WARPATH

AXEL BLAZE THRILLER

(BOOK TEN)

BILL RUNNER

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2025 by Bill Runner

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission from the author except for the use of quotations in a book review.

First eBook edition April 2025

www.bill-runner.com

JOIN MY MAILING LIST

Sign up for my mailing list at the link below to stay in the loop on new releases, special offers, and the occasional free audiobook voucher!

bill-runner.com

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

EPILOGUE

From Soldier to Vigilante: Blaze’s Path

Dear Readers,

First off, thank you for joining Axel Blaze on his journey. Whether you’ve been with him since Blaze Returns or are just diving in now, I’m thrilled to have you along for the ride.

When I first created Axel Blaze, I envisioned a man who couldn’t stand by when innocent lives were at stake—a man who acts decisively, even when it means crossing dangerous lines. In his first adventure in Blaze Returns, he was still tethered to a semi-official role, stepping in to help his old boss at the U.S. Marshals track down a missing Deputy.

But as the series unfolded, Blaze began carving his own path, driven by his unwavering sense of justice and a deep disdain for the wrongs he saw around him. In the first seven books—Blaze Returns, Lethal Force, Hard Target, Mean Streets, Unchained Fury, No Escape, and Fear City—all set across different American cities, Blaze operates as a lone ranger. He steps into situations where innocent lives hang in the balance, doing what others can’t—or won’t.

Starting with Dead Calm (Book 8), the series takes a deeper dive into Blaze’s past. In Dead Calm, we see him as a Captain in the U.S. Army Rangers, followed by his Delta Force missions in No Mercy, Warpath and the upcoming Crossfire (July 2025). These stories explore the intense operations and personal losses that forged Blaze into the man he is today.

The upcoming Book 12, Nemesis (November 2025), will be the final book exploring Blaze’s military career. It’s a deeply personal story where Blaze seeks justice for his brother Ryan—a U.S. Marine. This pivotal story will mark the turning point in Blaze’s life, as he ultimately decides to leave the army. Disillusioned by the failures of the system, he becomes a man willing to cross lines to ensure justice prevails. Beginning in 2026, Blaze will be stepping fully into a world where the lines between right and wrong blur, and he’s left to rely on his own moral compass to guide him.

In his words: You have to pay your dues. Period.

Your feedback and support have been instrumental in shaping this series. Blaze’s journey has been as much yours as it has been mine, and I can’t thank you enough for coming along for the ride.

Thank you for being part of Blaze’s story.

Sincerely,

Bill Runner

CHAPTER 1

It wasn’t the bag that set off my alarm bells. It was the man. In my line of work, you learn to read people—body language, micro-expressions, the way their breathing shifts when they think no one’s watching. And this guy? He was screaming all the wrong things without saying a word.

I was in Spring Lake, North Carolina—small-town America, tucked in the shadow of Fort Bragg. It wasn’t just another Army base; it was home to the U.S. Army’s deadliest, including my unit, 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta. Most folks know us as Delta Force. We are kind of the tip of the spear. My team and I had been parked at Bragg for three weeks, sharpening the blade—training hard, planning harder, and poring over intel until our eyes burned, waiting for the green light that would drop us into another hellhole overseas.

Spring Lake was a quiet little town most days. The kind of place where soldiers killed time at diners and bars, either gearing up to deploy, or celebrating making it back alive. Folks didn’t usually stir until late morning, and at 0845 hours, the town was still waking up, the streets practically deserted, with just the odd car rolling by. It was the kind of morning where you could almost forget that the rest of the world existed. That morning, I had come into town to run some errands, sip some coffee, and breathe in the stillness. But I should have known better. Stillness never lasted long. Not for guys like me.

I was parked on a bench across from a diner called The Chow Line, sipping coffee and letting the crisp spring air do its thing. That’s when I clocked the guy. He stepped out of the diner in standard-issue camo fatigues, blending in just enough to pass at first glance. But not to me.

Something about him didn’t sit right. The way he moved—too stiff, too deliberate—it didn’t add up. Like he had studied the uniform but hadn’t lived in it. He had the look of someone playing dress-up, not someone who had earned the right to wear it. Without the camo, I might have ignored him, just another face in downtown Spring Lake grabbing a morning coffee. But the uniform made him pop.

I almost wrote him off as a Reservist or some desk jockey from Bragg grabbing breakfast before work. But then the waitress, Betsy, came out after him. Betsy was one of those no-nonsense types, mid-thirties, pleasant enough but tough as nails. She had served six years as a combat medic with the National Guard before hanging up her boots to run the diner with her family. She marched out of the diner holding a ruck like it was a sack of flour, calling after him, her voice sharp and cutting through the quiet street.

The man’s reaction to her calling out to him was all wrong. He didn’t turn around right away. Hell, he didn’t even acknowledge her at first, like he was hoping she would give up and go back inside. But Betsy was persistent, and loud enough to turn a few heads. When the guy finally stopped and slowly turned, he looked like a man who had been caught red-handed.

And that’s when it hit me. The guy froze, not like someone embarrassed at having forgotten their stuff, but like Betsy was handing him a live grenade with the pin already pulled. He didn’t say a word, didn’t move—just stood there, staring at the ruck. Freezing like that was a tell. A big one.

He took the bag like it weighed a hundred pounds. No smile, no thanks—just a tight grip and a face that looked like he had been handed bad news. That’s when my gut kicked in. The same gut that had kept me alive through sandstorms, ambushes, and rooms rigged to blow in places most Americans wouldn’t have heard of.

This guy wasn’t relieved to get his bag back. He was pissed. Frustrated. Like he wished the waitress had kept it and saved him the trouble. Betsy didn’t notice—or didn’t care. She just shook her head, her smile fading into a scowl, and headed back inside.

The man lingered, like he was stuck in quicksand, the ruck hanging off his shoulder like a dead weight. His eyes darted toward a black SUV, a Land Cruiser, parked across the street, its windows tinted darker than a bad conscience. That glance told me plenty. I had seen that look before—guys weighing their odds, wondering if the devil they are dealing with is worth the risk. With the ruck slung over one shoulder like a mistake he couldn’t undo, he stood there, staring at the ground, as if waiting for some divine sign to tell him what the hell to do next.

Forgetfulness isn’t usually a crime, but that morning, I was willing to bet my life that this guy wasn’t just careless—he was dangerous. You don’t spend over a decade hunting bad actors without learning to trust your instincts, and mine were screaming like a fire alarm. This wasn’t some absentminded Joe forgetting his gym bag. This was something else. Something wrong.

The day had started like any other. Spring Lake was waking up, its streets filling with the usual mix of locals and soldiers trickling in from Fort Bragg for breakfast. It was the kind of place where the biggest drama should have been a kid spilling syrup on his pancakes or a waitress running out of coffee. I was soaking in the quiet that only comes between deployments. But quiet has a way of being deceptive.

The guy leaving his bag behind in the diner had lit my radar up like a Christmas tree. Maybe it was the briefing from the day before still buzzing in my head—CIA spooks from the Special Activities Center laying out intel on Middle Eastern operatives slipping into the U.S. through Mexico. They weren’t just crossing the border for sightseeing; they were hunting for soft targets. Big cities. High-profile spots like the Pentagon. That was the kind of threat we were wired for, the kind we trained to stop.

But a sleepy diner in Spring Lake? A small town hugging one of the largest military complexes in the country, home to over 50,000 of the Army’s best? That wasn’t exactly a terrorist’s soft target. And 0845 hours on a quiet weekday morning? Not prime time for carnage—no crowds, no high body count.

Terrorism wasn’t supposed to be the first thing that jumped to mind. But my gut didn’t give a damn about logic. Something about that guy screamed wrong. Maybe it was paranoia, or maybe it was that sixth sense you only earn after watching too many men, women, and even kids leave behind “harmless” things that turned out to be anything but.

The guy hadn’t moved, just stood there like his feet were glued to the pavement, staring at the ground. But as I looked closer, I caught something I hadn’t noticed before—a twitch in his jaw, subtle enough to miss. He was talking to someone. Bluetooth. The earbud was damn near invisible from where I sat, but now that I saw it, the picture got clearer. He wasn’t just thinking things over; he was taking orders.

His eyes flicked toward the black SUV again, then to the parking lot across the street. It was mostly empty. Apart from the military-issued Humvee we had driven in, there were just a couple of cars parked there, nothing special. Probably locals grabbing breakfast. I couldn’t figure the significance, and maybe there wasn’t any. Still, something about the back-and-forth glances made my radar hum louder. Whatever was happening, he didn’t like it. His body language was all wrong—stiff, hesitant, like someone being pressured into doing something he didn’t want to.

But after a few tense seconds, he finally turned and, with all the enthusiasm of a guy walking to the gallows, he headed back toward the diner, his steps slow, like his boots were filled with lead. Each step looked like it cost him a piece of his soul.

I took a slow sip of my coffee, playing it cool, but my gut was doing somersaults. That ruck was a problem waiting to happen. Odds were good it held something nasty—explosives, chemical agents, maybe worse. But the guy carrying it sure as hell wasn’t a suicide bomber. Didn’t have the look of a die-hard martyr. He wasn’t charging toward paradise; he was being shoved in that direction. If I was betting, I would say whoever was in that SUV was running the show, pulling the strings.

If I confronted him now, there was a risk of triggering whatever plan they had in motion. The SUV crew might panic and take things into their own hands. Worst-case scenario: remote detonation. Best case? Timer’s already ticking, and I’m running out of time.

I took another sip of coffee, keeping my movements slow, casual, like I wasn’t mentally running through every counter-terrorism protocol I had drilled into my skull over the years. Best play was to follow him inside, get a read on his next move, and figure out what the hell I was dealing with.

As I made my decision, I spotted movement at the far end of the row of shops. Staff Sergeant Buck Conway—call sign Ninja Man—was heading my way. Conway was part of my team and the fastest, deadliest son of a bitch you would ever see in action. He earned the call sign Ninja for the way he moved—silent, surgical, and terrifying when he needed to be. Hell, the guy even had a ninja tattooed on his back, as if his reputation needed the extra boost.

I was out there on the bench sipping coffee because Ninja had insisted on making a quick stop at a leather shop down the block. He had ordered a custom sheath for his knife—a hand-crafted nine-inch blade that was as much a work of art as it was a weapon. The old sheath was worn to hell, and Ninja didn’t tolerate anything less than perfect for his gear.

Ninja walked out of the shop further down the row, scanning the street with a lazy kind of ease that only came from years in the field. When his eyes locked on me, I gave him a subtle hand signal—stop, hold position. Ninja froze mid-step, his casual demeanor gone in an instant. He knew me well enough to know when I wasn’t just sipping coffee for the hell of it.

I stood, phone in hand and coffee in the other, keeping it casual like, and made my way away from him toward the diner as I gave him a call.

“Cowboy,” he answered, using my call sign. “What’s up?”

“Got a situation brewing,” I said, keeping my tone low. “Guy with a suspicious ruck acting twitchy as hell, headed into the diner. Land Cruiser at your two o’clock with shady written all over it. Feels wrong.”

Ninja didn’t miss a beat. “Got it,” he murmured back. “What’s the play? You think this is what it looks like?”

“That’s the vibe,” I replied. “I’d put money on the SUV being the control element. The guy with the ruck doesn’t want to go back inside, but he’s being pushed. Something’s in that bag, and I’m willing to bet anything it’s not a stack of pancakes.”

“Right under Bragg’s nose?” Ninja’s tone was skeptical but sharp. “That’s bold, even for these assholes.”

“Yeah, well, bold or stupid, it’s got my gut screaming.”

“How imminent we talkin’?”

“That’s the million-dollar question,” I said. “I’ll follow him into the diner and see what he’s up to. You stay out here, keep eyes on the SUV. If they so much as twitch, let me know.”

“Copy that,” Ninja replied, his voice calm but edged with a smirk. “You always get the fun jobs, Cowboy. Don’t let him blow the place before I get to break in this new sheath.”

“Appreciate the pep talk,” I muttered. “Just keep your eyes open. I’ve got this.”

“Head on a swivel, boss,” he cautioned, shifting into full mission mode.

As I turned toward the diner, I felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle on my shoulders. This was the kind of place where soldiers grabbed pancakes before shipping out, not the kind of place where terrorists played their games. But here we were, and if this was a game, it was one I didn’t plan on losing. It was time to see if the man with the ruck was about to turn this sleepy little town into a headline.

CHAPTER 2

The Chow Line diner looked like a place that hadn’t changed much since the sixties, and that was part of its charm. Its red-and-white awning flapped lazily in the breeze, and a weathered wooden sign creaked on rusted chains, announcing its name in bold, chipped letters. A couple of American flags framed the entrance, their stars and stripes faded but proud. The smell of bacon and fresh coffee wafted through the air.

I had been there a few times for breakfast. They sure made a mean plate of sweet potato pancakes with pecan syrup —the kind of Southern comfort food that made you forget about the world for a while.

But that wasn’t a pancake kind of day. Ninja and I had rolled into town in a unit-issued Humvee for a quick stop—him to pick up the new leather sheath for his knife, me to grab a coffee and hang around for a few minutes before heading back to a briefing. No time for a leisurely breakfast, not when your team’s got a mission clock running even on downtime.

As I followed the guy with the ruck into the diner, my eyes caught the stack of tables and chairs piled neatly against the side of the building. Their legs gleamed in the morning sun, lined up neatly like they were waiting for the call to action. Looked like the place was gearing up for a crowd later, maybe the lunch rush.

The bell over the door jingled as I stepped into the diner a few beats after the rucksack guy. The inside was all hustle and charm—black-and-white tiles and vinyl booths that had seen countless soldiers slide into them.

The guy with the ruck was nowhere to be seen.

I spotted Betsy behind the counter, arms full of plates, setting up like she was hosting a wedding reception. Her movements were sharp and a little too forceful. The look on her face said she wasn’t thrilled about her morning. She glanced up when I came in, and her expression softened just a bit.

“Morning, Captain,” she greeted me.

“Morning,” I replied, leaning on the counter. “That guy with the ruck pissing you off?”

