Chapter 92: Night Fishing

Salt crust cracked on Elena's hands as she worked the hydraulic winch. Three nights straight on the water had left her fingers raw, but they couldn't risk coming in during daylight anymore. The Mariposa's old depth finder pulsed steadily – forty fathoms, way too deep for the snapper they were pretending to chase. Her father had picked this spot carefully, knowing Los Tiburones' patrol boats rarely ventured past the continental shelf.

Waves slapped against the hull in a rhythm she'd known since childhood. The Furuno radar's green glow caught the worry lines around her father's eyes as he adjusted their heading. Miguel's hands moved with the certainty of thirty years at sea, compensating for the cross-current without seeming to think.

"One-eight-five, mija." The old Volvo Penta coughed like it needed its morning coffee. They'd been nursing the engine along since the cartels started controlling parts imports, using filtered cooking oil when they couldn't get proper diesel. "Current's running stronger tonight."

Elena wiped salt spray from her face, tasting brine and exhaust. The municipal blackout had left Costa del Sol's coastline darker than she'd ever seen it. Only the phosphorescent wake behind them broke the darkness – chemicals from the factories upstream making the water glow sickly green. Perfect cover for fishing where they shouldn't, though the muzzle flashes from the financial district suggested fishing might be the least of anyone's problems tonight.

The net's tension meter chirped – its old speaker cracked from years of sea spray. Two hundred kilos, moving wrong.

"Papa—"

"I see it." Miguel killed the engine, his hand finding the worn throttle without looking. The sudden silence made the distant gunfire seem closer. They'd done this too many times lately – pretending not to notice things that could get them killed. "Like that runner last month, maybe."

Her stomach clenched. They'd found one of the cartel's couriers floating face-down, surgical cuts where his implants should have been. Los Tiburones had questioned every boat in the harbor afterward. She glanced toward Pier 14, where the Ramirez family's trawler still gathered rust. Four months now, and nobody talked about where the family had gone.

The net broke surface with a shower of glowing droplets. Her work lamp caught something that wasn't fish: high-end tactical gear, the kind that cost more than most families made in a year. Blood mixed with seawater as she swung the light lower, finding precision cuts where military-grade implants had been removed. Professional work, not the usual cartel butchery.

"Madre de Dios." Miguel's whisper carried decades of knowing when to look away. His calloused fingers found the St. Peter medallion he'd worn since Carlos's funeral. "Is he—?"

"Breathing." Elena's hands moved through the first aid assessment they'd all learned after Carlos. Chest wounds, probably a collapsed lung from the breathing pattern. Multiple fractures. Whoever he was, he couldn't be much older than her brother had been. "Internal bleeding, from this bruising."

The man's lips moved. She leaned closer, smelling copper and cordite under the diesel fumes.

"Coming..." Blood bubbled with the word. "They're coming..."

Her father's hand found her shoulder – the gesture they'd shared too often since Carlos. "Elena." The distant gunfire punctuated his words. "If Los Tiburones find out we helped someone with government implants..."

"Look at how they took them out, Papa." She traced her light over the surgical precision, so different from what they'd done to Carlos. "Clean work. Like they wanted to preserve them." Her throat tightened. "They're learning. Getting better at it."

Lightning split the sky, catching on the brass casings scattered across the financial district. Elena saw her father's face shift in that flash – from fear to something harder. Something that remembered how the harbor used to be, before the cartels had carved up their home piece by piece.

"The government district's ten kilometers in." He checked the radar's gain, habits too deep to break even in the blackout. "With the checkpoints..."

"We use Mama's old route." Elena found the man's pulse – weak but steady. She pulled their first aid kit from its hidden compartment, the supplies more extensive than any fishing boat should need. "The maintenance tunnels. Entry's still clear at Pier 23."

Her father went still. "Your mother moved antibiotics. Basic supplies. This is—"

"Different?" She started bandaging, hands steady from too much practice. "They're killing people tonight, Papa. Like they killed Carlos." The surgical cuts around the implant ports were textbook perfect. "Whoever he is, he was fighting back."

The depth finder pinged off the continental shelf – forty-five fathoms now. Miguel's hands moved across familiar controls, plotting a course only the old fishermen remembered. "Get him below. Quick and quiet."

"Just night fishing." Elena helped lift the man's broken body, feeling the unnatural chill of blood loss. The Mariposa's motion compensators would help stabilize him, but he needed real medical care soon. "Nothing worth their notice."

They cut through dark waters, guided by memory and stubborn hope. The depth finder marked their approach to the hidden pier – fifteen fathoms, twelve, eight. Behind them, Costa del Sol burned. Ahead, storm clouds promised cover, already dulling the gunfire's flash.

Elena whispered to their unconscious passenger as she changed bandages. "Rest. The sea gave you back to us. Now we get you home." Her hands stayed steady, the way Carlos had taught her when they were kids playing doctor. "Carefully."

The gangs might own the docks, but they didn't own every shadow. Didn't know every tunnel that generations of fishermen had carved beneath the port's skin. Some secrets stayed secret because people remembered what their city had been. What it could be again.

Storm winds carried them home through darkness, while overhead, their city died and was reborn in fire and faith and the simple, stubborn courage of those who refused to look away.