Story code: ST-001806
Part 4: The Settlement
Mateo watched the boy’s face shift from pale gray to a mottled, suffocating purple. Hector’s massive hands did not loosen their grip on his brother’s throat. The smartphone wobbled, slipping from Leo’s weakening fingers. It hit the bloody linoleum with a sharp crack, sliding across the floor until it bumped against the toe of Mateo’s leather work boot. The screen stayed lit, the red LIVE icon pulsing steadily as the digital emojis continued to bubble upward in a cheerful, oblivious stream.
Mateo did not hesitate. He raised his heavy, steel-toed boot and brought it down squarely on the center of the glowing glass. The screen shattered with a loud crunch, but the backlight flickered, trying to survive. He stomped again, grinding his heel into the casing until the plastic housing bowed and the feed finally went dead, plunging the lower half of the office back into shadows.
The sudden, sharp noise snapped Hector out of his blind rage. He released his grip, stumbling backward, his massive chest heaving. Leo collapsed sideways onto the floor, clutching his bruised throat and sucking in ragged, whistling breaths. He did not look arrogant anymore. The tough facade had entirely evaporated, leaving behind nothing but a terrified, bleeding child.
Hector stared at the shattered pieces of plastic under Mateo’s boot. He dragged a heavy, trembling hand down his own face, smearing his brother’s blood across his cheek. He looked out into the open garage bay, where the two younger men were staring back at him, their pistols still drawn and aimed at the office door.
“Get the car backed up to the fire door,” Hector commanded, his voice completely hollowed out, devoid of its previous thunder. “We have less than five minutes before the East side figures out where that feed was broadcasting from. Move.”
The two armed men holstered their weapons instantly and sprinted out into the dark driveway.
Hector turned his attention back to his brother. He did not yell this time. He reached down, grabbed Leo by the uninjured left arm, and hauled him roughly to his feet. Leo groaned, his legs buckling, but Hector held him up, pressing the thick stack of bloody blue shop towels hard against the boy’s shoulder.
“Finish it,” Hector told Mateo, gesturing to the open first-aid kit.
Mateo’s hands were coated in drying, sticky red. He picked up a roll of heavy gauze and a pair of trauma shears. He wrapped the boy’s torso tightly, winding the white fabric over the shoulder and under the armpit, binding the shop towels securely against the bullet hole. He pulled the gauze taut and secured it with three thick strips of silver duct tape from his workbench, ignoring all medical protocol in favor of raw speed. Leo whimpered, his eyes locked firmly on the floor, the earlier bravado completely choked out of him.
When the makeshift bandage was secure, Hector shoved Leo toward the door. The boy stumbled out into the main garage bay, leaning heavily against the metal doorframe to keep his balance.
Hector stopped in the center of the office. He reached into the inner pocket of his heavy leather jacket and pulled out a thick wad of cash, folded over and bound tightly with a rubber band. He peeled off half the stack with his thumb. The bills were stained with dark fingerprints. He tossed the money onto Mateo’s desk. It landed directly next to the bloody needle-nose pliers and the flattened lead bullet.
“For the damage,” Hector said, his tone entirely flat. “And for forgetting this happened.”
Mateo looked at the money, then up at Hector. He did not nod. He did not speak. He just stood there, his chest rising and falling beneath his ruined canvas coveralls.
Hector did not wait for a response. He turned and walked out of the office. A moment later, tires squealed violently in the gravel driveway. The heavy sedan roared to life, its headlights sweeping across the frosted garage windows one last time before the engine noise faded rapidly down the street, swallowed completely by the distant, rising wail of sirens approaching from the east.
Mateo stood alone in the absolute silence of the garage. The metallic stench of blood and the sharp bite of rubbing alcohol hung heavy in the stifling summer air.
He turned and looked toward the back of the shop. The supply room door remained shut.
Mateo walked slowly across the concrete, his boots sticking slightly to the floorboards. He stopped in front of the heavy wooden door. He turned the deadbolt and pulled it open.
Elena stood perfectly still between two metal shelving racks. Her eyes were wide, taking in the blood soaking the front of Mateo’s clothes, the dark smears across his forearms, and the red footprints tracking all the way back to the main office. She did not ask if the boy was dead. She did not ask what had happened. Her gaze drifted past Mateo, locking onto the thick stack of bloody hundred-dollar bills resting on the desk under the harsh fluorescent light.
Mateo opened his mouth to explain, to tell her that he had no choice, that he had done it to keep them both alive. But the words died in his throat. The look in her eyes was not just fear or anger; it was total, irreparable revulsion.
She stepped carefully around him, keeping her back pressed against the doorframe to avoid brushing against his clothes. She walked out of the garage, pushing the iron fire door open and stepping out into the humid night air without looking back.
Mateo did not follow her. He turned and looked at the space he had built with his own two hands. He looked at the shattered safety glass glittering near the drain, the broken landline dangling from the drywall, and the blood pooled on the office linoleum. The cash sat on the desk, heavy and absolute. He realized, with a cold, sinking weight in his stomach, that the garage was no longer his sanctuary. It was just a crime scene he now owned.