That got a chuckle out of her. “You could say that. Strange one, that guy. Forgets his bag, I go chasing after him, and he doesn’t even say thanks. Some people, I swear.” She shook her head and went back to setting up. “I don’t have time to be running after dumbasses. Drowning in work as it is. Got a platoon of 82nd Airborne marching in here in 15 minutes for breakfast.”

That stopped me cold. “Platoon coming in?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Company commander’s bringing in thirty of his guys. They’ve got this tradition—breakfast here before deployments. Shipping out to Iraq this afternoon.”

The year was 2014, and the fight had come full circle. Iraq was on fire again. ISIS had overrun Mosul, and the U.S. was sending boots back into the sand under Operation Inherent Resolve. The 82nd Airborne was getting tapped for deployments, dropping back into the Middle East to clean up a mess that should have been handled the first time around.

The pieces started falling into place. The platoon wasn’t just a coincidence. They were the target. I had been wondering why anyone would bother planting a bomb in an empty diner, but this? This made sense. A platoon of soldiers about to deploy would be a prime target for any wannabe terrorist looking to make a statement.

I kept my voice casual. “That guy with the ruck—he in the restroom?”

“Yeah,” she said, jerking her head toward the back. “Been in there a while.”

“Alright,” I said. “Carry on. I’ll be back in a sec.”

She gave me a curious look before nodding. I walked through the diner, keeping my pace steady, and headed for the restroom at the back. My hand brushed against the grip of my sidearm, a SIG P320, just in case.

When I pushed open the restroom door, I clocked him right away. Early-20s, scrawny, nervous as hell. He was near the far wall, crouched over near the mop kiosk. He was too busy to notice I had entered the restroom. He stood up very slowly, his back toward me. His hands were twitching, and I could see the sweat rolling down his neck. He wasn’t a pro—that much was obvious.

Before he noticed my presence, I drew my knife, crossed the space in three strides, and pressed the blade on his throat. The man drew in a sharp breath. Stopped breathing for a few seconds. A sharp blade on the throat has that effect.

I grabbed his Bluetooth earpiece, pocketed it, and frisked him. No weapon on him. Just a cell phone. No active call to the guys in the SUV. I let out a short breath. That was one less problem to worry about. The guys outside had no clue what was going on inside.

I withdrew the knife, took a step back, and said: “Time to talk.”

The man looked like he wanted to melt through the tiles. His hands were shaking, and his eyes darted to the door like a cornered rat. I sheathed my knife, waiting for him to go for it. He made a half-assed move to push past me, but I grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and shoved him hard against the wall. He let out a grunt of pain, and I followed it up with a knee to the gut to keep him from getting any bright ideas.

He crumpled to the floor, wheezing and clutching his stomach. “Stay down,” I barked, my voice sharp enough to cut through steel.

The man didn’t move, frozen on the tiles, his breath rasping like a busted radiator.

My first impulse wasn’t to question him—it was to check the rucksack. If that thing was on a timer, I wasn’t about to stand here playing twenty questions while the clock ran out.

The kiosk door creaked open, revealing the ruck. Every instinct screamed at me—something about the weight, the way the straps felt taut, like they were holding back something deadly. My gut churned as I crouched, tugged the bag free, and set it on the floor.

Sweat pricked the back of my neck as I unzipped it carefully, the edge of my blade sliding under the zipper to avoid touching the contents. One look inside, and my blood ran cold.

Two blocks of C-4 stared back at me, their yellowish sheen unmistakable. They were taped tight, surrounded by a nasty mix of nails, ball bearings, and jagged metal fragments. It wasn’t just a bomb—it was a shrapnel-spewing death trap designed to obliterate everything and everyone within fifty feet.

Wires snaked out of a small RF receiver hooked to the detonator, its tiny red light blinking steadily, waiting for a signal. Remote detonation. Those bastards in the SUV outside had the trigger. One wrong move, one whiff that something was off, and they would hit the button. The diner would be ground zero, and we would all be nothing but a memory.

I couldn’t risk taking it outside. If they saw the bag move, they would trigger it. That would be game over for everyone in the diner and half the block. Calling in EOD wasn’t an option. By the time they got there, we would be a smoking crater. It had to be me doing Explosive Ordnance Disposal.

Delta Force operators don’t just kick down doors and shoot bad guys. We are trained for moments like this—handling explosives under pressure. We are not EOD techs by trade, but we are damn well trained to recognize, handle, and, when necessary, neutralize devices in high-stakes situations. Missions behind enemy lines don’t come with the luxury of backup. This wasn’t my first rodeo with a bomb, but it sure as hell wasn’t one I wanted to relive.

But first, I needed info about the men behind this. I turned toward the guy lying still on the floor. He had been religious about following my orders—hadn’t moved a muscle. In fact, he looked kind of paralyzed with fear, his eyes glued to what I had just unveiled inside the bag.

CHAPTER 3

“Here’s the deal,” I said to the guy, snapping my fingers to break his trance. “You’ve got two options. One, you tell me what you and your pals in the SUV outside are up to, and maybe we both walk out of here alive. Two, you clam up, play the hero, and I knock out your sorry ass and leave you here with that ruck while I take everyone else out the back door. You wanna play martyr? Fine by me. We both know what’s in that bag and I’m in no mood to get blown up. You’ve got five seconds to decide.”

His eyes went wide, and I could see the fear hit him like a freight train. He wasn’t built for this. Scared shitless and smart enough to know I wasn’t bluffing.

“Alright, alright!” he gasped, hands shooting up like I had a gun to his head. “I’ll tell you everything, man. Just don’t leave me here!”

I leaned in, voice low and sharp. “Then start talking.”

“My name’s Luke Jones,” he said, his voice trembling. “I’m from Raleigh. In deep shit with the mob—gambling debt. Big one. Last night, these guys found me, roughed me up real bad. Told me they’d wipe the slate clean if I did a couple of things for them.”

“Keep going,” I said, watching every twitch of his face.

“They told me to show up in Spring Lake this morning,” he said, his voice cracking. “I drove down early. Some guy met me in the parking lot, handed me the ruck. Said it was part of a drug deal, and if the bag disappeared, I was a dead man. Told me to go inside the diner, sit my ass down, and wait for instructions. The guy called later, said to leave the bag under the table and walk out like nothing happened. Then get in the car and wait.”

“What happened after that?”

Luke took a shaky breath, words spilling out like a broken faucet. “The waitress—she screwed it all up. She handed me the bag back. I didn’t know what to do, man. I was freaking out, just standing there, and then those guys called me again. Told me to get back inside, stash the bag in the restroom, and sit tight until they called again. That’s it! I swear to God, man, that’s all I know!”

I stared at him. The story tracked—I had seen most of it myself. But I wasn’t done yet.

“Who gave you the bag?” I asked, my voice low but sharp enough to slice through his panic.

“Scary, mean-looking guy. Looked like a killer,” Luke stammered. “Never seen him before.”

“What do you mean ‘looked like a killer’? Be specific. What’d he look like?”

Luke frowned, his brows knitting together as he tried to think. “Uh… he had these dark, scary eyes. Skin was kinda brown, not black, but dark. I thought he was maybe one of those cartel sicarios.”

That didn’t track. Cartels were ruthless, sure, and we had solid intel on them running the border game like a damn industry. Smuggling drugs, guns, and people—that was their racket. But terrorism on U.S. soil? That wasn’t their play. Too much heat. Too much risk to their billion-dollar empire.

“Cartel sicario?” I asked, letting the skepticism drip from my words. “You sure about that? What’d he sound like?”

Luke hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “He didn’t say much. Just gave me directions about what to do with the bag. But… he had an accent.”

“What kind of accent?” I leaned in, my tone turning harder. “Focus. Think.”

“Uh, I don’t know, man” he said, his voice shaky. “Maybe Mexican? Or Middle Eastern? I was too scared… didn’t pay much attention.”

I narrowed my eyes, drilling into him. “You’ve run across Mexicans in Raleigh, haven’t you? You know what that accent sounds like. So, which was it?”

He rubbed his face like he was trying to scrub the memory clean. “Yeah, I do. And now that you say it… no, it wasn’t Mexican. More Middle Eastern. He had that kind of accent.”

I locked eyes with him, leaning in close enough for him to feel the weight of my words. “And you didn’t have a problem taking a bag from a terrorist and leaving it in a diner? Let innocent people get blown to bits?”

Luke went pale, his face losing every ounce of color. “I swear to God, I didn’t know what was in the bag!” His voice cracked, trembling like he was on the verge of breaking.

“Still gonna pretend you didn’t know?”

“I’m not bullshitting, man,” he blurted out, hands trembling. “I thought it was drugs, I swear! Those guys scared the hell outta me. They told me not to even think about opening the bag or helping myself to the coke inside, said they’d be watching me the whole time I was in the diner. I didn’t open it, man, not until I was hiding it in the restroom. That’s when I peeked inside, and…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “...I saw the wires. I freaked the hell out. I didn’t know what to do, and then the next thing I know, you’ve got a knife at my throat.”

I studied him, watching his body language, the panic in his eyes. He wasn’t lying. He was a regular guy in way over his head, and the bastards outside had played him like a fiddle.

“I know I’m in deep shit,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I swear to God, I didn’t know what was in that bag. You gotta believe me, man. I wouldn’t have just walked out and let innocent people die.”

I believed him. His story lined up. The SUV crew had been smart—using a harmless-looking local kid to do their dirty work. No one would have batted an eye at Luke. But they weren’t gonna let him walk away alive. Guys like that didn’t leave loose ends.

I ran the scenario in my head. The fact they told him to wait in the car after stashing the bag didn’t sit right. It screamed backup plan. If the diner bomb didn’t go off for some reason, a second device in the parking lot could finish the job—and clean up Luke.

“First thing,” I said, locking eyes with him, “we figure out how to get out of here alive.”

He looked at me like a scared puppy. “If I take that bag out, they’ll kill me.”

I shook my head. “Newsflash, pal—they’re not letting you walk away, bag or no bag. You’re a loose end if I’ve ever seen one.”

He swallowed hard. He just stared at me, terror written all over his face.

But I had other things to worry about. I had a bomb to disarm, and I couldn’t have this nervous guy breathing down my neck. Problem was, I couldn’t even knock him out—if those guys called, they needed to hear his voice on the other end.

I stood up. “I need to see that device. Figure out the best way out of this mess. Get your ass inside that kiosk and stay there. Don’t move, don’t make a sound, and don’t even breathe too loud. Got it?”

Luke nodded so fast I thought his head might come off, before scurrying to the kiosk. I couldn’t have anyone barging in while I worked. I opened the restroom door and called Betsy.

“There’s a bomb in the ruck,” I told her, straight to the point.

She didn’t so much as flinch. “You want me to clear the place?”

“No,” I replied. “There are guys posted outside. It’s a remote trigger. If they think we’re onto them, they’ll set it off.”

Betsy took it all in like a pro. Cool under pressure, impressively so.

“What’s the plan?” she asked. “Calling in EOD?”

“Negative,” I said. “That’d alert them too. I gotta disarm it here. Inside the restroom.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “What do you need me to do?”

“Make sure no one comes in. I can’t have any interruptions.”

She gave a sharp nod. “You sure you can do this?”

“I can.”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” she said.

Then a thought struck me and I asked Betsy: “You got the number for any of the guys coming in?”

She shook her head apologetically. “No, I don’t. I just know they’re from Bragg. A Captain Dalton. A man from his unit called to say he’d be coming in with 30 men. I deal with soldiers from Bragg all the time. Never occurred to me to take the number.”

That was a bummer. Calling Bragg and trying to track down Captain Dalton and then getting a message to him would take too long and a waste of precious time. Those men were already on their way, and nothing short of a miracle was going to stop them from rolling into that parking lot.

The only move left was to deal with the SUV. Take out the men inside before the guys from the 82nd pulled in. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the only shot we had.

“Never mind. If you do get a call from them, let me know immediately,” I said. “I think they’re the target. No other reason to blow this place up—the grub’s not that bad, you know.”

Betsy chuckled and headed out.

I called Ninja Man next. “Any movement in the SUV?”

“Negative,” he said. “They’re just sitting tight.”

I filled him in fast—the bomb in the diner, me about to defuse it.

“Copy that,” Ninja said. “You got this, Cowboy. Good luck. Want me to hold position?”

“No, get to our Humvee without losing sight of the SUV. Pull out of the lot and wait. There’s a chance they’ve got a secondary explosive in one of the parked cars. Once I disarm this one, we’ll need to hit them hard and fast—ram the SUV, then take them out before they can trigger anything.”

“Roger that.”

I cut the call and turned my focus to the device. I took a breath, steadying my hands. This wasn’t gonna be easy, but I wasn’t about to let anyone die on my watch.

I exhaled and got to work. The device stared back at me like a puzzle from hell. My hands were steady, but my mind raced. One wrong move, and I would be a headline.

The first step was to isolate the receiver. I located its power source—a small battery pack tucked into the wiring. I disconnected it, cutting off its ability to receive the signal.

Then came the detonator. I carefully detached the blasting cap from the C-4, sweat dripping down my temple. Without the cap, the explosive was just a block of inert putty. Finally, I checked the device for secondary triggers. Nothing.

I sat back, taking a breath. The bomb was neutralized. The threat wasn’t. One step at a time.

CHAPTER 4

I cracked the door open, my pulse still hammering from the dance I had just had with the bomb. Betsy stood outside, her face tight with a mix of apprehension and anger.

“It’s disarmed. The diner’s safe. For now.” I let the weight of my words hang for a beat. “But this isn’t over. Those men are still out there. Could’ve planted another device. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“So, what now?” she asked.

“I’m stepping out. My sergeant’s already out there on overwatch. We’ll take them down. You stay put, keep an eye on the kid. His name’s Luke.”

The mention of his name turned her expression murderous. If looks could kill, Luke would have been six feet under.

“He’s just a dumb patsy,” I said, holding her gaze steady. “Got roped into something way bigger than his brain could handle. He’s not getting off easy. But that’s for later. Right now, I need him breathing.”

Her lips thinned into a hard line, but she nodded once.

Then, a buzz in my pocket cut through the tension. Luke’s phone—the one I had swiped off him earlier—and glanced at the screen. An unknown number. I turned the display toward Luke, who froze like a deer in headlights.

