The car exploded just outside the border checkpoint at Santa Marta. A black sedan with false plates, one guard inside, and enough accelerant beneath the backseat to make it look like an assassination.
There were body parts left behind. All which were burned beyond recognition. A bracelet melted into the seat. A strand of dark hair lay near the shattered window. And tucked into the dashboard, a cracked phone with Catalina Marín’s signal last pinged. It took less than an hour for the news to reach Lucien. She was dead, or so they claimed, but he didn’t believe any of it. Not for a second. The guards assigned to her that morning were inevitably dragged to the back courtyard. Two of them were shot on sight. One begged for his life, but Lucien didn’t blink when he gave the order.
With Lucien
