Dawn found them huddled in the stone womb of the rockfall, shivering despite the shared warmth beneath the thick cloak. The fire that had consumed Mateo's hut was a smudge of grey ash on the distant slope, a grim monument in the pale morning light. Kara hadn't slept. The cold, the crushing weight of responsibility for Rosa, and the searing image of the burning sanctuary had kept her mind churning like the icy stream nearby. Dante was alive. Captured. In Granada. The knowledge was a lifeline and a death sentence rolled into one. Lorenzo wouldn't let him languish in prison; he'd want personal, brutal closure. Time was a luxury they didn't have.
Rosa stirred, her face pale and pinched with cold and grief. "Kara?" she whispered, her voice small.
"Here," Kara replied, her own voice raspy but steady. She offered Rosa the last piece of cheese and a sip of water. "Eat. We move soon."
"Where?"
"Down," Kara said, scanning the valley below through the narrow cave entrance. The track Lorenzo's men had used was visible, snaking towards lower, wooded slopes. "To the edge of the mountains. To people. We need things." *Food. Warm clothes. Information. A way into Granada without getting caught.*
The descent was slower, more cautious than their panicked flight the night before. Kara led, choosing a path parallel to the track but hidden within the treeline, constantly scanning for movement, listening for engines. Rosa followed silently, her young resilience astonishing Kara. The girl moved with the quiet awareness of someone raised in the mountains, her eyes scanning the terrain, avoiding noisy patches of ice or loose scree. Grief shadowed her face, but a fierce determination had taken root, mirroring Kara's own hardening resolve.
By midday, they reached the tree line where the true mountains gave way to rolling, forested foothills. The air was marginally warmer, the snow patchier. Ahead, nestled in a wide valley, lay a small village – a cluster of whitewashed houses with terracotta roofs, smoke curling from chimneys, surrounded by terraced olive groves dusted with snow. Sanctuary beckoned. And danger.
"We can't go in like this," Kara murmured, pulling Rosa behind a thick pine trunk. They looked like refugees from a disaster – clothes torn and filthy, faces scratched, expressions haunted. Kara's bruised ribs throbbed with every breath. "They'll remember us. Someone might talk." *To the police. To Lorenzo's money.*
Rosa nodded, understanding. "Abuelo… he sometimes traded with the village. Señor Alvarez, the baker. He was kind."
A baker. Food. And potentially, a source of information not filtered through fear of Lorenzo. Kara weighed the risk. They needed more than berries and snowmelt. They needed strength for the journey ahead. Granada was miles away.
"Alright," Kara decided. "We watch. We wait for dusk. Less people. Then, only you go, Rosa."
"Me?" Rosa's eyes widened.
"You're smaller. Less noticeable. You knew Señor Alvarez. You tell him…" Kara thought quickly, weaving a plausible half-truth. "Tell him bandits came to the hut. They hurt Abuelo. Burned the house. You escaped. You're scared, hiding. You need food. Warm clothes. For you… and a cousin who's helping you." She met Rosa's gaze. "Don't mention me unless he asks. Don't mention Kara Kecent. Ever. Understand?"
Rosa swallowed hard, then nodded, her jaw setting with a maturity beyond her years. "Sí. Bandits. Hurt Abuelo. Need food and clothes for me and… my cousin."
They spent the afternoon hidden in a dense thicket overlooking the village, watching the comings and goings. Farmers with carts. Women hanging laundry. Children playing in the sparse snow. It looked achingly normal. Safe. Kara's hand never strayed far from the revolver tucked in her waistband, its weight a constant reminder of the darkness shadowing this peaceful scene. She practiced stillness, honing the patience Dante had tried to beat into her on the mountain slopes. *Observe. Wait for the right moment.*
As the sun dipped towards the western peaks, casting long blue shadows, the village activity slowed. Lights winked on in windows. Rosa squeezed Kara's hand. "Now?"
"Now," Kara whispered. "Be quick. Be careful. If anything feels wrong, run straight back here. Don't look back."
Rosa slipped from the thicket, a small, dark shadow flitting down the slope towards the village, keeping to the edges of the olive groves. Kara watched her every step, her heart pounding, the revolver a cold comfort in her hand. Every second stretched into an eternity. She imagined shouts, pursuit, Rosa not returning. The debt felt heavier than ever.