“It’s him,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “The guy who gave me the bag.”

Before I could decide, the ringing cut off, leaving a loud silence.

“Call him back,” I said, my tone leaving no room for debate.

“What? No! I can’t…” Luke’s voice cracked, panic bubbling over.

“You want to stay alive?” I cut him off. “Then you do exactly what I say. Buy me time to deal with the men outside. They’ll kill you the second they think you’re a liability. That’s your only shot.”

He swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. “What do I say?”

“Stick to the script,” I said, locking eyes with him. “Forget everything that happened after you met me. Tell him you stashed the bag in the mop kiosk, out of sight. Say you’re sitting in the diner, having coffee. Nothing more.”

Luke nodded, his hands trembling as he dialed. I stood over him, watching every move, listening to every word. His voice wavered, but he got through his lines.

He ended the call and looked at me, his eyes wild. “I don’t know if they bought it. He… he talks without any emotion. I can’t tell.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s got us some time. Give me your number. If I call, you answer fast.”

Then I turned to Betsy. “Stay sharp. Might need to change the plan on the fly.”

She gave me a sharp nod. I stepped out, keeping my movements calm, deliberate. I angled away from the SUV parked across the lot, not showing any interest in it. As I moved, I called Ninja.

“Device is disarmed. Time to take out the men in the SUV.”

“Roger that,” Ninja replied. “Seatbelt on, ready for impact.”

He was ready and itching to ram into the SUV. I knew that with him at the wheels, it would be textbook controlled chaos.

“Still no eyes on how many are inside,” Ninja added. “Tints are too dark, and I can’t get close without spooking them.”

“Copy. No time for recon. Hold position. I’m taking the far side.”

I cut across the street, keeping the SUV in my peripheral vision. My pulse pounded in my ears, each step drawing me closer to the SUV’s blind spot.

Halfway there, I caught movement in my peripheral. Two Light Medium Tactical Vehicles—LMTVs—rolling down the avenue, their hulking frames unmistakable. The 82nd boys. They were closing in on the parking lot. A traffic light stood between them and the lot. Maybe a minute out.

I didn’t have sixty seconds to wait. This had to happen now. It was go-time.

I hit the call button and brought the phone to my ear. Luke picked up on the first ring.

“Listen close, Luke,” I said, keeping my voice sharp enough to get through to him. “Soon as I hang up, count to ten, then call the guy in the SUV. If he picks up, don’t say a damn word. Stay quiet for five seconds, then hang up. Got it?”

I wanted the guys in the SUV to be momentarily distracted by Luke’s call at the exact moment Ninja began shooting forward to ram them.

“Uh… yeah, I got it,” Luke stammered.

“Good. Don’t screw it up. Start counting to ten as soon as I hang up.” I ended the call and immediately dialed Ninja.

“Ninja,” I said, keeping my tone clipped. “Wait five seconds after I hang up, then step on it and ram the SUV. Hit it hard and fast. I’ll be in position.”

“Roger that,” Ninja replied, his voice calm as always. The kind of calm you only get when you have been to hell and back more times than you remember.

I crossed the street in a low sprint, staying in the SUV’s blind spot. Thirty yards out, I crouched behind a parked sedan. From there, I had a clear line to the vehicle. I took a deep breath, steadying myself for what came next.

It had to be perfectly timed.

Ninja’s engine roared to life, the growl of his Humvee cutting through the morning stillness. That was my cue. I launched into a full sprint.

I have always been fast. Back in the day, I was a regular on the Colorado State baseball circuit, pulling 60-yard dashes in under 6.3 seconds. But that morning, I swear I beat my personal best. Adrenaline had me flying like a goddamn rocket. Thirty yards? I tore through it in three seconds flat, boots pounding asphalt like a war drum.

I was sprinting as Ninja barreled down the street, the Humvee roaring like a freight train. Its armor and raw bulk made it a battering ram on wheels, built to plow through anything in its path. The collision was devastating. Metal screeched, glass exploded, and the Land Cruiser lurched forward under the Humvee’s relentless momentum. The force of the impact lifted the SUV’s rear end clean off the pavement, sending it teetering on two wheels. For a split second, it hung there, before gravity won and it slammed back down with a bone-rattling crash.

I was there before the dust settled, coming up fast alongside the driver-side windows. I didn’t hesitate. My SIG P320 was already in my hand, and I opened fire.

I unloaded rapid shots, center mass, left to right. Four targets, four quick takedowns. No time to think, no chance for them to react. When you are dealing with a possible bomb, you don’t leave anything to chance. I moved down the line, double-tapping each head just to be sure, making it clean and final.

By then, Ninja was out of his Humvee, his weapon up, scanning for threats.

“Clear,” I called, though my gut was screaming otherwise. Something wasn’t right.

That’s when it hit me—this wasn’t over. Maybe it was the faint ticking I thought I heard. Or maybe I imagined it. Didn’t matter. My instincts were screaming at me to move.

“Ninja, back in the truck!” I barked. “Hit reverse and get us the hell out of here!”

He didn’t hesitate. That’s why I trusted him. He dove back into the driver’s seat while I sprinted for the passenger side.

“Go, go, go!” I yelled as I slammed the door shut.

Ninja threw it into reverse and floored it. The tires screeched as we shot backward, putting as much distance as we could between us and the SUV.

We were barely forty yards out when the Land Cruiser went up in a fireball. The explosion hit us like a freight train, a deafening roar that shook the ground and sent a shockwave rippling through the air. Fire and shrapnel erupted in all directions, debris raining down like hellfire and bouncing off the Humvee’s reinforced frame. The Humvee shook from the blast, and I felt the heat even through the reinforced glass.

But we were far enough. Safe. Just barely.

“Damn!” Ninja shouted, gripping the wheel tight as he kept the Humvee steady.

The SUV was a flaming wreck, black smoke billowing into the sky. But my mind wasn’t on the fireball or the wreckage.

The explosives in the parking lot—they could still go off. And the LMTVs from the 82nd were about to roll in any second.

“Keep moving,” I told Ninja. “We’re not out of this yet.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. The Humvee roared down the street. Up ahead, the two LMTVs rolled into view. Big, boxy beasts painted in desert tan, each capable of hauling twenty paratroopers and their gear. The lead truck had slowed, the driver no doubt clocking the plume of smoke from the explosion.

Ninja eased the Humvee to a stop, tires crunching on loose gravel. “Eyes open,” I told him. “No one gets through toward that lot. We’ve got enough chaos back there already.”

“Roger that,” Ninja replied, keeping his hands steady on the wheel and his eyes scanning the surroundings.

I stepped out and squared up as the lead LMTV came to a halt. The door creaked open, and a crisp-looking Captain climbed down, flanked by two subordinates. Their uniforms were immaculate—pressed OCP camo, sleeves neatly rolled. The AA patch of the All Americans stood out proudly on their shoulders, along with their airborne jump wings. These guys weren’t just soldiers—they were paratroopers, 82nd Airborne through and through.

I approached, boots crunching on the pavement. “Captain Dalton?” I asked.

The officer nodded, his jaw tight. “That’s me.”

“I need to make you aware there was a terrorist threat in the parking lot. It’s been neutralized,” I said, keeping it brief.

His expression didn’t waver, but his eyes sharpened. “Who was the target?”

“Most likely you and your men,” I said, matter-of-fact. “My guess is they wanted to make a statement. Take out paratroopers right before deployment.”

A flash of anger crossed Dalton’s face, but he swallowed it down, keeping his composure. He extended a hand. “Thanks for stepping in. And you are…?”

I gripped his hand firmly. “Captain Axel Blaze, Delta.”

His eyebrow lifted slightly, and a ghost of a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Delta? No wonder they didn’t stand a chance. Their bad luck running into you.”

I gave a small nod. “And their worse luck thinking it’d be smart to mess with the All Americans. Trying to harm elite paratroopers—bad planning all around.”

Dalton smirked faintly, the compliment landing well. “What’s the situation now?”

I gestured toward the parking lot. “There’s a chance they planted another device in one of the cars back there. We need a perimeter set up, wide and secure, until EOD gets here to sweep the scene.”

Dalton didn’t hesitate. He turned to his men. “You heard the Captain. Secure the area, full perimeter. Keep civilians and vehicles out until further notice. No one gets within range until EOD clears it.”

“Yes, sir!” they barked, snapping into action.

I watched as Dalton’s team moved with precision, locking down the area like clockwork. For the first time in the last hour, I felt a flicker of relief. It looked like the worst was over.

CHAPTER 5

Fort Bragg wasn’t just any military base; it was a sprawling, self-contained world. Spread across the North Carolina landscape, it was a city in camouflage. Home to airborne troops, Special Forces, and every flavor of elite operator you could think of, it hummed with a peculiar energy, like a live wire buzzing just out of sight. On any given day, you could see a mix of battle-hardened warriors, green recruits, and seasoned contractors—men who had spent a lifetime in the fight, carrying the weight of wars most people never even knew about.

The part where Delta Force operated was tucked away from the usual hustle in its own secure corner. It had a different vibe entirely—quiet, unassuming, and heavily secured. We called it the Compound, a cluster of low-profile buildings surrounded by fences that screamed “Keep Out” without needing to say a word. It was quieter, more deliberate. No wasted motion, no unnecessary chatter—every step had purpose.

The building I walked into was as nondescript as they came. The interior was all business—beige walls, scuffed linoleum floors, and fluorescent lights that hummed just loud enough to be annoying. The decor was strictly utilitarian—if you didn’t need it to fight or plan, it wasn’t there. No motivational posters or potted plants in this place. Just the occasional framed photo of Delta legends and a palpable sense of purpose. The corridors were a maze of efficiency, and I had long since memorized every turn.

The meeting room I was headed for was buried deep, another layer of security to discourage uninvited guests. Lt. Colonel Seamus Flynn, my CO, had called me in, short and to the point. “Blaze, conference room 3. Now.” No details, just the kind of tone that made you show up early.

I pushed open the heavy door, stepping into the room. It was larger than the usual briefing spots, with a long oak table polished to a military shine and a digital screen mounted at the far end. Flynn was already there, leaning against the table, looking as sharp as ever in his crisply pressed uniform, his eyes scanning the room like he was cataloging every molecule of air. Around the table sat six other people I didn’t recognize. Flynn’s expression didn’t give anything away, but I could tell this wasn’t just a casual meet-and-greet.

“Gentlemen, ma’am, meet Captain Axel Blaze—the man responsible for averting the terrorist threat in Spring Lake.”

If Flynn’s intention was to embarrass me, he was on the right track. As all eyes turned to me, I was getting ready to say that it was Ninja and me as a team that did it, but Flynn’s next words resolved the problem.

“Take a seat, Blaze,” Flynn said, nodding toward a chair near him. “I’ll make a quick introduction before we begin.”

I took my seat, scanning the room. First up was a tall guy with broad shoulders, salt-and-pepper hair, and piercing blue eyes that looked like they could cut through steel. He wore a suit, but it was rumpled enough to suggest he either hated it or had been living out of a suitcase.

Flynn gestured to him. “This is Michael Harrigan, Special Agent in Charge, DEA Office of Global Enforcement.”

Harrigan gave me a curt nod, his eyes sharp and assessing. I returned the nod, wondering what a DEA SAC was doing there. Arlington, Virginia, wasn’t exactly a stone’s throw from Bragg.

Next was a man in his 60s, sitting like he had a steel rod for a spine. He had a graying mustache, deep-set eyes, and an aura that screamed “career military”. His dark suit had subtle military insignia worked into the lapel.

“General Arturo Rojas, Secretary of Citizen Security for Baja California,” Flynn announced.

Baja California—the Mexican state bordering California. The man’s title gave me some hint of what the meeting might be about. If citizens in that state needed a Secretary for their security, it must be the cartel they needed saving from. General Rojas’s face betrayed nothing as he gave me a hint of a nod. Straight-laced, serious, the kind of guy who didn’t waste words.

Next up was a woman, early 30s, petite, with sharp, intelligent brown eyes and dark hair that framed a face worthy of a magazine cover. Stylish and confident, she had a presence that demanded attention. Her tailored blazer and pencil skirt hinted at her perfect figure without being obvious.

“Sofia Delgado. Mayor of Tijuana.”

Tijuana—largest city in Baja California, just south of the border from San Diego and the base of one of the largest cartels. That was further confirmation of my suspicion about the meeting’s agenda. I had read somewhere about Sofia Delgado—not just drop dead gorgeous, but a rising star in Mexican politics with a reputation for taking on corruption.

When Flynn introduced her, Sofia’s expression shifted just enough to show she didn’t care much for titles. But when her warm brown eyes met mine, the vibe I got was friendly. I nodded, keeping my expression neutral. Professional.

Flynn’s introductions continued.

“Admiral Luis Navarro, Mexican Marines.”

Navarro’s rugged face and close-cropped hair made him look like he had just stepped off a battlefield. His fatigues were immaculate, and his frown was as permanent as a tattoo. The kind of guy who probably didn’t smile even at weddings. He looked like he could bark an order loud enough to stop a firefight. Detail-oriented, disciplined, and not there to play nice.

Next to him was a younger Marine, about my age, approaching 30. Lean, athletic, with sharp features and intense eyes. He looked focused, like he had something to prove.

“Captain Hector Ortiz, Mexican Marines.”

Finally, Flynn turned to the last man, and my eyebrows lifted. The resemblance to Flynn was obvious—same sharp eyes, same no-nonsense demeanor—but this guy was broader, older, and had the kind of presence that filled the room.

“Assistant Director Mark Flynn, U.S. Marshals,” Flynn said, not a hint in his voice or his face that this was a guy he hadn’t just bumped into at the meeting.

So, this was the brother. Head of the Tactical Operations Division of the U.S. Marshal service. I had heard of him but never met him. But what the hell was he doing at Bragg. Camp Beauregard, Louisiana, was his usual stomping ground. Mark gave me a nod, his expression a mix of authority and warmth. I wasn’t sure whether to salute or crack a joke.

Flynn cleared his throat. “Now that we’re all acquainted, let’s get to it.” He took a pause, leaned back in his chair, and fixed me with that familiar sharp-eyed look that always meant he was about to throw me into something I hadn’t fully prepared for.

