Lines of Loyalty

The Test

Rafael had become part of the wallpaper. Stocking gum. Wiping counters. Mopping floors while humming bad '80s love songs under his breath. He was careful, steady, boring—and that was exactly what he wanted them to think.

But the streets had eyes. And not all of them belonged to Kathleen.

It started with a robbery. Or, at least, that’s what it looked like.

Two masked men burst into Carmelo’s just before closing. One had a sawed-off shotgun; the other waved a crowbar like he’d just stolen it from a Halloween store.

“Everyone on the floor!” crowbar guy shouted.

Rafael dropped the mop. Kathleen reached for something behind the register but paused when she locked eyes with Rafael. He gave the slightest shake of his head.

“Don’t be a hero,” he muttered under his breath. “Let the mop guy take the heat.”

The shotgun dude pushed Rafael down and barked, “Where’s the backroom key?”

“What backroom?” Rafael asked, trying to sound clueless. “We sell beef jerky and expired cornflakes. That’s it.”

Crowbar guy whacked the counter. “Don’t play dumb. We know this place is more than it looks.”

Kathleen glared, but didn’t move. Rafael noticed her fingers twitching near the silent alarm. Smart girl.

The robbers ransacked the shop—overturning shelves, ripping down posters, smashing open the register. Rafael lay still, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning when one slipped on a spilled energy drink and fell face-first into the candy display.

As quickly as they came, they were gone—just two angry men leaving a mess and a few dents.

But Rafael knew better.

That wasn’t a robbery.

That was a test.

And someone had been watching how he reacted.

The next day started normally. Rafael cleaned up the mess, Kathleen made sarcastic comments about his crooked mop strokes, and Mr. Carmelo offered both of them day-old sandwiches that probably had more bacteria than bread.

Around dusk, Rafael stepped outside to take out the trash. That’s when the van pulled up.

No plates. No markings.

Just a side door that slid open and three men who moved too fast.

He fought. Kicked. Elbowed. One of them even muttered, "Damn, this guy’s scrappy for a cashier!"

They hit him with something heavy.

Everything went black.

When he came to, he was tied to a metal chair in a concrete room with one flickering light and the faint smell of onions and regret.

One of the kidnappers stood near a table, chewing gum loudly and flipping through a comic book.

“Yo, boss, he’s awake,” Gum Guy said, not looking up.

A tall man in a leather coat turned from the shadows. He had a crooked smile and eyes like broken glass.

“So,” he said, circling Rafael. “You’re the one snooping around Kathleen’s little shop. Thought you were being real slick, huh?”

Rafael blinked. “Look, if this is about the sandwich I took yesterday, I swear Mr. Carmelo gave it to me. Probably. It was... kinda green.”

Gum Guy chuckled. Leather Coat didn’t.

“We know what’s in that shop,” he said. “The shipments. The contacts. You’re part of it. Or you’re watching it. Either way, you’re gonna talk.”

“I literally mop floors,” Rafael replied. “Sometimes very poorly.”

“Cut the act.”

“What act?”

Leather Coat slammed a file down in front of him. “You think we don’t know who you are?”

Rafael’s blood turned cold. Was his cover blown?

Then the guy said, “You’re Paul Simon. No criminal record. No gang ties. Too clean. Suspiciously clean. So what’s your angle, Simon?”

Rafael breathed again. They didn’t know. Not really.

“I just... needed a job,” he said. “And that girl? She scares me. I just smile and say yes to whatever she wants. I don’t know anything, I swear.”

Gum Guy leaned in. “I believe him. He looks like the kind of guy who cries during Pixar movies.”

“I don’t!” Rafael snapped. “...Okay, only during the sad parts.”

Leather Coat wasn’t convinced. “You’ve got 24 hours to give us something useful. Or next time, we stop being polite.”

“What was this? A baking competition?”

Leather Coat frowned. “Gag him.”

Meanwhile, back at Carmelo’s, Kathleen paced the store. The clock ticked. The mop bucket sat untouched. Rafael was late.

He was never late.

Not without texting her something stupid like "Tripped on my own foot, might be a little slow today."

She called his phone. No answer. She checked his locker. Still there. She asked around the neighborhood. No one had seen him.

She felt it in her gut. Something was wrong.

And then something worse: she realized she cared.

Really cared.

Cared enough to close the shop early. To leave everything behind. To follow every half-whispered name she knew, every shady alley, every angry contact who owed her a favor or feared her enough to talk.

Kathleen B. wasn’t one to chase anyone.

But this wasn’t just anyone anymore.

This was Rafael Cruz.

And she was going to find him.

Even if she had to tear the city apart to do it.