Veins of Betrayal

First Blood

Chapter 3

Part 2



The sky over General Santos was still half-dark when Jersel stepped into Efren’s office. She had jogged before dawn again, her body already attuned to the rhythm of training and strategy. This time she carried her notebook and a sealed envelope of bank documents. Efren stood at the whiteboard, sketching out a flowchart of Nathan’s shell companies with thick blue lines.

“You look sharper,” he said without turning.

“I feel sharper,” she replied.

“Good,” he said, capping the marker. “Because today we tighten the net.”

He handed her a fresh sheaf of papers — freezing orders, notarized affidavits, powers of attorney. “With these, we’ll block Nathan’s access to three more accounts and two of the vehicles he tried to re-title.”

She signed with a steady hand. “He’ll know it’s me.”

“Let him,” Efren said. “He’ll have to move openly. That makes him sloppy.”

By midday, Nathan was indeed sloppy. In a glass-walled conference room of his company headquarters, he slammed his fist on the table. “They froze my accounts!”

One of his lieutenants stammered, “Sir, it’s Bautista. He’s filing faster than we can react.”

Nathan paced like a caged predator. “I want the truck scheduled for tomorrow. No delays.”

“Sir—?”

“Do it,” Nathan hissed. “Tonight we stop her.”

Across the room, Natalia sat very still, her manicured nails tapping an uneven rhythm on her phone screen. She’d been receiving fragments of updates from her own watchers — Jersel’s new routines, the lawyer always near, the trips to the gym. Jersel was no longer soft clay. She was steel hardening under a blowtorch.

Natalia texted Nathan under the table: Are you sure?

He texted back one word: Absolutely.

That afternoon, Efren drove Jersel to a secure training compound outside Barangay Tambler — not just a gym but a full tactical range owned by a retired Marine. Here she learned to drive evasively, how to duck under a steering wheel, how to recognize a blocking maneuver on the road. She practiced slamming the car into reverse, spinning the wheel, and accelerating out of a boxed-in position.

“Every second you buy yourself is a second closer to survival,” the Marine said. “Escape first. Fight second.”

Her hands blistered from gripping the wheel so tightly, but she felt the new reflexes forming like invisible armor.

Efren observed, arms crossed, his expression softening each time she caught a technique quickly. At one point she stumbled exiting the vehicle; he was there immediately, steadying her elbow.

“You okay?”

“Better than okay,” she said. “I can feel it — the change.”

He gave a small smile, rare and private. “I can see it.”

That night, Efren insisted she stay at the safehouse again. She fell asleep around eleven, notebook by her bedside, phone face down. Outside, rain drizzled over the subdivision roofs, washing the streets clean. Somewhere across town, Nathan and Natalia’s plan was ticking like a dark clock.

The Attempt

It happened the next day, just past noon.

Jersel had a meeting at a government office near Plaza Heneral Santos to sign an affidavit. Efren couldn’t accompany her — he was in court — but he sent a junior associate and a discreet security man to shadow her. After the meeting, she crossed the plaza toward a waiting car parked under a tree.

The car was hers, but the driver wasn’t. A young man in a ballcap leaned out. “Ma’am Jersel? Atty. Bautista said to take you to the next appointment.”

Her instincts flared. Efren never sent unknown drivers. She stopped two meters short, scanning: no ID badge, tinted rear windows, engine running too hard.

She smiled politely. “Give me a second.” She stepped back toward the security man Efren had assigned. “Text Atty. Bautista. Ask if he sent this car.”

The young man’s eyes flicked, his jaw tightened — and the car behind her roared forward, blocking the street.

“Go!” shouted the security man.

Jersel bolted, her body moving before her mind caught up. Lito’s voice echoed in her skull: Run, yell, strike if cornered.

The fake driver lunged from the car, grabbing for her arm. She slammed her heel down on his instep and drove her elbow backward into his ribs, twisting free. “Stop!” she screamed, voice like a blade. “Kidnapper!”

People turned. Vendors shouted. Someone blew a whistle. The second car skidded sideways, doors opening.

The security man fired a warning shot into the air. Chaos erupted — bystanders scattering, vendors flipping tables, sirens wailing in the distance.

Jersel ducked between two parked vehicles and sprinted toward the main road, heart hammering. She dodged around a jeepney, then another. The kidnapper stumbled after her but the crowd slowed him down. Her body moved on instinct: pivot, run, scan, shout again.