“Captain Blaze,” Flynn said, his voice even, “why don’t you tell the group your assessment of the men behind the explosives in Spring Lake?”

I blinked, caught off guard for a split second. We had already gone over this the previous day in his office. Hell, we had dissected it from every angle. But Flynn wasn’t the type to waste words or time, so I figured there was a reason he wanted me to play show-and-tell in front of this crowd.

I straightened in my chair, letting my gaze sweep across the room. Harrigan looked like he was sizing me up for a poker game he didn’t plan to lose. Admiral Navarro had his usual “I eat nails for breakfast” expression. And Sofia Delgado? She sat poised, her dark eyes locked on me like I was the only thing in the room worth paying attention to. That kind of focus could throw a man off his game—if he wasn’t careful.

“Well,” I began, “my impression is that the four men inside the SUV were operatives from a Middle Eastern terror cell. Likely ISIS. They didn’t stroll into the U.S. on tourist visas, and they sure as hell didn’t stumble across a stash of C-4 at a yard sale.”

That got a faint snort from Harrigan, which I took as a win.

“They had help,” I continued. “Someone stateside with serious resources and connections. Regular street gangs don’t deal in military-grade explosives. My guess would be a cartel. The Spring Lake explosion wasn’t their endgame; it was a warm-up act. That’s why they used Luke—the local guy. He was their patsy. He’d take the fall, investigators would spin their wheels trying to figure out his motives, and the real players would stay in the shadows, free to move on to their next target.”

I paused to let that sink in. Sofia’s lips pressed together thoughtfully, and Navarro’s scowl deepened—if that was even possible.

I continued. “They picked Luke because he was vulnerable—drowning in gambling debt. That tells me they’ve got cartel connections. The border crossing, the explosives, and finding a patsy, all point to organized crime.”

Navarro leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “Do you have expertise in disarming explosives, Captain?”

I met his gaze, keeping my tone steady. “I wouldn’t call myself an EOD specialist, Admiral, but operators get enough training to handle situations like that when we need to. Improvising under pressure is part of the job. And it wasn’t my first rodeo.”

Navarro held my gaze for a moment longer, then gave a slow nod. And unless my eyes were playing tricks on me, I saw the faintest flicker of a smile. A ghost of one, but still. It was like spotting a unicorn.

Sofia leaned forward, her dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that was hard to ignore. “Are the terrorists all dead?” she asked, her voice smooth and steady.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “Capturing them alive wasn’t an option. There was a real risk of secondary explosives, and we couldn’t afford to take that chance.”

Her lips curved into a smile, warm and radiant, and for a second, I almost forgot we were talking about terrorists and explosives. “That was quick thinking, Captain,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “Not many people would’ve handled it so decisively.”

I nodded, keeping my face neutral, but there was no ignoring the way her gaze lingered a moment too long or the subtle admiration in her tone. She was confident, composed, and sharp, but there was also something disarming about the way she carried herself.

“Just doing my job, ma’am,” I said, keeping my tone casual.

Her smile widened slightly. I didn’t let it throw me, but I was starting to wonder why I was being grilled by a panel of civilians. Flynn wouldn’t have put me in this position unless there was a reason.

Harrigan leaned in, his gruff voice cutting through the air. “Captain Blaze, your assessment is spot on. A cartel is involved. Specifically, La Manada, operating out of Tijuana. They’re expanding into the U.S. southeast, especially in the Raleigh Triangle. They’re smart, organized, and ruthless.”

That got my attention. A cartel mixing it up with terror cells wasn’t unheard of, but it was a nightmare cocktail of resources and ruthlessness.

Flynn stood, his presence commanding the room. “And that’s why we’re here. The FBI’s intel confirms that the four men Captain Blaze neutralized had plans to hit additional targets in New York and D.C. They’re receiving active support from Javier Salazar, head of La Manada.”

The room went quiet, the weight of Flynn’s words settling over us.

“Before we go further,” Flynn continued, “Captain Ortiz will brief us on an operation he and his men conducted a day before the Spring Lake incident. It’s relevant to the bigger picture.”

I leaned back slightly, watching as Ortiz straightened in his seat, his intense eyes scanning the room. He didn’t seem too happy having to talk about the operation. Whatever this was, it wasn’t routine. And with this lineup? It was about to get interesting.

CHAPTER 6

Captain Ortiz leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. His face was taut, his jaw clenched as if he were biting back a storm of emotions. I had seen that look before—on operators who had fought like hell only to be told to stand down. The room’s energy shifted immediately.

He started speaking, his voice steady but simmering with frustration. “We’d been tracking Javier Salazar for weeks. We had a source inside La Manada, someone we’d cultivated for months, and he finally came through with his location—a house in Tijuana. Quiet neighborhood, heavily guarded.”

I could already get a sense of where this was going, and it wasn’t anywhere good.

Ortiz continued. “We knew we couldn’t involve local law enforcement. Too many informants on the cartel’s payroll. Same with the courts. So we kept it tight. No leaks, no outside help.”

Ortiz paused, his gaze sweeping the room like he was assessing who would get it and who wouldn’t. I could tell this story still burned him. “We raided the house with 20 Marines. It was a clean op—silent approach, controlled entry. Breached the house, cleared it room by room. Found Salazar in the back, cowering behind two of his bodyguards. We had him cuffed and on his knees in under five minutes. No shots fired.”

I nodded slightly, impressed. That kind of precision didn’t happen by accident. But I could see the tension in Ortiz’s jaw, and I knew the story wasn’t over.

“The problem,” Ortiz continued, his voice tightening, “was the arrest warrant. We needed it to make the arrest stick legally, but we knew the second we applied for it, the news would reach Salazar. So we held off requesting it until we had Salazar locked down. We had two Marines stationed at the courthouse, ready to get it signed as soon as we had Salazar in custody.”

Ortiz’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table. “But before they could get back to us, someone leaked the operation. The cartel started mobilizing. First, it was a few lookouts on motorcycles. Then trucks. Within thirty minutes, the entire neighborhood was swarming with cartel gunmen. Over 500 armed men. They had everything—AKs, .50-cal sniper rifles, RPGs, even improvised armored vehicles. They blocked every exit route, set up roadblocks, and started lighting up the neighborhood—burning cars, firing indiscriminately. It was chaos.”

His jaw tightened. “And the one who rallied them was Rico Salazar. Javier’s son. The second he got word of the arrest, he flipped the switch. Pulled every sicario he could reach, called in favors, ordered streets locked down like he was running a military operation. He wanted to show he could handle things without his old man’s say-so. Wanted to prove he’s the wolf’s blood, not just another pup.”

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. I felt my pulse quicken just listening to Ortiz. I had been in my share of tight spots, but being outnumbered 25 to 1 by a small army of cartel gunmen? Those were the kind of odds you only saw in the worst warzones, not in a city street.

Ortiz’s voice dropped, laced with barely restrained anger. “My men were ready to fight. We wanted to fight. But we all knew it wasn’t a battle we could win. Not without calling for reinforcements. I relayed the situation to HQ, and the order came down—release Salazar and retreat.”

The silence in the room was heavy. I could feel Ortiz’s frustration, the sting of having to let a target like Salazar walk. I had been there—mission parameters shifting mid-op, forcing you to swallow your pride and do what needed to be done. Didn’t make it any easier.

Ortiz leaned back, exhaling sharply and shaking his head slightly. “We had him... we had him.”

Admiral Navarro cleared his throat, his deep voice cutting through the tension. “That was my call,” he said, his tone firm but measured. “Captain Ortiz and his men executed the operation flawlessly, but there was no viable path to success once the cartel mobilized. Engaging them would’ve turned the streets of Tijuana into a warzone. Hundreds of civilians would’ve been caught in the crossfire. I made the decision to retreat to avoid a bloodbath.”

I respected Navarro for owning it, but damn, the whole situation was hard to stomach. It wasn’t a warzone, where giving ground was sometimes part of the strategy, when you have to swallow your pride and do what’s necessary to minimize collateral damage. This was a civilian city, and a gang of drug runners had forced the military to stand down. It didn’t sit right.

General Rojas, speaking on behalf of the Baja California Governor, leaned forward, his frustration palpable. “This is the reality we’re dealing with. The Governor and the Mayor of Tijuana fully support the Marines’ efforts, but we’re hamstrung. The Federal government won’t support us. The President’s new policy has tied our hands.”

Sofia, who had been quiet until now, let out a sharp laugh. “You know the new policy? They call it ‘abrazos, no balazos’—‘hugs, not bullets’. Hugs for the cartel? Seriously? They call Salazar ‘El Lobo’—The Wolf. That’s why his cartel is called ‘La Manada’—The Wolfpack. He didn’t earn the nickname because he’s cuddly. His wolfpack kills for fun, and we’re supposed to hug them?”

She turned her gaze on me. “Captain Blaze, you dealt with the terrorists in Spring Lake decisively. Tell me, have you ever heard anything more ridiculous than hugging psychopathic murderers?”

I met her gaze, trying not to let her intensity throw me off. “No, ma’am,” I said evenly. “I can’t say I have.”

She gave me a faint smile, and for a moment, I saw something beyond the fire in her eyes—something raw and real. It wasn’t just anger driving her. It was personal.

General Rojas picked up the thread. “That’s why we approached the DEA. We need an off-the-books operation. Something that combines U.S. SIGINT capabilities and operatives with our on-the-ground intelligence and Marines. Salazar has to be taken out of play, and the only way to do that is to get him to the U.S. Once he’s in American custody, he’ll have no power.”

Harrigan nodded , his voice flat but weighted with frustration. “We’ve been pushing the Mexican government for years to crack down on La Manada. Salazar isn’t just a cartel boss—he’s the main artery feeding drugs into the U.S. He’s untouchable in Mexico. Even if, by some miracle, they arrest him, he’ll be running La Manada from a prison cell like it’s his damn office. That’s how it works down there. The only solution is to bring him here. I think this is a golden opportunity.”

I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed. Harrigan wasn’t exaggerating. Mexican prisons weren’t deterrents for guys like Salazar. They were like their corporate headquarters. Cartel bosses treated Mexican prison as a minor inconvenience—a temporary change of scenery, not a punishment. If anything, getting locked up just made them harder to touch.

Harrigan exhaled hard, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And the timing of this couldn’t be better. We got credible intel—Salazar just got his hands on a hundred tons of Colombian product.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Hundred tons?”

Harrigan nodded. “Give or take. That’s a big play, even for him. He’s been expanding—already locked down the West Coast, making a push into the Southeast, and now he’s got his eyes on the East Coast. He wants to flood the U.S. market, wipe out the competition, and set the price on his terms.” He sat back. “Thing is, that’s a huge gamble. Buying the stuff is one thing, but holding it and moving it? That’s where it gets complicated.”

He had a point. Drugs don’t mean shit if you can’t move them. The DEA had been hammering cartel smuggling routes for years, and while Salazar had plenty of ways to get product across, one hundred tons wasn’t slipping through tunnels or getting tossed over a fence. That was a logistical nightmare.

And it made him vulnerable.

Harrigan knew it too. “He doesn’t have a route locked down yet. No way. Not for this amount. And if we find it and destroy it before he figures out a way to move it, his empire folds. The Colombians aren’t exactly known for their patience. They gave him product; they expect their money.”

I let that sit for a second. Salazar wasn’t just a kingpin. He was a guy who owed a debt. A massive one. And the people he owed weren’t the kind to send overdue notices.

Lt. Colonel Flynn cut in, his tone sharp and to the point. “Salazar made this personal when he smuggled those terrorists into the U.S. That crossed the line, and it gave us the leverage we needed to green-light a covert mission. Blaze, that’s where you and your team come in.”

He locked eyes with me, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’ll be embedded with Captain Ortiz’s Marines. Officially, you’re there to consult and train. Unofficially, your mission is to apprehend Salazar and get him across the border. Once he’s stateside, he’s someone else’s headache.”

The other Flynn, Mark of the U.S. Marshals, leaned back in his chair with a smug grin. “That’s where I come in. Once we’ve got him in U.S. custody, he’s going straight to a supermax. No deals, no leverage, no escape. We’ll dump his ass in a cell and let him rot.”

Mark’s gaze shifted to me, and his grin widened. “Of course, for that to happen, he’ll need to be breathing when you deliver him.”

I raised an eyebrow.

Mark explained. “Spring Lake, Blaze. You’ve got a reputation. This one’s gotta be handled with a bit more finesse. Breathing, preferably.”

I had to work hard at stifling a laugh. “I’ll do my best.”

The tension in the room eased slightly, but it didn’t last long. Lt. Colonel Flynn leaned back, his tone serious again. “This isn’t going to be simple. The op is complex, and we’re working against the clock. We’ve got 24 hours to get this moving.”

Admiral Navarro chimed in, his deep voice steady. “Salazar and his gang are riding high right now. They think they’re untouchable. That’s exactly why we need to strike now. Catch them off guard.”

General Rojas added, “We’ve kept the circle small—very small. If word gets to Mexico City, the federal government will shut us down, and Salazar will disappear again. We can’t afford any leaks.”

“Do we know his current location?” I asked.

Sofia leaned forward, her eyes sharp. “He’s in Tijuana. That much we know. He’s flaunting the fact that the Marines had to let him walk. He’s popping up all over the city, playing the role of the invincible kingpin. But he’s smart. He disappears just as fast as he shows up. We don’t know where he sleeps.”

I turned to Ortiz. “So, where does Rico stand in all this? Is he Salazar’s number two?”

Ortiz shook his head. “More like a wannabe at this stage. But he’s reckless, brash, and desperate to outdo his father’s brutality. Killed his first victim at fifteen, made sure it was messy. Thinks of himself as La Manada’s next king, but the old wolves still see him as a cub trying to grow fangs. Rico hates that. So he pushes harder, kills crueler, and takes every chance to prove himself.” Ortiz leaned forward, eyes dark with meaning. “And that makes him even more dangerous than his father.”

“Ah, one of those guys. I’ve seen plenty. They all got the same playbook—overcompensate, flex, make sure everyone knows how ‘ruthless’ they are. Guys like that always think they’re the scariest ones in the room. Until they find out they’re not.”

Ortiz gave a grim nod. “Something like that.”

