CHAPTER 13: THE NEW ORDER
The death of Oslo didn't just leave a scar.
It left a vacuum.
And in the Royal Mint of Spain, a vacuum doesn't stay empty long.
Someone always steps in.
Tokyo took control.
Berlin handed it over the moment Oslo was laid out.
No ceremony. No applause. Just a quiet shift.
He looked her in the eye and said, "They'll follow you now. Don't waste that."
And walked away.
Tokyo hadn't asked for command.
But she knew what needed to be done.
First: restructure.
She split the Mint into quadrants. Every crew member now had rotating patrols. No more idle hands. No more unsupervised zones.
Nairobi controlled the print floor. Moscow handled internal surveillance. Denver was assigned to lockdown systems and corridors. Helsinki who hadn't spoken since Oslo's death became Arturo's personal warden.
The rest? Followed Tokyo's word like gospel.
Because she didn't speak like Berlin.
She gave orders like someone who bled for them.
Arturo, broken-legged and bound, didn't scream anymore.
He sat in silence near the printer.
Sometimes muttering to himself.
Sometimes watching the bills fly out with his name burned into each.
A million euros per hostage.
That was Tokyo's new promise.
"For every hostage who helps finish the print cycle, one million euros. You walk out rich. Or you don't walk out at all."
Motivation soared.
The hostages became co-conspirators.
And the money kept pouring.
Meanwhile, I moved base.
I couldn't stay in the same hideout. Raquel was close too close. Her hunches were no longer guesses. They were inches away from truth.
So I drove four hours north.
Into the mountains. Into another safehouse. Same design. Different air.
I brought my notes. My files. And one photo:
A small boy in a hospital bed.
Me.
And the man beside him, smiling.
My father.
The man the system shot like a dog at a bank entrance.
Because he dared to save his son.
I opened the channels again. Called Tokyo.
She didn't ask where I was.
She only said, "We've stabilized. Arturo is neutralized. Print cycle at 41%. Oslo..."
She hesitated.
"Still in the cold room. Helsinki hasn't let anyone move him."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see.
"Good," I whispered.
She waited.
"You still believe in this, right?" she asked finally.
I looked at the photo again.
"I don't just believe in it. I am it."
Raquel was falling apart.
The fire footage had confirmed it: Arturo had gone rogue. The Mint crew had responded with precision.
Too much precision.
It wasn't random.
It was tactical.
"Damn it," she muttered. "They're not falling apart. They're evolving."
Angel, her deputy, tried to calm her.
"You're too close to this. You need distance."
But Raquel couldn't get distance.
Because in the last drone pass, in the smoke from the eastern roofline…
She saw a figure.
Wearing a black coat.
Not a red jumpsuit.
Not a mask.
She recognized the walk.
The posture.
The curve of his neck.
The Professor.
She didn't report it.
She drove.
Alone.
No backup. No briefing.
Just a gun. Her badge.
And her rage.
It took her five hours.
She stopped at every gas station north of Madrid.
Showed the surveillance photo.
"This man. You seen him?"
Some shook their heads.
Some lied.
But one girl a waitress blinked.
"You mean the guy who eats waffles every morning with a red notebook?"
Raquel smiled.
"Exactly him."
By 11 p.m., she reached the cabin.
A low structure hidden by pine trees.
She parked half a mile away.
Approached on foot.
Gun drawn.
Heart loud.
Because if this was it if he was really here then it all ended tonight.
I was making tea.
That's how I'll remember it.
Not a grand moment.
Not a chessboard or screen.
Just a cup of mint tea on a wooden counter.
When the door creaked.
And Raquel stepped in.
Gun first.
Eyes wide.
"Miguel?"
I froze.
"Raquel."
Silence.
Then:
"Are you him?" she asked. Voice trembling. "Are you The Professor?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't need to.
She saw it in my face.
The truth.
She raised the gun higher.
"I should kill you."
"I know."
Tears welled in her eyes.
"Everything you said to me every story was a lie."
"No," I whispered. "The stories were real. The names were lies."
She stepped closer.
The barrel was inches from my chest.
"You used me."
"I loved you."
She shook.
And then…
She dropped the gun.
Fell into my arms.
And we broke.
Together.
We didn't speak for hours.
Just held each other on the floor.
Raquel's badge lay discarded beside the stove.
My photo of my father tucked into her pocket.
And in that cabin, in that moment, a war shifted.
Because love doesn't play by rules.
And betrayal cuts both ways.