Chapter 7 - The Collapse of Avant-Garde
For forty-five minutes, the vault of Banco del Bajío was a theater of silent warfare. Outside the glass, Rodrigo’s smooth arrogance slowly devolved into visible panic. His phone was ringing constantly; he would look at the screen, his face turning angrier with every call, before pacing back and forth across the marble lobby.
Hector Salazar was arguing furiously with the bank’s corporate legal counsel, waving his notarized paper, but the bank staff refused to touch the vault controls.
Then, the main lobby doors of the bank exploded open.
Six federal agents in dark blue tactical gear, bearing the insignia of the Fiscalía General de la República (FGR), swarmed into the lobby, weapons drawn. They didn't look at the bank guards; they went straight for Hector and Rodrigo.
"Hector Salazar! Rodrigo Salazar!" the lead agent shouted, unfolding an official federal warrant bearing the blue seal of the high court. "You are under arrest for federal tax fraud, illicit enrichment, and conspiracy against public infrastructure."
Rodrigo threw his hands up, his eyes wide with terror as an agent slammed him against the marble pillar, clicking heavy steel handcuffs over his wrists. "This is a mistake!" Rodrigo yelled, his eyes finding Mariana through the vault glass. "Mariana! Tell them! It’s a family business! Mariana!"
Mariana walked out of the vault slowly, carrying the accordion file in her hand, her mother walking proudly beside her. She stopped two feet from her husband, looking down at him as he sat on the floor, his expensive suit stained with dust.
"It was never your business, Rodrigo," Mariana said, her voice carrying across the silent bank lobby. "You were just the errand boy for your uncle's crimes. And you thought you could erase my family to cover your tracks."
"Mariana, please," Rodrigo pleaded, his voice cracking, tears finally appearing in his eyes. "My mother... she has a heart condition. If you do this, she’ll die in prison."
"Your mother flushed my father’s ashes down a toilet because she thought we were too small to fight back," Mariana said, her face an unyielding mask of stone. "Tell her that the bad energy has finally cleared out of the house."
Hector Salazar didn't scream or fight. He looked at the accordion file in Mariana’s hand and closed his eyes, knowing that his thirty-year career as the shadow broker of Jalisco was officially over.
As the agents led them out into the bright Guadalajara sun, surrounded by flashing blue lights and news cameras that had already arrived, Dr. Fernando Torres stepped into the lobby, shaking Mariana’s hand with deep respect.
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"Your father would be proud of you, Mariana," Torres said, looking at the documents. "This is enough to dismantle the entire network. Not just the Salazars, but the corrupt politicians who took their bribes for the transit project."
"There is one more thing, Fernando," Mariana said, her eyes turning toward the residential district of Zapopan. "The house. The house they tried to trap us in. I want it cleared today."
