he said. "You scared of some little British girl?"
Javier didn't answer.
Miguel let out a short, ugly laugh.
"A tiny blondie got you shaking like this?" he said. "Come on, man. Don't start acting soft now."
Javier's grip tightened on the gun.
Miguel leaned closer, voice dropping.
"You were fine when we grabbed her."
A beat.
"Open it."
"No," Javier muttered, stepping back half a step. "I don't like this."
Miguel stared at him. "You serious right now?"
Silence.
Miguel shook his head. "Fine. I handle it. Fucking pussy."
He stepped forward and grabbed the trunk handle.
The latch clicked.
The trunk popped open.
Both brothers froze.
Inside lay the girl.
Untied.
The tape that had wrapped her wrists and ankles lay shredded beside her like shed skin.
She wore the same pink Hello Kitty outfit—pink shoes, pink pants, pink hoodie with the cartoon face smiling sweetly on the chest.
But—
She was not the same.
Her hair was no longer light blonde.
It was almost silver.
Not gray. Not white. Silver—like moonlight had soaked into every strand. It shimmered faintly even in the dull shade of the trunk.
And her eyes—
They were not blue.
They were violet.
Bright, luminous violet. Not natural. Not human. Deep and glowing, like something lit from behind.
Her skin looked flawless. Smooth. Porcelain. Not a scratch. Not a smear of dirt. Her face shaped like a doll's—heart-shaped, delicate, perfect symmetry. Long lashes. Small nose. Soft lips.
She looked like something crafted.
Not kidnapped.
Miguel took an involuntary step back.
"What the fuck…"
Javier whispered, "That's not… that's not how she looked."
The girl's gaze moved between them calmly.
Too calmly.
Then in a blur she lunged.
She sprang upward into a crouch and shot forward toward Miguel's waistband.
Miguel reacted on instinct, grabbing her wrist.
"What the fuck? Get off me, you freak!"
She twisted with shocking strength. Miguel squeezed her hand hard, trying to force her to drop the weapon she was grabbing.
But in the struggle her finger jerked.
The trigger pulled.
BANG.
The shot exploded in the quiet forest.
Miguel's body jerked violently.
His eyes went wide.
He staggered backward, hands instinctively dropping toward his crotch as blood immediately began to spread dark through his slacks.
He collapsed onto the gravel.
The Glock slipped free—
But the girl caught it.
And now she stood there in the trunk with the gun.
Tiny hands on black steel like it weighed nothing.
Javier locked up a few steps away—eyes wide, mouth open behind the ski mask, Glock dangling at his side like a toy he'd forgotten how to use.
Miguel hit the gravel hard, rolling, choking on air and shock. Pain finally arrived and it came screaming.
"AH—FUCK!" he howled. "SHE SHOT ME! SHE SHOT ME, MAN!"
He clawed at himself between the legs, trying to stop the blood with his hands like he could hold his body together by force. Dark soaked through the rented slacks fast, glossy and spreading. Gravel bit into his back. His voice snapped and broke.
"JAVI! DO SOMETHING! DON'T JUST STAND THERE, HERMANO!"
Javier couldn't.
He stared like his brain had fallen out of his skull. The forest around them stayed bright. Calm. Insultingly normal. Wind in leaves. Water running down the cut of the ridge like nothing had changed.
The girl didn't blink.
She looked down at the Glock.
Turned it slightly.
Studied it like a tool.
Like she was checking the shape of it, the balance, the weight, and how it fit in her hand.
No shaking. No panic. No tears.
Miguel dragged himself backward, boots scraping dirt, trying to get away on his elbows. He left a smear of blood behind him.
"HELP ME!" he screamed again, voice cracking into something childish. "PLEASE—FUCK—HELP ME!"
Javier finally found a sound.
"Mi… Miguel?" he whispered.
Miguel tried to sit up.
The girl moved.
Not fast like a scared kid.
Fast like a machine deciding.
Her arm came up smooth and straight.
The muzzle found Miguel's face.
There was no warning. No hesitation.
BOOM.
The shot ripped through the trees. Birds erupted from the canopy.
Miguel's head snapped sideways.
He made a sound like a wet gasp.
Before his body even finished falling—
BOOM.
Cleaner. Higher.
Miguel collapsed flat.
No last words. No curses. No begging.
Just a body on gravel, eyes open and empty, mouth half-formed around a scream that never finished.
A thin ribbon of smoke curled from the barrel.
Javier stared at his brother.
Miguel—who always had a plan, always acted untouchable—lying in the dirt like trash.
Dead.
Just like that.