Code of Shadows

By Gaurav Garg

Mateo is an enforcer, a skilled killer in a world ruled by blood and power. But behind the hardened mask, a sliver of compassion remains. The lives he breaks are sacrifices to protect the one person left who depends on him. Every act of violence pushes him closer to the darkness, making him the monster he is paid to be.

 

When one bloody job spirals out of control, he is betrayed. Now, Mateo is the hunted, on the run with not just his life on the line, but the hope that clings to his soul. But with enemies closing in and a past he can never fully outrun, Mateo must do more than survive.

 

This is a tale of violence and despair, where the lines between right and wrong blur in the dust. It asks: Can a man forged by brutality rise above it? Is there an escape from a path stained red? Or are some destinies carved in bloodshed, with the only choices being who dies and who walks away scarred?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gaurav Garg
• Release date: Feb 19, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223637868

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Collection

Mateo wasn't just a muscle-bound figure of fear – that was part of the job, as ingrained as the calloused grip on his pistol. There were moments, though, brief flickers the others never caught, where Mateo was less machine, more a man trying to reconcile the world he'd created with the fading ghost of something softer.

This collection was meant to be routine. Debt unpaid, example made, La Familia's shadow solidifying its grip on another piece of this sun-beaten strip of San Cristobal. He knew all the words that led here, the threats uttered with empty smiles that turned to stone when payment didn't come. There was the ritual of it all, the show of respect mixed with menace that always left blood or broken bones, never just a polite reminder of overdue debts.

Today's target painted a different picture, though. Not a typical tough-talking bar owner trying to skirt responsibility or some slick hustler playing with money he didn't have. Instead, it was Señora Anaya, a small, sun-weathered woman who ran a tiny panadería – the smell of her sweet rolls an anchor in his memory from better days. Mateo lingered behind the others, shadows hiding his frown that no one in La Familia had the right to see.

Their leader, Rico, always had a knack for the theatrical. That voice, rough yet smooth as molasses, dripped with false condolences as he leaned on Señora Anaya's cracked wooden counter.

Such a shame, truly. We offered protection, yes? Fair rates, good for business. A pause, and the flicker of a grin too white against his tanned skin. Yet, here we are.

Señora Anaya's hands shook, not with fear, but a deep exhaustion that went beyond her age. Mateo glimpsed the photo taped near her cash box: two bright-eyed children, smiling proudly into the lens. Her sons, likely grown and sent across the border for a promise of a life free from their mother's struggles. Each unpaid cent in this deal meant less food on their table, letters sent home filled with optimism masking hunger.

I tried... Her voice quivered, but then her spine straightened. The hurricane... repairs took more than expected. Please, Señor Rico, two more weeks...I swear...

His laughter cut her off, harsh and sudden. Mateo flinched, not at the noise, but at the way hope withered in the old woman's eyes. Ah, Señora, but time... Rico drew out the word with cruel enjoyment, Time does not bend for any of us. Debts don't disappear with tears.

I will repay... she started, but his hand shot out, slamming into her face with a resounding slap.

Mateo hadn't planned to react. That hesitation, that moment where he should have felt nothing, a blank cog in the gang's machine... something in him rebelled. Before thought followed intent, he'd closed the distance. His fingers were clamped around Rico's wrist with a strength born of necessity.

Surprised eyes flickered towards him, followed by a flare of anger. Mateo, what the hell is –

Señora, I apologize for his rudeness, The words spilled out, not in defiance of Rico, but because they were true. His accent was thick, voice as blunt as the weapon now subtly pointed toward Rico's ribs. "A change of plans. You will receive two weeks... He squeezed, forcing Rico to hiss in pain, ...won't you, Jefe?"

Rico prided himself on control. But before the bewildered Señora, that facade cracked. Fear mixed with fury, a dangerous combination. Fine, he choked out, two weeks. Then double payments. The smile he forced after was as crooked as a broken promise.

Only when Señora Anaya was weeping out thanks, clutching Mateo's hand like a lifeline, did he subtly relax his grip. This hadn't been altruism. It was survival, not of his own body, but of that sliver of his soul which hadn't completely hardened. His younger brother, Tomas, still had that innocent optimism the bakery and stolen childhood had taken from him. Mateo worked this dirty job so Tomas didn't have to. The moment that faded was the moment Mateo lost everything.

That night, tucked into a tiny shack he and Tomas called home, anger warred with guilt. One act of half-baked kindness didn't make him a good man. He was a protector, not by choice but of consequence. Mateo glanced at the worn photo of his parents, eyes haunted and proud, before they'd met a fate Mateo only ensured no one else shared. It fueled his ruthlessness... until today.

Chapter 2: La Familia

La Familia's dinners were always held in the garish villa of an ousted politician, its stolen opulence fitting for the organization that was the true power in San Cristobal. Mateo had climbed just high enough for these summons to become unwelcome rituals – a step above the nameless muscle on the streets, yet miles removed from the inner circle who truly dined at the king's table.

That night, every chandelier felt like a spotlight pointed at him. Whispers circulated that usually swirled around Rico, who strutted beside The Patron himself, as though this underboss owned the very ground they walked upon. It was the old man Mateo truly watched, and despite the weathered wrinkles and a frailness his posture tried to hide, his eyes still possessed a sharp predatory cunning. This wasn't the leader whose power might waver – yet something within the power structure was shifting.

Mateo, The Patron addressed him directly, bypassing Rico with an ease that sent a ripple of satisfaction through him and a flare of open annoyance across Rico's face. Your... initiative with the panadera showed potential. An understanding of balance.

