He cut her free with an old knife. The ropes had torn into her skin. She collapsed to her knees and crawled to the basket as if the world would end within those three steps. When she lifted the baby to her chest and saw he was still breathing, she broke into tears with a force that seemed to come from years of pain.
Her name was Alma. The baby’s name was Gael. He was five days old.
Through sobs, she told him the worst: the baby’s father, Ismael, and his brother had taken her to that tree. Ismael couldn’t bear the idea of her leaving with his son. He had sworn that if she tried, he would make her suffer in the cruelest way. He knew the area, knew that boas passed through at dusk, and planned everything so Alma would be forced to watch her child die without being able to save him.
Jacinto felt a cold wave of nausea. This was no longer jealousy or domestic violence. It was pure evil.
And the worst came later.
Alma told him that Ismael would return at nightfall to “see if there was anything left.”
Jacinto didn’t hesitate. He helped her onto his horse, baby in her arms, and started toward his ranch, six kilometers away. They moved quickly, but night falls fast in the mountains. Before they arrived, Canelo stopped in the middle of the path. Then they heard it—an engine, headlights, men’s voices.
They hid in the bushes just in time.
An old pickup passed slowly. Then another. The men got out, saw the footprints, and followed the trail. One of them entered the woods with a flashlight and came within a meter of discovering them. Alma clutched Gael tightly, covering his mouth to keep him from crying. Jacinto felt his heart pounding in his throat. Finally, the man returned to the truck, and they drove away.
But not far.
They took the direct road to Jacinto’s ranch.
That turned his own home into a trap.
She couldn’t go back. She didn’t know who she could trust without risking betrayal. Then she remembered an abandoned hut about three kilometers into the mountains, the former home of a farmhand who had worked with her years earlier. They made their way there in the dark, stumbling over thorns, rocks, and branches, with Alma exhausted, the baby hungry, and Canelo leading the way.
For illustration purposes only
The hut was half-collapsed, windowless, with part of the roof missing, but it was enough to get through the night. Jacinto gave them the last of his water, an old blanket, and the few items he carried in his saddlebags. He didn’t sleep at all. At dawn, he went to fetch water from a nearby stream, and when he returned, he heard engines again.
This time, they were coming for them.
From the hilltop, he saw two pickup trucks moving slowly forward, like hunters who had already picked up the scent of their prey. Inside the hut, Alma trembled, holding Gael tightly in her arms. Jacinto counted six armed men. Without a shotgun, without help, and with no way out, he realized there was only one desperate option left.
When Ismael shouted from outside, ordering them to come out and promising that “no one would get hurt,” Jacinto knew he was hearing the voice of a man who ruled through fear. He looked around and saw the old stove, the dry firewood, the torn tarp, the walls made of dried reeds.
He understood everything in an instant.
He told Alma to lock herself in the back with the baby, gathered the firewood into the living area, threw the tarp over it, uncoiled an old rope, and just as the men began kicking in the door, he struck a match.
The fire ignited within seconds.
The door gave way on the third blow, just as the room was swallowed by flames. The men stumbled back, cursing, caught off guard by the wall of fire. Smoke filled the hut. Jacinto ran to the kitchen, grabbed Alma, and kicked open the back door.
—Run towards the stream. Don’t look back.
Alma hesitated for a brief second. Then she ran, Gael clutched tightly to her chest. Canelo went with her.
Jacinto turned, drawing the men in the opposite direction. One of them spotted him, raised his shotgun, and fired. The shot grazed his ear. Another blast shattered the wall behind him. Then he ran into the woods—not to save himself, but to make sure they followed him instead of the woman.
He ran like he hadn’t in years. Over stones, through thorns, across loose earth. He heard shouting, footsteps, gunfire. He tripped, tumbled down a ravine, and crashed to the bottom, hitting his shoulder, ribs, and head. For a moment, he thought he wouldn’t get back up—but he did. Bleeding, choking on dust and pain, he crawled toward a rock formation and hid there while the men searched above.
He lay there for hours, motionless, listening to voices drifting in and out.
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