“What about your source? Is he still in play?”

Ortiz’s face darkened, his silence speaking louder than words. When he finally answered, his voice was tight, each word laced with barely restrained fury. “No. The morning after the operation, three bodies were found hanging from a bridge. Headless. One of them was my source. We only identified him by a tattoo.” He stopped, his jaw clenching so hard I thought it might crack. “Salazar’s cleaning house. And he’s not stopping there.”

I didn’t rush him. I knew that kind of anger—the kind that came from losing people you swore to protect. It wasn’t just frustration; it was a wound that cut to the bone.

When Ortiz spoke again, his voice was quieter but no less intense. “He’s coming after us. Marines. Yesterday, one of my men and his family were killed—house blown to hell. A ‘mysterious’ explosion. Salazar’s getting the names of everyone who came for him, and he’s sending the message.”

The room felt heavy, the weight of his words pressing down on all of us. I could feel Ortiz’s anger like heat radiating off him, and I didn’t blame him. Hell, I understood it better than I wanted to admit. The man wasn’t just angry—he was carrying the unbearable guilt of watching his team get targeted and knowing his hands were tied. For a soldier, that kind of helplessness was a special kind of hell.

Ortiz leaned forward, his eyes locking onto mine. “If I can’t get him officially, I’ll find another way.”

I didn’t need him to spell it out. His words hung in the air, sharp and unyielding, the kind of vow that comes from a place too deep to ignore.

Admiral Navarro broke the silence, his tone steady but edged with authority. “It won’t come to that, Captain. We have the green light now. This operation is happening.”

Navarro glanced at Flynn, who gave a sharp nod. “It’s on,” Flynn said simply.

The room shifted, the tension easing slightly as the decision was made. The operation was a go.

CHAPTER 7

I moved to the window as the others filed out, flipping through the notes Flynn had handed me. The faint hum of conversation drifted down the hallway.

Fort Bragg stretched out before me, its order and discipline etched into every corner. The training fields, the rows of barracks, the faint hum of a Black Hawk circling in the distance—it was all familiar, a constant in a world that rarely offered any. It was a place that had shaped me, a reminder of the life I had chosen.

But my thoughts were far from there. They were in Tijuana, where Ortiz’s pain and anger had stoked a fire in me. His words replayed in my mind, his anger and grief cutting through the usual detachment I tried to maintain.

I couldn’t shake the image of his source dangling headless from a bridge or the Marine’s family blown to pieces. I had been there—carrying the weight of lives lost and the need for justice that burned hotter than any rage. That kind of loss didn’t just hurt—it hollowed you out, left you burning for justice or revenge, sometimes both.

Tijuana wasn’t just a city anymore; it was a battlefield, one where the rules were written by men like Salazar—violent, ruthless, and confident they were untouchable. Salazar wasn’t just a cartel boss; he was a shadow lurking in the cracks of Tijuana’s streets, feeding on fear and wielding cruelty like a weapon.

I had seen men like him before—in Fallujah, Kandahar, Mosul. Warlords, insurgent leaders, men who thought they could hide behind networks of terror. They all bled the same when the right pressure was applied.

The cartel wasn’t that different from the insurgents we had hunted in Afghanistan and Iraq—hidden enemies who moved among civilians, striking fast and retreating into the crowd, thriving on chaos. The cartel might not carry the same flags or chant the same slogans, but their methods were eerily familiar: sudden, brutal violence; fear as a currency; and a knack for blending into the very fabric of the communities they terrorized.

We had learned the hard way that conventional tactics didn’t work against an enemy who thrived on blending in. We had to adapt, think like hunters instead of soldiers. Speed, deception, and overwhelming force were our tools. The setting was different—Tijuana wasn’t Fallujah, but the principles of asymmetric warfare didn’t change. The key was to make them feel exposed, vulnerable, and off-balance.

I was thumbing through the notes absently, letting my thoughts churn, when the door behind me opened softly. I caught a faint trace of perfume—subtle, clean, unmistakably Sofia’s. I didn’t turn immediately.

“I forgot something,” Sofia said, her voice calm but carrying an undertone I couldn’t quite place.

I nodded and glanced at her reflection in the window as she moved toward the chair she had occupied during the meeting. She picked up a folder she had supposedly left behind—or maybe she hadn’t really come for the folder. Either way, she lingered, her gaze flicking to me.

“Did you get what you came for?” I asked, turning to face her.

She smiled faintly, holding the folder. “I did. But I also wanted to ask you something.”

I leaned against the windowsill, crossing my arms. “Go ahead.”

“What do you make of all this?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Do you think it’s doable? Taking down Salazar and everything he’s built? Is it something you think you can pull off in the time we have?”

I set the notes down on the windowsill and turned to face her. “It’s doable,” I said, keeping my tone even. “But it’s not going to be clean or simple. Cartels aren’t that different from what we’ve dealt with in places like Iraq, Afghanistan. They hide in plain sight, strike fast, and disappear just as quickly. The terrain’s different, but the principles are the same. Speed, deception, and hitting them where it hurts.”

She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “And you think that’s enough? That it’ll work here?”

“It has to,” I replied. “We’ll need to think like them—use bait to draw them out, make them think they’ve got the upper hand. Then we hit them hard, disrupt their network, and grab anyone who can lead us to Salazar. They rely on fear and chaos, but they’re vulnerable when you disrupt their rhythm.”

She crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. “So you dangle bait and hope they take it.”

“Not hope,” I corrected. “Plan. Control the kill zone, force them to improvise. When they think they’ve got the upper hand, we make sure they don’t.”

Sofia studied me for a moment, then asked, “What made you decide to do this? Be a soldier, take on these kinds of missions?”

I paused, caught off guard by the question. “Because someone has to,” I said finally. “And because I’ve seen what happens when no one does. I enlisted after 9/11.”

She nodded. Her gaze softened, and she looked away briefly before speaking again. “I know there’s a lot of risk in this, for everyone involved.”

I caught the shift in her tone. “Why did you decide to be mayor in a city like this?” I asked. “You had to know the risks.”

She hesitated, then met my eyes. “The previous mayor, Miguel Delgado… he was my brother,” she said quietly. “He was killed in a hail of bullets by cartel sicarios. He wanted to make this city better, safer. And they murdered him for it.”

The weight of her words settled between us, and I understood. She wasn’t just fighting for the city—she was fighting for her brother.

“That’s why you’re so involved,” I said. “You’ve got real skin in the game.”

She nodded, her expression hardening. “When I ran for mayor, I promised to take on the cartel. It wasn’t just a campaign slogan. I’ve been on a crusade against them since day one. They killed Miguel, they’ve killed journalists, police, anyone who stood up to them.”

Her voice caught for a moment, but she pushed through. “Now I’m at the top of their hit list. Admiral Navarro and the Marines told me I should move into the army quarters, at least temporarily. But I refused. I’m not trying to be a heroine, but I can’t afford to look afraid. If I take protection that my people don’t have, what message does that send? That their mayor is scared? That she thinks her life is worth more than theirs?”

Her words hung in the air, and I saw the fire behind them. This wasn’t just a job for her—it was personal. It was kind of refreshing to see a politician who was in the game for something she believed in, not just as a career choice.

She took a breath and said: “You need a bait? You’ve got me. I’m the bait. I’ll draw them out. You just need to be ready when they come.”

I straightened. “You really want to take that kind of risk?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. Then, after a pause, she added, “And I have a feeling you won’t let anything happen to me.”

Her confidence was disarming, but it wasn’t misplaced. I nodded. “If you’re the bait, we’ll make sure the trap is airtight. No one’s getting to you.”

Her expression softened, and for a moment, the tension in the room eased. “I somehow know that, Captain Blaze,” she said, her voice quieter now.

She stepped closer, her hand brushing against mine briefly—a touch that lingered just enough to make me notice. “I’ll leave you to your planning,” she said softly, her eyes meeting mine for a moment longer than necessary before she turned toward the door.

I tried not to stare as she walked away. Good thing I wasn’t checking her out for too long, because she turned her head to look at me just as she opened the door. I had managed to drag my eyes back to the folder the same second.

As the door closed behind her, I turned back to the window. Fort Bragg felt a world away from the streets of Tijuana, but the mission was clear. Salazar wasn’t just a target. He was the embodiment of everything we fought against—the chaos, the impunity, the violence. Taking him down wouldn’t just be a mission; it would be a reckoning.

And I was more than ready to deliver it. For Ortiz. For his men. Sofia’s brother. For every life Salazar had destroyed.

Salazar didn’t know it yet, but his time was running out.

CHAPTER 8

At 1800 hours sharp, I had my final briefing with Lt. Colonel Flynn. He listened as I outlined the plan, his sharp blue eyes boring into mine like he was searching for any cracks in the armor.

I didn’t waste time. “The plan is shock and awe, sir. Rapid, overwhelming strikes across multiple cartel strongholds in one night. We’ll hit them fast and hard. By the time they start piecing it together, Salazar will be in our crosshairs.”

Flynn leaned back. “And the Mexicans? You think they can deliver? It’s supposed to be a consultative and advisory mission, right?”

“I know, sir. They’re fired up and ready. They’ve got the personnel and the motivation; just needed a plan. We’ll provide the coordination, intel, and oversight. They’ll execute.”

Flynn nodded slowly. “You’ve got the green light. Keep it clean, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

I stood, saluted, and left the room. I knew that officially, we were going there to advise and assist. On paper, that meant no direct action, no boots kicking in doors. The brass called it a “consultative and advisory” role—a nice way of saying: “Stay out of sight and keep your hands clean.”

But I had been around long enough to know the game. Out there, miles away from the suits and red tape, the lines got blurry real quick. Reading between the lines wasn’t just a skill in this line of work—it was survival. But when you read too far, when you push too hard, and the whole thing goes FUBAR, guess who’s left holding the bag? The guys on the ground. I had seen it happen before, and I would deal with it again if I had to.

Still, I wasn’t losing sleep over it. I wasn’t there to play politics or worry about blowback. This wasn’t about playing by the book or worrying about whose toes we stepped on. This was about doing what needed to be done, no matter how messy it got along the way.

By 1900 hours, I was in the conference room with Captain Ortiz, Sofia, and the rest of the Mexican delegation. The room was tense, the air thick with the weight of what we were about to attempt.

I started with the basics, keeping my tone calm but firm. “The objective is simple: dismantle the cartel’s operational capability in Tijuana. We’ll target their leadership, logistics, and key assets. The goal is to leave them in complete disarray and take Salazar alive.”

Sofia’s role was pivotal. She would draw the cartel out by making a public statement, declaring her intent to rid Tijuana of their influence, throwing down the gauntlet to Salazar and his crew. It was risky, but it would force Salazar’s hand. The cartel wouldn’t be able to resist taking a swing at her. That’s when we would hit them—hard, fast, and from every angle.

Sofia leaned forward, her dark eyes blazing. “I won’t just draw them out,” she said. “I’ll make Salazar so mad he’ll come after me personally.”

Admiral Navarro frowned. “Señorita Delgado, that’s a dangerous game.”

Sofia shrugged. “I have your Marines by my side. And I’ve got Delta at my back,” she said, her voice steady. Then she looked straight at me. “I’ve heard Delta are the best special forces in the world. I shouldn’t have anything to worry about, right?”

Her eyes locked onto mine, challenging. I held her gaze. “We’ll keep your security airtight,” I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. “But you’ll need to stick to the script. No improvising. No sudden changes.”

“Understood,” she nodded, a faint smile playing on her lips.

By 2000 hours, I was back in the barracks with my team. Raptor, Hawkeye, and Ninja Man were seated around a table, their gear laid out in perfect order. The room smelled of gun oil and coffee, a comforting blend that spoke of readiness.

I laid out the plan. “Operation’s called Shadow Strike,” I said , leaning on the edge of the table. “Objective is simple: shock and awe. We hit multiple cartel targets in a few hours, take out key personnel, and leave Salazar scrambling. By the time the sun’s up, his empire will be on life support.”

Raptor—Staff Sergeant Jackson Cole—chuckled, his massive frame dwarfing the chair he was sitting in. At six-foot-four and 220 pounds of muscle, Raptor was a walking tank. Built for close-quarters combat, he was the guy you wanted watching your six when things got personal.

“Shock and awe,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “I like it.”

“Just don’t break the furniture,” Ninja Man quipped.

“Well, we can try to be careful. But sounds like we’re gonna have a good time,” Raptor retorted, cracking his knuckles.

Hawkeye—Sergeant First Class Robert Compton—was quieter, sitting off to the side as he cleaned his rifle. Hawkeye was the epitome of precision and patience, a man who could wait for hours to take a single, perfect shot. He had earned a reputation as the deadliest of snipers long before he became a Delta operator.

“Let’s make it count,” he said, his voice calm but resolute.

“Gear check at 0400,” I said. “Wheels up at 0500. Get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long one.”

By 0500, we were seated inside a C-130 Hercules at Pope Army Airfield, the massive transport plane roaring to life on the tarmac. Pope was a stone’s throw from Fort Bragg. The airfield was a massive hub of activity, its runways stretching into the early morning darkness, with rows of aircraft and ground crews moving like clockwork under the floodlights.

The flight to Marine Corps Air Station Miramar took four and a half hours, crossing three time zones. As the sun rose over California, we landed at Miramar. The time was 0630 hours—three hours kind of shaved off the flight time as we shifted time zones to California’s Pacific Time. The cool Pacific breeze hit us as we stepped off the plane. The sprawling base was a hive of activity, with aircraft taxiing on the runways and Marines going about their duties.

Waiting for us on the tarmac was a Black Hawk helicopter. We loaded up quickly, the rotors already spinning, and were airborne again within minutes for the final leg of the journey. The Black Hawk flew low and fast, avoiding major urban areas as it crossed into Mexico. Below us, the landscape shifted from the sprawling suburbs of San Diego to the rugged terrain of northern Mexico.

The flight was less than an hour. We touched down at a pre-secured location on the outskirts of Tijuana. The rotor wash kicked up a cloud of dust as we disembarked, our boots hitting the ground with purpose. Captain Ortiz was waiting with a convoy of unmarked vehicles.

He greeted me with a firm handshake. “Welcome to Tijuana, Captain Blaze.”