Just as the last light faded, a small figure emerged from the lane leading to the village bakery. Rosa, struggling under the weight of a bulging cloth sack. She hurried back up the slope, darting between the gnarled olive trees. Kara let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Rosa scrambled back into the thicket, breathless, her eyes wide but triumphant. "He believed me!" she panted, dropping the sack. "Señor Alvarez… he was so sad about Abuelo. Angry about bandits! He gave me bread, cheese, dried sausage…" She pulled out the items – a large, round loaf of dense bread, a wedge of Manchego, links of hard chorizo. "And this!" She pulled out two thick, rough-spun woolen ponchos, one dark brown, one grey. "His wife's, he said. Too small for her now. And…" She held out a small, folded piece of paper. "He wrote this. Said to give it to the Guardia Civil when we get to a town. It tells about the bandits. About Abuelo."
Kara took the note. It was a simple, heartfelt plea for justice for Mateo Fernández, describing the attack by unknown bandits. It mentioned Rosa's escape but said nothing of a cousin. It was perfect. A cover story, ready-made. Señor Alvarez had unwittingly given them more than supplies.
"Good," Kara breathed, relief washing over her. "Very good, Rosa." They ate ravenously, the simple food tasting like a feast. The ponchos were a godsend, thick and warm, instantly cutting the biting chill. Kara draped the grey one over her shoulders, pulling the hood low over her face. Rosa bundled up in the brown one.
Disguised, fed, and marginally warmer, they moved under cover of full darkness. Kara avoided the main track, leading Rosa along lesser paths through the foothills, guided by the stars and the distant glow of larger towns visible in the valleys below. Granada lay somewhere in that sea of light. Every step took them further from the mountains and deeper into the territory Lorenzo likely controlled more directly.
Near midnight, they reached the outskirts of a larger town, identifiable by the brighter cluster of lights and the distant hum of traffic. A main road snaked past, leading towards Granada. Kara knew they couldn't walk the entire way. They needed transport. And that meant risk.
They hid in an abandoned stone shed near a small, roadside garage. A single petrol pump stood illuminated under a buzzing fluorescent light. An old, battered Citroën 2CV was parked beside a small workshop. Light glowed from the workshop window.
"Wait here," Kara told Rosa, tucking her deep into the shadowed corner of the shed. "Don't move. Don't make a sound." She pulled the grey poncho hood lower, shadowing her face. The revolver felt like a lead weight. She wasn't going to use it. Not unless she had to. But its presence was a shield, a fragment of Dante's lethal certainty she now carried.
She approached the workshop slowly, staying in the shadows. Peering through the grimy window, she saw a single man inside, perhaps in his fifties, overalls stained with grease. He was hunched over a motorcycle engine, tools scattered around him, a radio playing soft flamenco guitar. He looked tired, absorbed in his work.
Kara took a deep breath, channeling the flat, pragmatic tone Dante had used. *No emotion. Just necessity.* She pushed the door open.
The bell above it jangled. The man looked up, startled, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the hooded figure in the doorway. "¿Sí? Cerrado. Sólo estoy trabajando tarde." *Yes? Closed. Just working late.*
Kara stepped inside, letting the door close behind her. The warmth of the workshop, smelling of oil and metal, was a shock. She kept her face shadowed. "Necesito transporte. A Granada. Ahora." *I need transport. To Granada. Now.* Her voice was low, deliberately rough.
The man frowned, looking her up and down, taking in the worn poncho, the dust. "¿Transporte? A estas horas? No soy taxi, señorita." *Transport? At this hour? I'm not a taxi, miss.* His gaze sharpened. "¿Qué pasa? ¿Problemas?" *What's wrong? Trouble?*
Kara hesitated. The bandit story? Too close to home. The police note? It might raise more questions. She needed leverage. Fast. Her hand drifted slightly towards her waistband beneath the poncho. She didn't draw the revolver, but let her posture suggest its presence. She met his gaze as best she could from the shadows of the hood. "Sí. Problemas. Familia. Muy enfermo. Necesito llegar a Granada. Rápido." *Yes. Trouble. Family. Very sick. I need to get to Granada. Fast.* She infused her voice with a hint of desperate urgency. "Puedo pagar." *I can pay.*
She pulled out the Zippo lighter. Her father's lighter. Solid gold, finely engraved. Worth far more than a ride to Granada. It was the only thing of value she possessed besides the revolver. She placed it on the workbench beside the motorcycle engine. It gleamed dully under the workshop light.
