Chapter 1
Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú
March 17, 4:12 p.m.
The emergency speaker blared a warning that gunmen were on campus. It was every school administrator’s nightmare, and it was coming true in all of its horrifying detail. Professor Francisco Andrade snatched his phone from its cradle and dialed his vice president, Dr. Andrea Fernández. “Andrea, what’s going on? Are gunmen on campus?”
“Francisco.” Andrade could hear Fernández fumble the phone. “Are you there?”
“Yes. Where are the gunmen?”
“Our security video captured them entering your building—”
The line went dead.
“Andrea? Are you there? Hello. Hello!” Francisco pounded the keys, but silence filled the line. He set the phone back on its cradle. Though no one had fired any shots, one thing was inescapable: The gunmen were coming for him.
Andrade had to hurry. He knew they wanted the document containing the information that he and his associate had spent over a year researching. He couldn’t allow the gunmen to find it, even at the cost of his life.
The document—a parchment slightly larger than a standard piece of paper—had to be protected, both from the gunmen and from damage, but where to hide it? In a file cabinet? No, too easy. Maybe between the pages of a large book? Better, but again, the men after him would tear apart his office.
Gunshots echoed down the hallway, followed by screaming.
“Take cover!”
More gunshots.
He was running out of time. Andrade searched frantically, the perspiration coming in sheets now as his heart beat wildly. He closed and locked his office door, as if that would keep them out.
Andrade’s eyes fell upon the pictures hanging on his wall, and an idea struck him. He removed a picture and laid it face down on his desk. He then removed the parchment from his desk drawer and compared sizes. They matched. His fingers fumbled with the small metal tabs that held the picture backing in place. He forced one up, then another, cutting his finger on the third, cursing his injury.
He forced up the fourth and then the fifth, lifting the backing from the frame but leaving the picture and the decorative matting.
Footsteps stopped outside his office door.
Andrade dropped the parchment into the frame and, with shaking hands, replaced the backing, forcing down several tabs.
Pounding on his door told him he was out of time.
Andrade rehung the picture, then shoved the other one into his desk drawer.
A thundering crash echoed throughout his office as the door caved inward and several armed men funneled into the room, their faces concealed by black masks. They all trained their weapons on Andrade, who could only stare. A final gunman entered and walked to Andrade, stopping just short of him.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Andrade sputtered.
The gunman cocked his weapon and pointed it at Andrade’s head. “I won’t ask again.”