“Good to be here, Captain,” I replied. “Let’s get to work.”

The convoy rolled out, winding through backstreets and alleys until we reached a secure location. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting long shadows across the city.

I felt a familiar surge of adrenaline as I scanned the faces of my team, each one a study in focus and controlled intensity. This was it. The calm before the storm. It was time to draw out the cartel. Time to hit them where it hurt.

The cartel thought they owned Tijuana, thought they were untouchable. By the time we were done, they would know what it felt like to have the ground ripped out from under them. No more shadows to hide in, no more safe havens.

“Let’s light this place up,” I said.

The team nodded, their expressions grim and determined. The hunters had arrived to take out the wolfpack. Shadow Strike was a go.

CHAPTER 9

Time was the one thing we didn’t have on our side. If we didn’t move fast, the entire operation would be dead before it started. If this op dragged for even a couple of days, word would surely get out that American Tier 1 operators were working with Mexican Marines in Tijuana. The suits in Mexico City would shut us down.

The official story always was that the government didn’t want U.S. special operations forces running black ops in their backyard, but the real problem was corruption. Too many politicians, too many public officials, had their hands in the cartel’s pockets. That meant too many leaks. And the second Salazar caught wind of us, he would go dark. We would never see him again.

And in a city like Tijuana, that was as good as him being untouchable. The place was a goddamn labyrinth. Twisting alleys, overpopulated slums, sprawling neighborhoods packed so tight you could disappear just by stepping into a crowd. Salazar knew every back road, every escape route, and had half the local law enforcement in his pocket. Even with every bit of tech and training at our disposal, hunting Salazar in this city would be like chasing a shadow.

If we were going to take him down, we needed to draw him out. Which was exactly what Sofia had in mind.

“You want to hold a rally?” I asked, staring at her across the table.

Sofia nodded, as if it was the most logical thing in the world.

Ortiz shot me a glance, which kind of said: “The woman’s either nuts or high on something.”

“In front of the Mayor’s office,” Sofia added, as if that made it any better.

“A public rally,” I repeated, just to make sure I hadn’t heard it wrong. “As in, standing in front of a bunch of people, out in the open, and hoping Salazar doesn’t put a bullet through you?”

She gave a small shrug. “That’s the idea.”

I exhaled, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You know Salazar wants you dead, right? And that holding a public event in front of a thousand people is the opposite of making that difficult for him?”

She tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes locked onto mine. “Risk is part of being a public figure, Captain Blaze. Whether it’s a mayor, a senator, or even the President of Mexico. Or do you think the American President doesn’t take risks when he steps in front of a crowd?”

She let that sink in for a second, then continued. “His security team doesn’t eliminate risk. They manage it, minimize the threats as much as possible. They do their job, the President does his. So the question is, can Delta and the Marines manage the risk or not?”

She was goading me. And damn if it wasn’t working.

I leaned back in my chair, giving her a slow once-over. There was a fire in her. Stubborn as hell. Brave as hell too.

Sofia looked at both of us. “You wanted a way to draw him out? Well, here it is.”

She wasn’t wrong. We could spend weeks chasing ghosts, or we could set a trap. I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of putting her in the middle of it, but if we controlled the setup, we controlled the variables. We could tighten the net. Limit Salazar’s options.

I sighed, glancing at Ortiz. Even the usually stern Marine couldn’t suppress a smile: “She’s got us there, amigo.”

Sofia smiled, just a hint of it, and damn if it wasn’t distracting.

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table. “Alright,” I said. “We’ll do it.”

Her eyes lit up with satisfaction.

“But let’s get one thing straight,” I added. “You’re the bait, but we’re the ones setting the trap. That means you listen to us, you follow every single security measure we put in place, and if we say move, you move. No arguments.”

She placed a hand over her heart in mock sincerity. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain.”

Somehow, I doubted that.

I wasn’t worried about my team. We could handle this. The Marines would lock down the perimeter. Delta would take vantage points. And Echo would be our eyes and ears.

Echo was the call sign of Corporal Kevin King, one of the best digital warfare specialists in JSOC, part of Delta’s Computer Network Operations Squadron—the Digital Devils. The kind of guy who could hack any enemy’s encrypted comms, pull satellite imagery in real-time, and track a burner phone across half the goddamn continent.

With Echo monitoring every bit of SIGINT and drone surveillance, we would have eyes everywhere. Salazar wouldn’t get the chance to slip away.

Thirty minutes. That was all the time I had to turn Sofia’s risky-as-hell idea into something that wouldn’t get her killed.

I moved fast, pulling up schematics, getting Echo on live drone surveillance, and setting up Marine placements. Ortiz coordinated his men, handling local logistics—permits, roadblocks, traffic control. They would make sure no unwanted official interference popped up. Not that we would let some bureaucratic red tape stop us, but the last thing we needed was some clueless city cop stumbling into the middle of an op.

Finally, in a secured briefing room deep inside the Marines’ compound, I stood at the front with a tablet, bringing up the digital layout of the rally site. The screen projected a top-down view of the Plaza Cívica, the large public square in front of the Mayor’s office.

The office was an old colonial-style structure—stone façade, high-arched windows, a central balcony that probably looked great for speeches but was a goddamn kill zone if anyone ever used it. The plaza itself was open, with a scattering of palm trees and a few decorative benches. Too much open space, not enough cover.

I zoomed in on the surrounding buildings—a mix of three- and four-story structures. The rooftops were flat, some with water tanks and satellite dishes. Too many potential hideouts for a shooter.

I zoomed in, marking positions.

“The rally’s happening here,” I said, tapping the screen where a temporary stage and podium would be set up. “Crowd will be here, in the main section of the plaza. That means our biggest threats are gunmen in the crowd and a possible sniper from high ground.”

Ortiz folded his arms. “How many civilians are expected?”

“Close to a thousand,” Sofia answered, seated at the table with her arms crossed. “Give or take.”

Ninja Man gave a low whistle. “That’s a lot of human shields.”

He did have a point. “I know. But we control the setup. That means we control the risks.”

I brought up another view—an aerial feed.

“Marines will secure the perimeter. Discreet cordon, low profile, weapons concealed. We don’t want to scare off Salazar’s people before they take the bait.”

Ortiz nodded.

“Delta operators will be out of sight. Eyes on the crowd, rooftops, and side streets.” I pointed. “I’ll be up there.” A three-story building across from the plaza. “Ninja will be with me.”

“Great.” Ninja Man leaned back. “Just me and the boss, hiding in the heat, sweating our asses off in camo netting. Real cozy.”

Raptor smirked. “Could be worse. You could be his spotter.” He jerked a thumb toward Hawkeye.

Hawkeye, sitting with his arms crossed, just grunted.

“Raptor, you got your wish. You’re spotting for Hawkeye. He’ll be here.” I marked a four-story commercial building directly behind the Mayor’s office. “Best vantage point. Overlooks the plaza and every rooftop in a three-hundred-yard radius. You guys will have a clean view of every viable sniper perch.”

Hawkeye gave a satisfied nod. “Good spot.”

Raptor cut in. “Speaking of which, what rifle you using, Hawkeye?”

Hawkeye cracked his knuckles. “Mk22 ASR. .300 Norma Magnum.”

The Mk22 Advanced Sniper Rifle—chambered in .300 Norma Magnum, effective past 1,500 meters. Sub-MOA accuracy, modular design, suppressor-ready. Perfect for urban sniping.

Ninja Man whistled. “That’s a lot of reach.”

“You bet. The round’s stable past 1,500 meters,” Hawkeye said, like he was talking about his favorite steak. “Fast. Quiet. The target won’t even hear it.”

Sofia, who had been listening quietly, gave him a look. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

Hawkeye shrugged. “Well, everyone needs a hobby.”

I cleared my throat and got back to business. “Echo will be monitoring drone surveillance.” I tapped the screen again, shifting to a live overhead feed. “We’ll have real-time SIGINT, infrared scans, and AI-assisted movement tracking.”

Raptor snorted. “Translation: Big Brother’s watching.”

I nodded. “And looking for anyone out of place.”

Ortiz studied the screen. “And if Salazar doesn’t take the bait?”

Sofia leaned forward, eyes locked on his. “He will.”

She sounded pretty confident. I didn’t realize at that time what exactly she meant.

I turned to my team. “We keep this clean. No unnecessary risks. No cowboy shit.”

Ninja nudged me. “Hey Cowboy, did you just say no cowboy shit?”

“Figure of speech, Ninja,” I replied, unable to repress a smile. “But you guys know what I mean. We do this clean. No unnecessary heroics. No stupid risks.” I glanced at Sofia. “That goes for you too, Madam Mayor.”

She smiled. “I’ll try my best.”

CHAPTER 10

The Plaza Cívica was alive with noise, a rolling wave of voices echoing off the stone facade of the Mayor’s office. A thousand people, maybe more, had gathered—residents, business owners, even some off-duty cops and soldiers. It was a bold show of defiance, the kind that could either inspire a city… or get a lot of people killed.

From my rooftop perch, I could see the entire layout—the stage at the base of the Mayor’s office, the dense crowd stretching back to the fountains, and the Mexican Marines keeping the perimeter locked down.

Sofia stood at the podium, exuding defiance. No hesitation. Just raw, unyielding resolve. Looking composed in a sleek black dress that made her look more like a movie star than a politician. She was a hell of a lot easier on the eyes than any mayor I had ever seen. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that every cartel lowlife in the city was probably watching, waiting for the right moment.

I saw her scan the rooftops as she adjusted the mic, her gaze lingering on my position for a second longer than necessary. Then, she smiled. I wasn’t sure if it was at me or the crowd in general. The sun caught the sharp angles of her face, her hair moving slightly in the breeze as she gripped the edges of the lectern and leaned forward.

And then, she threw the first punch—verbally.

“To those who believe they own this city, let me make one thing clear—you don’t.”

I felt a shift in the energy of the crowd. People leaned in closer. The tension crackled like a live wire.

“I know you’re watching, Salazar,” she said, her voice carrying across the plaza. “You sit in whatever dark little hole you’re hiding in, thinking you own this city. That you own its people. But Tijuana does not belong to you. It belongs to the people.”

I felt my jaw tighten. She was pushing it.

“You think fear makes you strong?” she continued. “That being a shadow, striking from the dark, makes you powerful? It doesn’t. It makes you a coward.”

Jesus, tone it down, woman.

I shifted slightly, scanning the nearby rooftops again. This was more than bait now—this was her gutting Salazar in front of everyone. Making him look weak. The man was going to lose his damn mind over this.

I realized why she was so confident earlier, when she told Ortiz she was sure Salazar would take the bait and come for her. She wasn’t just betting on his pride. She was cutting him open in front of his own people, shoving a knife into his credibility. She wasn’t hoping he would take the bait. She knew he would.

And reckless or not, I had to admire her for it. But she wasn’t done yet.

“If you have any courage at all, you’ll show yourself.” Her voice carried, unwavering. “Or you can do what you always do—stay hidden. But if that’s your choice, then get the hell out of my city. Find some other hole to crawl into.”

The crowd erupted again, the roar rolling through the plaza like a wave.

From beside me, Ninja gave a low whistle. “Damn. She’s got some fire.”

“I guess,” I replied, my eyes scanning the rooftops, my gut telling me something was coming.

“And tell you what, boss? I’m getting the feeling she’s got a thing for you.”

I didn’t look away from my scope. “Focus, Ninja.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I am focused. Just making an observation while keeping overwatch, like a good little operator.”

I adjusted my position slightly, checking angles. “You’re seeing things.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. ‘Cause when she glances up here every now and then, I’d bet good money she ain’t looking at me or Ortiz.”

I didn’t bite. Ninja liked to run his mouth, but I knew the second shit hit the fan, he would be locked in. He could be laughing one second and putting a bullet in someone the next. That was just how he worked—sharp humor, sharper instincts.

Then, almost at the same time, we both locked onto something.

Southwest rooftop. Fourth floor. A man, late thirties, lean build. Locked in. Feet planted. Shoulders squared. No casual weight shift, no restless movement.

He wasn’t a bystander or some rooftop loiterer. He wasn’t checking his phone, or even shifting his weight like someone casually watching the rally. And most importantly—he wasn’t watching the crowd. He was watching Sofia.

“Cowboy,” Ninja’s voice lost all its easygoing humor, dropping into that cold, professional tone. “Southwest rooftop. You see him?”

“Yeah,” I said, already fine-tuning my scope. “Guy isn’t shifting. Looks locked in.”

That stillness, that level of focus—something about it screamed trained shooter.

Then I saw it. The bag at his feet. Unzipped, just enough. Just enough to show a rifle stock inside.

As if to confirm it, Echo’s voice crackled in my earpiece. “Possible shooter. Southwest rooftop, four stories, white shirt, black cap.”

Hawkeye was already on it. “Got eyes on him.”

“Raptor?” I asked.

Raptor’s voice came through, low and precise. “Range 312 meters. Wind five knots, coming in from the west. No mirage. Shooter’s setting up.” A pause. “His elbow just shifted—adjusting for the shot.”

I felt it in my gut. He was lining up.

“Take him,” I ordered.

Hawkeye exhaled slowly. His finger tightened on the trigger. Even from my position, I saw the slight ripple of movement. The Mk22 coughed—nearly silent, just a sharp mechanical whisper.

Through my scope, I watched the moment the bullet found its mark. The shooter’s head snapped sideways, his body folding like a puppet with cut strings.

I kept my sight trained. No movement. No reaction.

No panic in the crowd below. Nobody had noticed.

“Target down,” Hawkeye said. No emotion, just cold certainty.

The Marines were already moving, sweeping the building, securing the shooter’s weapon and phone. Echo would soon have the data.

But my focus was already shifting. One sniper down didn’t mean they were done.

The crowd still cheered, oblivious. Sofia was still speaking, completely unaware she had just dodged a bullet—literally.

I keyed my mic. “Echo, scrub all angles. See if there’s anyone else lining up.”

“Already on it, Cowboy.”

The rally soon ended. No more threats emerged. And suddenly, it was all over.

Sofia was rushed out, her security detail closing in around her like a shield. The crowd slowly began to thin, the roar fading into scattered voices, the buzz of engines starting up.