The man stared at it. Then at Kara's shadowed face. Then back at the lighter. He picked it up, hefting its weight, examining the intricate 'K'. His expression was unreadable. Greed warred with caution. He knew this wasn't just a lighter. This spoke of a world far removed from greasy workshops and late-night repairs. A dangerous world.
"Es… valioso," he muttered. *It's… valuable.*
"El viaje," Kara pressed. "El coche." She nodded towards the Citroën outside. *The trip. The car.*
He looked out the window at the battered 2CV, then back at the lighter. He sighed, a long, weary sound. He pocketed the lighter. "Una hora. A Granada. Nada más. Te dejo en las afueras. Sin preguntas." *One hour. To Granada. Nothing else. I drop you on the outskirts. No questions.*
"Sin preguntas," Kara agreed. *No questions.*
"Y necesitas esconderte en el coche," he added, gesturing towards the small vehicle. "La parte de atrás. Cubierta." *And you need to hide in the car. The back. Covered.*
"Sí."
Kara retrieved Rosa from the shed. The girl looked terrified but didn't ask questions. The mechanic, whose name Kara never learned and never asked, pulled dusty tarpaulins and empty sacks from the workshop. He cleared junk from the tiny back seat of the Citroën. "Aquí. Tápense." *Here. Cover yourselves.*
Kara and Rosa squeezed into the cramped space, pulling the tarps and sacks over themselves. The smell of oil, dust, and old vegetables filled Kara's nostrils. The engine coughed to life, a rattling, protesting sound. The car lurched onto the road.
The journey was a jolting, claustrophobic nightmare. Kara held Rosa close, feeling the girl's trembling. Every bump, every turn, every time the car slowed, Kara tensed, expecting police lights, a roadblock, Lorenzo's men. The mechanic drove in silence, the only sounds the protesting engine and the radio still playing soft guitar music. Kara strained to hear any news reports, but it was just music.
Time lost meaning in the dark, cramped space. Kara focused on Rosa's breathing, on the steady vibration of the car, on the cold fire of her resolve. Granada. Dante. Lorenzo. The debt. The lighter was gone. A piece of her father bartered for a ride towards vengeance. It felt fitting.
Finally, the car slowed, turned onto a rougher surface, and stopped. The engine died. Silence. Then, the driver's door opened and closed. Footsteps approached the back. The tarp was pulled back.
"Granada," the mechanic said, his voice flat. He gestured towards the city lights sprawling below them. They were on a high overlook, industrial buildings and dim streetlights visible down the slope. "Allí. Camina hacia las luces. El Albaicín está al otro lado." *There. Walk towards the lights. The Albaicín is on the other side.* He pointed vaguely towards the distant hill crowned with the shadowy mass of the Alhambra. "Y recuerda… sin preguntas." *And remember… no questions.*
He didn't wait for a response. He got back in the Citroën, started the engine, and drove away, leaving them standing on the cold, windswept overlook, the city lights of Granada glittering like fallen stars below.
Rosa shivered beside her, pulling the brown poncho tighter. Kara scanned the scene. The outskirts. Industrial zones. Warehouses. Not the city center. Safer, perhaps, for now. The Albaicín – the old Moorish quarter. Dante's initial refuge. Could it be again? Or was it the first place Lorenzo would look?
The weight of the revolver was her only certainty. The city sprawled before them, vast and teeming, a labyrinth of potential allies and deadly enemies. Dante was somewhere within it, imprisoned. Lorenzo was a ghost haunting its shadows. Kara Kecent stood at the precipice, the broken branch hardened into a spearpoint. The mountains were behind her. The true descent into the heart of darkness had begun.
"Come on, Rosa," Kara said, her voice low and steady in the cold night air. She took the girl's hand. "We walk towards the lights. And we find Dante."
They started down the slope, two small, cloaked figures melting into the sprawling shadows of Granada, the ancient city holding its breath, unaware of the storm walking its streets. The debt collector had arrived.