The safe house sat deep in the Catalan hills, hidden behind a line of stone pines and a narrow road that looked unused by anyone who didn’t know exactly where to turn. It was old, plain, and built for survival rather than comfort, and that suited me fine.
The others had spread through the building in silence after the convoy reached shelter. One guard checked the windows, another checked the radios while a third kept watch at the front door with his rifle ready, jaw tight and eyes still angry from the attack.
Bastián sat in the main room with his injured shoulder wrapped in a rough bandage that had already started to darken, he had refused to lie down; he had refused pain medicine too.
He looked at me from the chair near the fire, then away again as if my presence was only another detai
