On a normal morning, I imagine this zocalo, lined with multihued buildings with a vaulted kiosk at the center of the square for concerts, is bustling with people from all walks of life, busy with their shopping or socializing with friends under the arcades.

But right now, it’s a battleground.

From what I can glean from our position, the parachutes that litter the cobblestone streets are the objective.

Gunmen with red-and-black bandanas pulled over their faces load the large cargo boxes into a squadron of pickup trucks, spraying bullets mercilessly all across the plaza.

I manage to make out the symbol on the containers—two shaking hands that form a heart—before Mira pulls me back to safety behind a column. Bullets ricochet off the stone where my head was just moments before.

“It’s the Salazar cartel—there’s a scorpion on the truck doors,” I inform Mira. “They’re stealing a humanitarian aid drop from the town.”

From the other end of the colonnade, two men brandishing Roman candles scream “¡No más!” and run into the open square. No more!

They fire their weapons straight at the cartel, blowing two Salazar gunmen to the ground. The men thrash about screaming, clutching their stomachs, trying to put out the flames. The militia members race for one of the cargo boxes but are easily mowed downed before our eyes by three separate bandana-clad men wielding automatic rifles.

Here it seems, just like back home, civilians are denied true weapons to fight back.

The ones with the guns always win.

I grip the handle of my pistol.

“Ava, no,” Mira cautions, firmly taking hold of my arm to keep me back. “We need to find our team.”

Haven. Lucía. Did they make it here? Are they bunkered down, or did they join in the conflict?

The gunfire ceases. They’re reloading.

“Let’s move, now!” I tell Mira, and as one we push away from our columned shelter and scramble through the church’s arched doors.

We’re greeted by shafts of early morning light through bullet-ridden walls and the potent smell of spicy cooking.

Then the threatening sound of guns cocking followed by hostile demands in Spanish.

“Who are you?” my ear cuff translates.

“Don’t come any farther,” another half-panicked voice orders.

Mira and I freeze in the center of the lobby, reluctantly lowering our weapons so they won’t shoot.

The armed man and woman are concealed somewhere in the shadowy far right corner. No way I’d be able to shoot my gun before one of them fired a bullet straight into my chest. But maybe if I charge them . . .

“Somos amigos de Lucía Salazar,” Mira declares, loud enough to make certain she’s heard. “¿Está ella aquí?” We are friends of Lucía Salazar. Is she here?

Silence, but for the violent din of battle raging outside.

I shift my weight to the balls of my feet, ready to attack. We can’t be certain the People’s Militia even still operates from here—it’s been months since Lucía left this town. These could be cartel gunmen.

On the point of making my offensive move, the cathedral doors burst open behind us. Mira and I hurtle out of the way, pressing ourselves against the stone walls, poised for another threat.

The cartel would steal from a church? The town’s humanitarian aid isn’t enough?

But it’s not a cartel gunman that charges into the lobby. It’s a stocky middle-aged man wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a double-holstered belt weighted with two pistols. There’s a limp to his gait, and he clutches a wailing child in his arms.

Blood smears the girl’s forehead.

“Two more injured by the clock tower, go now!” my ear cuff translates the man’s shouts as he runs for the sanctuary.

“At once, Matías!”

Matías Villarreal, the People’s Militia’s leader.

The militia man and woman, who moments before had their pistols aimed at us, emerge from their hidden guard position, their mettle returned at the sight of their commander. They dash out into the fight, screaming, “No more!”

Pressed into the shadows and scarcely daring to breathe, Mira and I watch Matías kick open the sanctuary doors, revealing an improvised field hospital. A woman in a white doctor’s coat rushes forward to take the wounded child.

Arms unburdened, Matías turns from the sanctuary and unsheathes a four-foot Mexican white oak walking stick from a scabbard across his back. He leans his brawny weight on the twisted wood with a large square hand.

“You are not the cons or you would have already fired your weapons.”

The cons. Los contras.

His name for the Salazar cartel.

The look in his hard-as-nails eyes is lethal. How did he sense we were here?

“Who are you?” he asks, voice gruff. Threatening.

Making sure the cloth of my shemagh covers my telltale red hair—would Matías or his militia even care about a foreign wanted criminal?—I step out from the wall and repeat that we are friends of Lucía Salazar.

“¿Ella está aquí?” Is she here?

Surprise flicks across the man’s face; he’s clearly caught off guard. His free hand moves to one of the gold-plated pistols at his waist. Did he commandeer his weapons from the cons?

“There has never been a Lucía Salazar here,” he says, a clear warning hanging in the smoky air.

He’s protecting her, even now.

But did our team make it, or does he truly believe Lucía’s still out of the country, on the run with her family?

The screeching sound of retreating tires—the cartel leaving with their booty—causes Matías to sheathe his walking stick. He draws both his pistols, but his aim is not on us.

“No more!” he bellows, charging out into the perilous plaza, guns blazing, synchronized firework blasts from the rooftop covering both his flanks.

A leader willing to get his own hands bloody. Like Rayla.

I see why Lucía followed this man.

“Do you think our team ran into sicarios?” Mira asks, anxious. She steps forward and searches the chipped sanctuary booths turned hospital beds for a familiar face. “Should we go looking for them?”

“Listen,” I say, holding up my hand for quiet.

The gunfire has ceased. The supply raid is over.

A nurse who attends a patient on a nearby pew quickly examines Mira and me from afar, his trained eye instantly spotting the damage to our bodies.

“You’re hurt, please come inside,” he says.

Instantly Mira and I fall back, away from his gaze.

I forgot that I was even injured. Staying alive and reuniting with our mission team has been my sole focus since the convoy attack. Now, having been reminded, the pain from the wild animal bite in my thigh pulsates through me like a white-hot wave.

So does the concern.

The bite wounds on Mira’s calves have formed bloody pools at her feet. Javelinas can carry rabies. Mira and I will both need immune globulin shots as soon as possible.

Then all thoughts for my sister and myself die when Haven and Barend storm into the church carrying a stretcher with a writhing body between them.

Oh God. Who is that? One of ours?

I can’t see their face.

“Kano!” Mira screams.