A motorcycle braked in front of her — another man reaching out. She dropped low and rolled to the side, scraping her palm but escaping his grasp. Her bag slammed against her hip. She clutched it, bolting across the street into the lobby of a small bank.

Inside, guards raised their shotguns. “Ano yun?” one barked.

“Kidnappers outside,” she gasped. “Call the police!”

They hustled her behind the counter just as sirens wailed closer. Through the glass she saw the attackers peel away, vehicles scattering like startled roaches.

Efren arrived fifteen minutes later, breathless and furious, tie askew. He swept her into his arms before he could stop himself, checking for injuries. “You’re not hurt?”

“Just scrapes.” Her voice trembled but held. “Efren, they tried—”

“I know.” He guided her into a private office. “Security cameras got plates. We’ll coordinate with PNP.”

She sank into a chair, shaking. “I hit one of them. In the ribs. I didn’t freeze.”

He crouched in front of her, eyes searching hers. “You survived. That’s what matters.”

Tears pricked her eyes but didn’t fall. “This is real. They’re not just draining accounts. They want me gone.”

Efren’s jaw tightened. “Then we move to Phase Two.”

Phase Two

That night at the safehouse, Efren outlined the plan on a whiteboard:

File a motion for emergency protective custody.

Secure warrants for Nathan’s financial records.

Leak limited evidence to a trusted journalist in General Santos to create public pressure.

Expand her training with Lito and Miriam.

Move her assets into a legal trust Efren controlled as trustee.

“We’ll also relocate you temporarily,” he said. “Natalia will reach out soon. You’ll act normal but meet her only in public, never alone.”

Jersel exhaled. “And if Nathan tries again?”

Efren met her eyes. “Then we stop playing defense.”

She spent the next morning at the firing range again, hands steadier, grouping her shots tighter. Miriam adjusted her stance and murmured, “You’re becoming dangerous to someone. That’s good. Just don’t let it eat you.”

After lunch, Lito added ground defense to her routine — how to twist under a larger attacker, how to break a chokehold with leverage, how to scream even when your windpipe feels blocked. Each move burned a new pathway into her body.

At night she collapsed into bed at the safehouse, exhausted but alive. The terror had become a forge.

The Counterstroke

Three days later, Natalia texted: “Coffee? Just us?”

Jersel showed Efren the message. He nodded slowly. “Good. We’ll set it up. Public place, hidden cameras.”

They chose a café on Pioneer Avenue with large windows and lots of foot traffic. Efren and two operatives would sit nearby as customers. Miriam would stand watch outside disguised as a vendor.

Jersel arrived first, wearing a soft pink blouse and jeans — back to her old style to lull Natalia. She ordered coffee and sat by the window.

Natalia entered ten minutes later, sunglasses perched on her head. She smiled like nothing had changed. “Jers! My God, it’s been too long.”

Jersel forced a small smile. “Work’s been crazy.”

Natalia leaned in, lowering her voice. “I heard you’re hiding. Nathan’s worried. He says you’re making up stories about money.”

“I’m sure he does.” Jersel stirred her coffee, keeping her face neutral.

Natalia’s eyes flicked, searching. “Look, if you need help, you can always tell me.”

“I thought I was,” Jersel said softly. “But maybe I was wrong.”

Natalia’s lips parted, a flicker of something — guilt? fear? — before the mask returned. “You’re acting strange.”

“I’ve been learning,” Jersel said. “About myself. About loyalty.”

The tension stretched between them like a wire. Outside, a jeepney rattled past. Efren’s reflection in the window caught Jersel’s eye — his gaze steady, one hand resting on his phone.

Natalia forced a laugh. “You sound like you’re in a movie.”

“Maybe I am,” Jersel said. She stood, sliding her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Where are you going?” Natalia asked quickly.

“Training,” Jersel said, and walked out.

In Efren’s office later, they reviewed the footage. Natalia had slipped twice — mentioning details only Nathan could have told her, pressing Jersel to share her location. Efren leaned back in his chair. “Enough to begin drafting an indictment.”

Jersel watched Natalia’s frozen smile on the screen. “She thinks she’s still playing with the old me.”

Efren’s mouth tilted. “She’s about to meet the new you.”

That night, Jersel wrote in her notebook:

Attempted kidnapping – Plaza Heneral Santos – survived

Vehicle plates logged

Natalia café meeting – key admissions

She closed the notebook, her pen tapping the cover. She realized her handwriting had changed — sharper, bolder, more decisive.

She whispered into the quiet of the safehouse, “Never again.”