Merely... efficient management, Mateo replied, tasting the metallic tang of unease. Direct praise never meant good things in their world. This felt like a trap before it had even been sprung.

The Patron chuckled, a low, rough sound. Modesty has no place here. Ambition? Ah, now that... We shall find good use for that. An imperious wave of his hand, and a figure Mateo hardly recognized emerged from the shadows – one of the old guard, a legend spoken of more than seen these days. Don Salazar.

His face was worn leather, lines etching decades of ruthlessness. Tell me, boy, his voice crackled, Spanish thick with an archaic accent, How well do you use that gun?

The question had no room for polite explanation, his skills were known. It was a display of disrespect from the old guard, and The Patron watched Mateo's response with hungry eyes. He swallowed the flare of anger. Not because pride wasn't a luxury when your life was one wrong move from ending, but because this was something even Rico, with all his cockiness, dared not protest.

Well enough to leave those who matter unharmed, Mateo answered carefully, choosing words with the caution of a man handling gunpowder. He knew Salazar's reputation – quick to bloodshed, believing new methods, like paying bribes instead of always leaving corpses, made La Familia weak.

Salazar barked out a humorless laugh. The matter in question is quite the opposite of unharmed.

That shift set off Mateo’s every alarm. This wasn't a loyalty test, but recruitment. And recruitment into Salazar's faction meant becoming an executioner for anyone The Patron found troublesome within their own ranks. Rico couldn't hide his smile now; in Mateo declining, he saw weakness, but in accepting...well, the lifespan of any so openly favored by the old guard wasn't long.

Around the table, Mateo tracked the glances - veiled interest, feigned boredom, but one was the raw burn of resentment. Not an outsider, but Jaime, another enforcer on the rise, known for viciousness mirroring Salazar's old-school style. Mateo had outshone him once, in a border territory skirmish with the Lobos, and the memory sparked with ugly promise in Jaime's eyes.

His answer wouldn't be just words, but a gamble with no guaranteed safe outcome. La Familia has always provided me and my own with... It would be easy to feign devotion, but Salazar would sniff out that lie the way a vulture scents carrion. ...opportunity. My gun serves those who offer that.

It was calculated arrogance. No open allegiance to Salazar, yet a reminder that while La Familia held his leash, their grip could turn from reward to punishment just as quickly. Salazar was amused, the Patron less so, yet even under that scrutinizing gaze, Mateo detected a glint, not of approval, but of recognition. His future had just splintered into half a dozen potential paths, each more littered with blood and betrayal than the last.

The rest of dinner became a backdrop of barely-masked plotting. Rico was in full charm offensive mode, schmoozing a local official whose pockets they'd generously lined recently. Through it all, Mateo caught snatches of conversation, veiled barbs between mid-tier bosses that were barely concealed threats. It was like watching a den of vipers, gauging when their next strike would be made.

Best watch your back, Mateo, came a low hiss meant only for his ears. Jaime, leaning close under pretense of offering a drink, the stench of cheap cologne and cheaper threats mingling. Eyes are on you, friend. Rise too fast, and gravity is just as unforgiving.

That night, sleep refused to come, Tomas's soft snores the only sound in their cramped home. Mateo stared at the shadows that took distorted shapes, every potential whisper in the silence becoming an assassin sent by The Patron, by Salazar, or now... by Jaime. Each flicker of imagined movement was his future – not one of escape his brother deserved, but of endless nights like this, waiting for the bullet his ruthless ambition had invited.

You should have done pastries with Tomas, he muttered into the darkness, the words as bitter as regret. It wouldn't change anything, wouldn't stop him from taking whatever dark opportunity fate flung his way. But that kernel of something he'd not yet let fully shrivel away still howled its silent protest. One foot was planted on the road to power, the other trapped in the faded ghosts of innocence he used as justification, not motivation. Mateo was becoming a monster of his own creation, and in the echoes of those phantom gunshots, he wondered if, down the bloodied path ahead, La Familia would leave enough of him left to bury.

Chapter 3: Border Run

The border run wasn't the sleek operation it was made out to be in gangster fantasies. There were no polished black SUVs, no crisp suits. This was a world of mud-spattered jeeps, desperate faces crammed into dusty truck beds, and the lingering stink of sweat and fear that clung to everything. Mateo hated these runs, loathed the role he played. Still, they paid better than most anything La Familia offered, and more importantly, took him away from the viper's nest of San Cristobal for a short, desperate reprieve.

His partner for this debacle was Carlos, an old hand at this deadly game. Where Mateo was all lean muscle and barely contained simmering fury, Carlos was weathered, not so much from age, but from years of grinding whatever optimism he might have possessed into a cynical paste.

The softness hasn't worn off you yet, Mateo? Carlos grumbled the moment they met, eyeing the extra bottle of water tucked carefully beside Mateo's backpack. The desert makes fools of men. Won't be no one thanking you when we have to leave behind those too weak to carry their weight.

His words grated, not entirely untrue, but cruel all the same. This time, it wasn't a single woman with desperate pleas, but two families – eight people crammed into the jeep, risking everything for a taste of the 'promised land' preached by smugglers paid with blood money. Each face stared back at Mateo, a reminder of Tomas, of the promise that this path could lead to somewhere, or something, even a hair less awful than this.

He forced himself to match Carlos's hard glint. La Familia takes care of its own. These ain't my business, long as they keep up and do as ordered, everyone gets where they're going. It was a lie they both knew, the unspoken rule echoing in the silence: weakness got left behind, whether as a lesson or to just lessen the load.

Their journey felt like a descent into hell. Searing days were followed by frigid nights, every mile further blurring the line