Somewhere in Argentina
THE CLUB
By JR VELÁRDEZ & JP VELÁRDEZ
Somewhere in Argentina
The full moon distorted the shadows across the orange slope of loose rock. A moment earlier, when my fingers touched the buried metal, I felt neither the cold nor the exhaustion—only an electric, almost violent urgency to pull it from the earth. Now, the wind blew with a different force, as if shoving us away, and the low hiss filtering between the rocks no longer sounded like nature.
It sounded like a warning.
“We have to go,” I said. “Now.”
We switched off the flashlight out of pure reflex. I stuffed the chest into the backpack, and we made our descent with more speed than caution. The stones shifted treacherously beneath our feet. A couple of times my dad came close to slipping into the abyss, but he caught himself on thin air, gasping for breath.
By the time we reached the car, the valley was pitch black. Only the moon above, and off in the distance, the sterile flicker of a couple of headlights on the highway.
We got in. This time, without asking, I took the wheel.
“What are you doing?” my dad asked.
“I’m driving,” I said, handing him the backpack.
I started the engine and pulled out without turning on the headlights until we hit the asphalt. The engine roared. Seconds later, in the rearview mirror, the darkness spat out two lit headlamps. I knew it right then: the black car had followed us.
“We’re not alone.”
My dad didn’t answer. He checked the mirror and pressed the backpack tight against his legs as if trying to smother whatever was inside.
“I know this road,” he said. “You drive. I’ll guide you.”
The speedometer needle began to climb: one-forty, one-sixty. The car hugged the road, devouring a highway stretching into the dark like a rope on the verge of snapping. On either side, bushes whipped past like black specters trying to claw at the windows.
“Sharp turn coming up,” he said, not looking at me. “Right after, a dirt turnoff to the right. A rough track. If you hit it fast, the other car will overshoot.”
I gripped the wheel tighter.
The black car’s lights swelled in the mirror until they flooded the cabin in a blinding white glare. It was right on top of us, glued to our bumper, pushing us. I slammed the pedal to the floor; the engine’s turbo whistled in a choked scream, and the car lurched forward. I killed the high beams and turned blind. The tires lost traction in the mud, and the car fishtailed sideways. My stomach dropped into a void: for a fraction of a second, we were mere passengers to momentum. I straightened out through sheer muscle memory and barreled down the dirt track, the hood barely lit by the moon’s pale glow.
We sat frozen, holding our breath.
In the rearview mirror, the main highway receded. The other car’s twin headlights swept past at full speed, cutting through the night, and plunged into nothingness.
Only then did I ease off the accelerator. The engine settled into a low, heavy purr.
My dad let out a held breath.
“Call Pablo,” he said. “Right now.”
I pulled out my phone, my fingers still stiff from gripping the wheel. The screen illuminated my face with a spectral glow. I had barely any bar. Still, I dialed.
It rang once, twice, three times. Nobody answered.
I tried again. The same silence.
I tried El Loco. It went straight to voicemail.
Then a different kind of cold washed over me—a cold that had nothing to do with the mountain wind. It was the certainty that something had gone wrong.
“They’re not answering,” I said.
My dad closed his eyes, surrendering to the gloom.
I looked at the metal chest resting on his legs—heavy, shielded, guarding a secret that was nowhere near what we had believed.
“We shouldn’t have split up...” he whispered.