The rally had done its job, but the storm hadn’t passed. It had only just started brewing. Salazar wouldn’t let this slide. Not after the way Sofia had humiliated him.

He would be left wondering what happened to his sniper. We had made sure he wouldn’t find out. But that wouldn’t stop him—he would be itching to make a move.

And when he did, we would be waiting. It was time to move to the next phase of the hunt.

CHAPTER 11

The Pacifica Grand Resort, a sprawling five-star oasis perched on the edge of Tijuana’s coastline, was a place that screamed luxury. Its gleaming glass exterior reflected the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean by day and the shimmering city lights by night. On its top floor, the Casa del Sol restaurant boasted breathtaking views of the ocean and the city below, but that night, none of us were there for the scenery.

I sat in one corner of Casa del Sol, my back to the wall, the soft glow of candlelight casting shadows across the polished wood of our table. My loose green-and-gold tropical shirt hung open over a plain white tee, paired with jeans and sneakers—just another tourist enjoying an evening out. The Glock 19 tucked into the back holster beneath my shirt told a different story, pressed snug against the small of my back, invisible beneath the fabric.

Tucked beside it, canted at just the right angle for a clean grab, was a suppressor and an extra magazine—both slim enough to disappear under my shirt but close enough for a quick draw. If things got loud, I would have to move fast. It would take me under seven seconds to pull the suppressor, thread it on, and be back in the fight. I would rather not need it, but plans often didn’t survive first contact.

Captain Ortiz, seated across from me, mirrored my look with a pale blue shirt and a weathered baseball cap, his sharp eyes scanning the room with the practiced ease of a seasoned Marine. The third person on our table was one of Ortiz’s Marines, pulling off the same casual look.

Across the room, Raptor was hard to miss, even in civilian clothes. His red floral shirt stretched over a frame built for breaking doors and people, his massive hands resting on the table like they were itching for action. Like us, he was trying to pull the big, burly tourist fresh off the beach look, and almost succeeded in that. Raptor sat with two Mexican Marines, both dressed as casually as we were.

Sofia sat at the largest table, flanked by ten local businessmen. She wore a sleek black dress, her posture poised and her dazzling smile carefully calibrated. Of the ten businessmen, only seven were for real. The other three were Marines in plain clothes, blending seamlessly with the group. Sofia’s presence was magnetic, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the slight stiffness in her movements. She knew the stakes. But she was ready.

Above us, Hawkeye had set up in a third-floor office across the street. His sniper rifle covered the hotel’s entrance. In the alley behind the hotel, Ninja Man was stationed in an SUV with another squad of Marines. His role was containment, ensuring no one slipped out the back if things went sideways. Ninja’s tactical mind was always three steps ahead, and I trusted him to keep the back end locked down.

And then there was Echo. From his station back at base, he had hacked into the hotel’s security system, feeding me real-time intel.

A few local cops were stationed outside the hotel entrance and a couple hovered near the restaurant entrance upstairs, trying to look official. Standard presence for a mayor’s event. But I wasn’t fool enough to count on them. When the cartel made their move, those guys would either vanish into thin air or suddenly find something real interesting to stare at in the opposite direction. Not that it mattered. This wasn’t their fight—it was ours. And we weren’t in the business of waiting around for help.

The warm glow of the restaurant’s ambient lighting did little to ease the tension thrumming through my veins. The soft murmur of conversations, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional laugh from diners felt like background noise in a theater where the main act hadn’t yet begun. I wasn’t just expecting trouble—I knew it was coming.

Earlier that afternoon, Sofia’s office had made some calls—seven businessmen invited to an exclusive dinner. No location, no details, just a cryptic “Downtown, details to follow.” The kind of invite that makes people feel important. The kind that makes rats scurry. The bait was set.

Echo had their phones tapped before the calls even went out. The second those invitations landed, two of the seven damn near tripped over themselves to pass the word up the chain. Both placed calls within minutes, both dialing up the same man—Armando Velasco.

That gave us something new to sink our teeth into.

Velasco was a transportation mogul—trucks, warehouses, supply chains that stretched across Mexico and into the States. Owned enough logistical infrastructure to move an army across the country without breaking a sweat. Legit on paper, but if you were a cartel looking to move tons of dope without raising eyebrows, Velasco was the guy you bought drinks for.

Maybe these two businessmen were just really eager to impress their good buddy Velasco. Maybe they were hoping to get a better deal on shipping rates. Or maybe they were part of the damn machine.

What really confirmed it, though, was his reaction. After hearing about the dinner, Velasco told both men the same thing: “El Lobo will be happy with you.”

El Lobo was Salazar.

That was enough to put Velasco firmly in our crosshairs. Echo was already burning through his call logs, tracking movements, running his name through every dirty list we had access to.

Still, we needed to make damn sure Salazar took the bait. So, a couple of hours later, Sofia’s office booked the Casa del Sol for dinner.

That’s when we got our second confirmed snake in the grass.

Luis “Lucho” Moreno, the restaurant’s owner, was already on our radar as a probable cartel asset. Echo had wired up his phone before Sofia’s office called him. Turned out, the guy wasn’t just running a high-end steakhouse—he was deep in Salazar’s pocket. And he was just as predictable as the businessmen.

Minutes after the booking went through, Lucho made a call. Straight to Diego “Toro” Alvarado—one of Salazar’s top lieutenants. Toro. Spanish for bull. A brutal enforcer known for handling hits and making people disappear.

The conversation was short, but it told us plenty. Toro had already been tipped off about the dinner. Lucho wasn’t bringing him new intel—he was confirming the location. Someone higher up the chain had already sent orders down.

That meant one thing—Velasco had been right in the middle of it. But Echo had Velasco’s phone on a leash. If that little weasel so much as sneezed, we would know. Right then, Velasco wasn’t my biggest concern. Lucho was.

That night’s attack wasn’t going to be a half-assed drive-by or some low-level punks trying to make a name for themselves. This was a real operation. Salazar’s men wouldn’t be showing up to send a warning. They would be coming in with numbers, firepower, and a plan.

And the only way to stay ahead of it was to get inside their heads before they made their move. Which meant it was time for a little chat with our friend, Lucho.

Lucho Moreno had the kind of face that belonged behind a bar, not in a cartel lineup. Too soft. Too well-fed. He wasn’t one of the dead-eyed sicarios who carried out hits without blinking. And he sure as hell wasn’t some hardened killer who would rather bite his own tongue off than spill intel. Lucho was a businessman.

Getting him to talk wasn’t hard.

Dangling him upside down over the dark abyss of the service elevator shaft, legs flailing, breath coming in short, panicked gasps, did wonders for his willingness to chat. Lucho had never been in a life-or-death situation before. I could see it in his face—the way his breath hitched, the way his brain froze up. He lasted about ten seconds before he broke.

I tightened my grip on one of his thick ankles while Raptor held the other, making sure the slimeball didn’t slip. Not out of kindness—it was just that if we dropped him, there wouldn’t be enough left of him to give us the intel we needed.

“Lucho,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “I’m a busy man, so let’s not waste time. Who’s coming tonight?”

“I—I don’t know!” he gasped, his hands clawing at the empty air below him. “I swear!”

I gave Raptor a nod, and we lowered him an inch.

Lucho screamed, arms flailing. “Wait! WAIT! Salazar’s men! They’re coming for Sofia Delgado!”

That got my attention. “You’re sure about that?”

“Yes!” His voice rose an octave higher. “Toro told me himself—he came here after I called! He said after what she did at the rally, Salazar isn’t just going to kill her! He wants to make an example out of her! Show all of Tijuana what happens when you go against him!”

Raptor and I exchanged a quick look. That was a hell of a revelation.

“Salazar’s coming here?” I pressed. “Personally?”

Lucho hesitated. “I—I don’t know for sure! Toro just said Salazar will want to see it happen!”

That wasn’t a confirmation, but it wasn’t a no either. And if there was even a chance that Salazar was arrogant enough to show his face that night, we had a golden opportunity.

Sofia had gotten under Salazar’s skin with that speech. Bad. Bad enough that he wasn’t just sending men to kill her—he wanted a spectacle.

The cartels didn’t just control territory with guns and bribes. They ruled through pure, unfiltered terror. Kill one person, and the problem’s gone. Kill them in the right way, in the right place—and you own a whole city. He wanted to break the city’s will, to show them what happened when you crossed him.

Well, that shit wasn’t happening that night.

I let Lucho dangle for a second longer, just to make sure he felt it. Then Raptor and I hoisted him back up and dropped him unceremoniously onto the floor. But I wasn’t done scaring him yet. I bent and looked into his eyes.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking—maybe you should warn Toro, try to cover your ass.” I smiled. “Bad idea.”

His throat bobbed.

“Because if Salazar finds out you spilled your guts, he won’t just kill you, Lucho.” I leaned in slightly. “He’ll make an example out of you. And you know what that means.”

His face lost every trace of color.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen,” I continued. “You’re gonna clean yourself up. You’re gonna go back to work like nothing happened. You’re gonna play the perfect host tonight. And if you get any more messages about the attack, you’re gonna pass them straight to me.” I gave him a reassuring pat on the leg. “Because your only chance of staying alive is me getting my hands on Salazar.”

Lucho nodded so fast I thought his head might fall off. “Sí! I swear! I won’t say a word—I’ll do whatever you need!”

I didn’t put a damn bit of faith in his promise, but I knew one thing for sure—he had no options. And that was enough.

The bait had been set, and now we waited inside Lucho’s high-end restaurant for the predators to show their hand.

We weren’t walking into this blind. We knew they were coming. They would come in coordinated, looking to grab Sofia before anyone knew what was happening. We weren’t going to let that happen.

But we weren’t planning on going in heavy in any public area inside the hotel or the restaurant. No rifles, no overt firepower. Just our Glocks, concealed as backup. And even those were a last resort.

Three reasons.

One—civilians. If bullets started flying, innocent people were going to end up in body bags.

Two—stealth. If Salazar was arrogant enough to be here in person, the last thing we wanted was to tip him off before we could get to him.

Three—mission discipline. We weren’t here for a public engagement. Our job was to shut this down before it even got loud.

Ninja and the Marines on the outer perimeter were packing automatics. They would be the ones dealing with anything heavy. Inside, we were going hands-on.

Close-quarters, overwhelming force. End the fight before it starts.

Echo had the hotel’s security system in a chokehold. Every entry point, every hallway, every blind spot—we had eyes on all of it. The second these guys made their move, we would be on them.

Knives and hand-to-hand. Silent, fast, and final.

They were coming in thinking they had the element of surprise. They had no idea they were walking into a buzzsaw.

CHAPTER 12

Ninja’s voice crackled in my earpiece, crisp and steady. “Three vehicles just turned into the back alley behind the hotel. Two SUVs and one van. Stopped thirty yards from the entrance to the underground parking.”

Showtime.

“Copy,” I murmured as I took another sip of my beer, the condensation slick against my fingers.

I didn’t react, just waited for something more to happen. My gaze flick toward Lucho. He sat across from me, forcing a grin, playing the part of the happy host entertaining an American client. But the way his fingers fidgeted against his napkin told me otherwise. The man was wound so tight he looked like he would pass out from lack of circulation.

Then his phone buzzed.

I raised an eyebrow and nodded toward it. “Go on,” I said, voice easy. “Take it. Just remember—we’re listening.”

He swallowed hard and put the phone to his ear. “Sí.”

I watched his face as he listened. No surprise. No resistance. Just compliance.

“They’re checking,” I murmured to Ortiz, who sat beside me.

At the same time, across the restaurant, the two businessmen at Sofia’s table—our friendly neighborhood rats who had squealed to Velasco—both glanced at their phones. Both keyed in a short message.

They surely weren’t texting their wives.

I leaned back, exhaling slowly through my nose. “Cartel gunmen just got their second confirmation from those two.”

A second later, Ninja came back. “One SUV staying in the alley. Other two vehicles just rolled into the underground lot.”

Standard cartel playbook. Those guys weren’t there for drinks and tapas.

“Talk to me about that alley SUV,” I said.

“Two guys just got out. Armed. Taking up watch positions on opposite corners. Three more still inside the vehicle.”

I nodded, more to myself than anyone else. “Hold position.”

Ninja confirmed and went silent.

Then Echo’s voice slid into my ear, smooth as ever. “We got movement inside. The van and SUV just parked near the elevators in the basement. No movement from the SUV, but six guys came out of the van. Three in Pacifica Grand uniforms—blue shirts with gold lapels and name tags. Three in Casa del Sol waiter uniforms—black vests over deep red shirts, gold sun emblem on the left breast.”

I smirked. “Nice touch. Send me their photos.”

A second later, my phone vibrated. I swiped the screen and pulled up the images Echo had yanked from the security cameras. Crisp shots of the six men. Each of them carried a duffel bag.

I turned the screen toward Lucho. “They work here?”

Lucho’s eyes flicked to the phone. His jaw tightened, his lips parting slightly, but no words came out at first. Then, finally, a curt shake of his head. “No.”

His expression said the rest—Cartel.

I put my phone away. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“They’re at two separate service elevators,” Echo continued. “One group per elevator. Haven’t opened the bags yet, but if I had to guess—”

“They’re packing,” I finished.

I already knew the layout. The first service elevator was behind a service door at the far end of the lobby outside the restaurant entrance. The second was near the kitchen entrance. Two direct routes up to the 25th floor. That’s where they would split up to take positions. Maybe wait for Sofia to leave, maybe try to strongarm their way into grabbing her. Either way, it wasn’t happening.

It was time to move. “Raptor, you’re on the service elevator at the far end. Move now. Take one of Ortiz’s Marines with you—have him block the service door in case someone wanders in mid-show.”

“Copy,” Raptor’s voice came back. “Rules of engagement?”

“We wait for confirmation. If they’re cartel, we wipe them out. If by some miracle, they’re actual employees, you’re a drunk American tourist who wandered into the wrong hallway.”

Raptor chuckled. “Roger that.”

I turned to Ortiz and gave him a nod. “It’s starting.”

Ortiz barely moved, but I caught the flicker of his eyes toward Sofia’s table. His Marines adjusted slightly—shifting weight, loosening shoulders. The kind of movements most wouldn’t notice. While Raptor and I did our thing at the elevators, Ortiz and his Marines would maintain a tight shield around Sofia.

