Six months after the fall of The Hand, the network had grown to seven cities across Jamaica and into parts of neighboring countries, its reach extending like strong roots through soil that had long been parched of justice. Headquarters in Kingston had expanded from a modest warehouse to a renovated three-story building on the edge of the city center—its exterior unassuming to avoid drawing unwanted attention, but inside buzzing with activity from dawn until long after dark. Maps covered every available wall space, color-coded pins marking communities they'd helped secure, supply routes they'd established, and areas still under threat from criminal elements or corrupt officials.
On a rainy morning when the sky hung low and heavy over the city, turning the streets into rivers of runoff, a sharp knock echoed against the heavy steel back door—one that only those in the know would think to use. Clara, who'd been reviewing reports at her desk with Enzo and Isabella, paused mid-sentence at the sound. "That's not a delivery we were expecting," she said, pushing back her chair and moving toward the door. The rain had been falling steadily for hours, and she'd already sent two teams out to check on vulnerable families in low-lying areas prone to flooding. The last thing she needed was another complication, but something in the rhythm of the knock—firm, deliberate, not frantic or aggressive—made her curious.
When she pulled open the door, she found a young woman standing on the threshold, soaked to the bone in a thin canvas jacket that did nothing to keep out the downpour. Water streamed from her dark, curly hair, plastering strands to her forehead, and a jagged scar cutting across her left eyebrow stood out starkly against her wet skin. But it was her eyes that held Clara's attention—dark brown and clear, burning with a determination that Clara recognized immediately, because she'd seen that same fire in her own reflection countless times.
"I'm Zara Mendez," the woman said, her voice steady despite the fact that she was shivering slightly from the cold. She didn't ask to come in or beg for help—she simply stood there, holding herself straight, and met Clara's gaze directly. "I need your help. And I think I can help you too."
Clara stepped aside without hesitation, gesturing for her to enter. "Come in out of the rain first," she said, leading the way down a narrow hallway to a small break room where a kettle sat on the stove, still warm from earlier. "Isabella, grab some dry clothes from the supply closet—something warm. Enzo, can you make some tea?"
As Zara peeled off her wet jacket and sat at the small table, steam rising from the floor where water dripped from her clothes, she began to speak. She told them about her hometown—Ocho Rios Junction, a small farming community nestled in the hills a few hours north of Kingston, where her family had worked the same plot of land for four generations, growing coffee and ackee alongside vegetables they shared with their neighbors. When she was fifteen, a syndicate calling themselves The Root had moved into the area, claiming to have purchased the land rights from absentee owners who'd long since abandoned their properties.
But Zara knew the truth—they'd forged documents, intimidated the few lawyers who'd tried to help, and used violence against anyone who dared to resist. Her father, who'd been one of the first to speak out, had been beaten so badly he'd spent three months in the hospital. After that, many in the community had felt they had no choice but to sign over their land or work as virtual slaves for the syndicate, who paid barely enough to survive and charged exorbitant prices for basic supplies at the only store in town.
"I was still in school then," Zara said, wrapping her hands around the mug of hot tea Isabella had placed in front of her. "I felt so helpless—watching my parents work twice as hard for half the reward, seeing my neighbors go hungry because they couldn't afford to buy back the food they'd grown themselves. When I graduated two years ago, I knew I couldn't just leave. So I started talking to people—quietly at first, in secret meetings at the church or in people's homes after dark."
She'd spent months building trust, listening to everyone's concerns, and documenting every act of exploitation—from the unfair prices to the forced labor to the way the syndicate had taken control of the only well in the area, charging families for water they'd once drawn freely. Slowly but surely, she'd organized her neighbors into a collective, teaching them their legal rights, helping them gather evidence, and planning a peaceful protest to draw attention to their plight. For a while, it seemed like they might succeed—local media had expressed interest, and even some officials in the nearby town had promised to look into their claims.
"But then everything fell apart," Zara continued, her jaw tightening as she remembered. "The syndicate must have gotten wind of what we were doing. Three days before the protest was supposed to happen, they brought in mercenaries from outside the area—men with guns who didn't care about community ties or who was related to whom. They raided our meeting place, destroyed all our evidence, and beat anyone who tried to stand up to them. My mother was hurt trying to protect our neighbor's children, and my father—he tried to reason with them, told them we just wanted what was fair. They broke his arm and warned him that next time, it would be his neck."
She'd managed to escape that night, slipping out the back window of their home while the mercenaries were patrolling the streets, taking nothing but the clothes on her back and a worn leather satchel she'd kept hidden under her bed. For weeks, she'd moved from town to town, sleeping in abandoned buildings or with families who'd heard about what was happening in Ocho Rios Junction and were willing to help. Along the way, she'd heard stories about Clara and the network—how they'd stood up to powerful forces, how they'd helped communities take back control of their lives. She'd tracked them to Kingston by following whispers and small clues, walking part of the way when she couldn't afford transportation, and finally arriving at their door that rainy morning.
"I've been following your work for months," she said, reaching into her satchel and pulling out a thick notebook, its pages slightly wrinkled from the rain but still intact. She opened it to reveal maps she'd drawn by hand, detailed notes on The Root's operations, and lists of names—some of the syndicate's members, some of the officials they'd corrupted, and some of the people in neighboring communities who were at risk of being targeted next. "They're planning to expand into your network's cities next. I know their leaders, their routes, and how they operate. I know their weaknesses too—because I've been studying them for two years, trying to find a way to beat them."
Clara leaned forward, looking over the notebook with Enzo and Isabella. The maps were precise, the observations sharp and well-organized. Everything Zara was saying matched up with the vague reports they'd been receiving about new criminal activity in rural areas—supply trucks going missing, farmers being pressured to sell their land, threats against community leaders.
"We don't take new members lightly," Clara said, her voice gentle but firm. "After what happened with Alessandro, we have to be careful. But what you're telling us—this is exactly the kind of threat we were built to fight."
Zara nodded, understanding in her eyes. "I wouldn't expect anything less," she said. "I know trust has to be earned. But I also know that I can't fight them alone anymore—and neither can you, if you want to stop them before they get too strong. I've lost almost everything already. I'm not afraid to risk the rest if it means helping my community get their lives back."
As the rain continued to beat against the windows outside, Clara looked from Zara's determined face to the notebook full of vital information, then to Enzo and Isabella, who were already exchanging glances of agreement. They'd been looking for a way to reach the rural communities that were falling prey to syndicates like The Root. Now, here was someone who knew those communities from the inside, who'd already proven she could organize and lead, who understood exactly what was at stake.
"Then let's start by getting you dry and fed," Clara said, standing up and extending her hand. "And then we'll talk about how we're going to take back your home—and make sure no other community has to go through what yours has."
Zara took her hand, a small but genuine smile spreading across her face for the first time since she'd stepped through the door. For the first time in months, she didn't feel alone in the fight.