Then, just like that, one of the two businessmen got up and walked toward the restrooms. The other hesitated. His eyes darted around. Then he got up too.

They knew. The storm was about to hit, and they were getting the hell out of the way.

That was all the confirmation I needed.

I pushed back my chair and stood. The candlelight flickered on the polished wood as I stepped away from the table, moving with slow, deliberate steps toward the second service elevator. As I left, the other Marine from our table got up and followed me at a distance. He would block the service door while I would be inside, taking out the men coming up in the elevator.

The two cops posted at the restaurant entrance were gone. I wasn’t surprised.

Echo’s voice came back. “They’re inside the elevators. Going up. They did a weapons check—just a peek inside the bags, but they’ve got rifles, sidearms. They’re cartel.”

“Raptor,” I said quietly. “Lethal force. Take them down.”

“Understood,” Raptor replied.

I flexed my wrists, rolling my shoulders. Felt the tension coil through me like a loaded spring. My boot knives slid free, the cold steel settling into my palms like old friends. I held them close to my forearms, blades flat against my wrists—concealed from anyone looking at me head-on.

Behind the service door, the elevator hummed. I took a slow breath. This was going to be loud, fast, and final.

The elevator doors slid open. Three men inside. Two at the front, already shifting forward, one foot practically out the door. Too focused on what to do as soon as they exited. They never expected the threat to come into the elevator. The third guy stood slightly behind them, right hand inside his duffel bag. No doubt in my mind—he was gripping a weapon.

This was close-quarters battle—CQB. The kind of fight where hesitation meant death. Delta operators didn’t hesitate. We took ground, broke momentum, crushed the enemy before they knew they were in a fight. Surprise, speed, and overwhelming force.

I had the element of surprise. For about one second. I wasn’t wasting it.

Before the doors fully opened, I moved. Or rather, exploded forward.

I slammed my right shoulder into the guy on the right, driving him back into the wall. He barely had time to register the impact before my left knife drove into the solar plexus of the man on the left.

A sharp, controlled thrust.

Steel punctured muscle, slid between ribs, tore through the diaphragm. He let out a strangled gasp, legs buckling. I didn’t stop.

My right hand shot up, blade flashing—straight into the throat of the man clutching the gun inside the duffel bag. The knife sliced clean. Blood sprayed as he gurgled, collapsing against the wall.

Two down.

The third man fumbled, trying to yank a weapon from his bag. Too slow. I stepped in, slamming the blade of my right knife against his throat—not cutting, just pressing hard enough to make sure he felt it.

The man froze.

His breath hitched, his pupils blew wide. I saw it in his eyes—sheer terror. He knew it was already over. A second ago, he thought he was the hunter. Now he knew—he was the prey.

Raptor’s voice came in over the comms, calm and clinical. “All three are down.”

“Any of them still breathing?”

“One’s on his last breaths,” Raptor replied.

“Can you get any intel out of him?”

“Negative. Too far gone. Don’t think he even understands English.”

I glanced down at the wreckage inside my own elevator—two crumpled bodies, pooling blood. “How messy over there?”

“Bloody mess,” Raptor deadpanned.

“Yeah, same here.” I shook my head. “Disable the elevator, leave the Marine outside the door so no one stumbles into your art project, and head back in.”

“Copy that.”

“Oh, and if you run into our two snitching businessmen in the restroom,” I added, “knock them out and dump them in a stall.”

“Roger,” Raptor said, a trace of amusement in his tone.

With that handled, I turned my attention back to the last man standing.

CHAPTER 13

He was still pressed against the elevator wall, my blade keeping his throat company. His pulse hammered under the steel, sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes flicked to the two corpses at his feet, then back to me.

I let the silence hang for a moment.

“You know why you’re still breathing?” I asked, my voice quiet.

The man swallowed hard. “No.”

“Luck,” I said. “It’s a hell of a thing. Problem is, luck runs out.”

I crouched in front of him, knife in hand. His eyes locked onto the blade as I let the tip rest lightly against his throat. “You’ve got about two seconds to make sure yours doesn’t.”

His mouth pressed into a tight line.

I sighed. “What was the plan? Why the uniforms?”

No answer.

I leaned in, pressing the tip of my blade deeper. His skin dimpled, a single drop of blood trailing down his throat. He winced, exhaling sharply through his nose.

Sicarios didn’t have the kind of loyalty that made them take pain for a cause. They killed for money, not belief. The only thing keeping this guy from talking was fear—fear of Salazar.

I needed to make the fear of me worse.

“You got two seconds to decide,” I murmured, pushing just a little harder. “Because I don’t have time for this.” I jerked my head toward his dead partners. “I’ll add you to the pile and move on.”

His eyes flicked back to the bodies, and I saw the decision click into place. He wasn’t ready to die.

“We cover the restaurant from the kitchen side,” he blurted. “Other team comes in, grabs Sofia Delgado.”

His accent was thick, but his English was passable.

I narrowed my eyes. “Where’s Salazar?”

The man shook his head quickly. “Not here. I don’t know where he is.”

I believed him. A grunt like this wouldn’t be told the boss’s location. Still, he wasn’t off the hook yet.

“Where were you taking Sofia?”

He hesitated. I didn’t move the blade—just let the weight of the question sink in.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Only Toro and the driver know.”

Toro. That was something.

Before I could push for more, Echo’s voice cut in. “Heads up, Cowboy. Four men just got out of the SUV in the basement.”

I stiffened. “Armed?”

“They’re not carrying visibly,” Echo said, “but they’re moving like pros. Definitely waiting on something.” A pause. “Hold on... Facial rec just tagged one of them. Toro.”

I bared my teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Well, well.”

Echo continued. “Toro just grabbed a radio. He’s talking into it.”

The same second, a burst of static crackled from the radio clipped to the hitman’s belt. A voice spoke in rapid Spanish.

The man looked at me, clearly waiting for permission.

I tilted my head. “Toro?”

A wary nod.

“He won’t come up until you give him the all clear?” I guessed.

Another nod.

I tapped my earpiece. “Marine, get in here.”

The Marine posted outside the service door stepped in, his gaze flicking to the carnage. No reaction—just a slight tightening of the jaw. Good man.

“This guy is about to give the all clear to Toro. In Spanish. Let me know if he tries to act smart and tip him off. Alright?” I told him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Perfect.” I turned back to the hitman, tilting the knife just enough to remind him of its presence. “If Toro doesn’t come up after this call, you die.”

He understood. Nodding, he unhooked the radio and pressed the button. “Todo bien,” he said, voice steady. “Puedes subir.”

I watched his face. No tricks. No hidden message. Just a straight all clear.

Echo confirmed it a second later. “They’re moving. Heading for the guest elevators now.”

I smiled. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

The hitman exhaled in relief. I was thinking about knocking him out when it hit me that the guy could come in handy later, the way things were happening and how he had turned cooperative.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Raul.”

I stepped back. “Get on the floor, face down.”

He obeyed instantly, chest heaving. I pulled out flexi cuffs and cuffed his hands behind his back. Then I left him under the watchful eyes of the Marine.

“Echo,” I said, already stepping out of the elevator. “Keep eyes on those four. Let me know which elevator they grab.”

“Roger that.”

Three guest elevators stood side by side, their polished metal doors gleaming under the dim lobby lights. I kept my eyes on the digital display above them, watching the numbers tick upward as I called Raptor and Ortiz over comms to come meet me near the fire exit stairwell.

“Echo, you got control over all the elevators?”

Echo scoffed. “Cowboy, please.”

That was a yes.

“Alright, once they’re inside, kill the stops for any other guests,” I told him. “We keep this tight. Last thing we need is some drunk idiot stumbling in and messing up our plans.”

“You got it.”

“But,” I added, “make their elevator stop at a couple of empty floors where no one’s waiting. We need a little time to set the board.”

“Consider it done.”

I joined Raptor and Ortiz near the stairwell. “Alright, time to move. We’re taking them on twenty-four.”

We descended fast. The stairwell was quiet, our footsteps muffled against the concrete steps. The air smelled like fresh paint—the entire twenty-fourth floor was under renovation, which made it the perfect place to take down four cartel hitters without anyone hearing the noise.

As we moved down, I laid out the plan.

“We’re taking them here on the 24th floor,” I said. “No guests, no staff, no witnesses. Ortiz, you hold the line on 24. Raptor, you take 23. I’ll go to 22. When the elevator stops on 24, Ortiz will have his sights on them as soon as the doors open. Raptor and I will be inside with them.”

Raptor rolled his shoulders, stretching out. “Knives?”

“Knives,” I confirmed. “Close quarters, minimal noise. We need Toro breathing—he’s the only one who knows where they’re taking Sofia. That location might be where Salazar is holed up.”

Raptor pulled his knife from its sheath, tested the weight, then slid it back into the hidden slot behind his belt.

We moved fast, each taking his position. I reached the 22nd floor, stepping into the hallway just as Echo’s voice cut in through my earpiece.

“Cowboy, they’re on the middle elevator. But we got a slight problem.”

I paused. “What kind of problem?”

“When the four got in on the ground floor, two tourists got on with them.”

I shut my eyes for a second. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. Elderly couple. Look like they should be on a river cruise, not a cartel’s death ride.”

I groaned. “What floor are they getting off?”

“Twenty-fifth. They’re all headed for the restaurant.”

I let out a low groan and keyed my mic. “Raptor, Ortiz—you hear that?”

“Loud and clear,” Raptor replied. “Shit.”

Ortiz asked. “Are we sticking to the plan?”

“Yeah. No choice. If we try to get them out of the elevator, those guys will figure out something’s wrong. Our only option is to end them before the bullets start flying,” I replied. “Echo, keep the stops at 22, 23, and 24. We work around the couple.”

Echo’s voice crackled in again. “Copy that. You’re up first, Cowboy.”

I watched the elevator display above the doors count up from the lobby. This was going to be close-quarters, fast, and messy. Guns were a no-go in that tight space. If shots started flying, the old couple would be the first ones to go down. Knives and hands—it had to be fast, surgical, and brutal.

A few seconds later, the elevator dinged. The doors slid open.

CHAPTER 14

There they were. Four cartel hitters, built like guys who never skipped the gym or a gunfight. Their casual clothes didn’t do much to hide the menace. I didn’t need Echo to tell me who Toro, the bull, was. The barrel-chested bastard in the middle looked like he could crack a man’s skull with his bare hands.

All four of them carried duffel bags—just like the ones their buddies had earlier.

Two of them had their hands buried inside their bags—no prizes for guessing what they were gripping inside. That was a problem. If they started shooting, we were in a steel coffin with nowhere to go. The third guy was keeping his hands loose by his side, ready to draw.

But standing in the corner, unaware of the chaos they were in the middle of, was the old couple. The man, in his seventies, was dressed like the kind of guy who still ironed his travel clothes. Crisp white linen shirt, belted khakis, and a pair of polished loafers that had no business walking the streets of Tijuana. His thinning gray hair was neatly combed back, and he had the kind of mustache that belonged on a World War II general.

His wife was tiny and elegant, silver-streaked hair in a neat bun. She clutched her husband’s arm, looking around the elevator with the polite curiosity of someone who had no idea she was standing next to four professional killers. Her kind, grandmotherly face made me think of fresh-baked bread and occasionally disappointed head-shaking at unruly grandkids.

What the hell were they doing in Tijuana? During a cartel war? Either they had the worst travel agent in the world or were running some kind of bucket-list thrill ride before checking out for good.

Didn’t matter. I just had to make sure they didn’t die in the next sixty seconds.

The four sicarios weren’t emanating friendly vibes. They didn’t move at first, blocking the doorway like human barriers. I held their stares, keeping my posture casual. Toro finally muttered something in Spanish, and one of them grudgingly stepped aside.

I nodded, polite as hell, and walked in. The old couple smiled nervously at me, probably relieved to have someone else in the elevator besides the four mean-looking bastards who smelled like gun oil and bad cologne.

I gave the couple a polite “Hello”.

“Bonsoir,” both replied in chorus.

Bonsoir? French? In Tijuana?

Anyway, I gave them a reassuring smile as I slid to the back—right between them and the cartel hitters. If this thing went loud, I wanted them behind me, not in the crossfire.

The elevator doors slid shut. The car lurched upward.

Seconds later—another ding. The elevator stopped again. At the 23rd floor. I heard one of the sicarios mutter a curse in Spanish.

The doors slid open, and in walked a goddamn spectacle—Raptor, six-four and built like a truck, wearing a red floral shirt and a stupidly oversized sombrero, as if he had just stumbled in from a tequila tour gone wrong.

How the hell did he manage to procure that sombrero in the 30 seconds since I last saw him? I had to fight the urge to smirk. The old lady let out an amused “Oh!” under her breath.

Raptor, never one to miss an opportunity, gave her a little two-fingered hat tip and a charming grin.

“Señora.”

She blinked in surprise before letting out a delighted little giggle.

The cartel guys, though, weren’t as charmed. Their frustration was mounting—too many stops, too many unknowns. But there wasn’t much they could do. It was just a guy in a ridiculous shirt and hat, right? They couldn’t have been more wrong.

Raptor gave them a lazy grin, stepping inside. There wasn’t enough space to squeeze past them without getting aggressive, but he still maneuvered so that he was against the side wall—right next to the second guy gripping his weapon inside a duffel bag. Raptor didn’t need to be told—he had assessed the most imminent threat and had positioned himself accordingly.

Now, both of us were standing beside the two shooters, and we didn’t have much time before the next phase of the plan kicked in.

The doors slid shut again. The elevator jerked back into motion, rising one last time before stopping at the 24th floor.

Another ding. More cursing, louder this time.

I didn’t care. Because as the doors slid open, Ortiz was already there, gun up, suppressor fitted, ready to put down anything that so much as twitched the wrong way.

The cartel boys barely had time to process what was happening before we struck. I didn’t give the sicario next to me a chance. The instant the doors cracked open, I clamped down hard on his wrist with my left hand, locking his hand inside the duffel bag before he could draw. My right hand ripped my knife from my boot in a clean, practiced motion, and I buried the blade deep into his throat, twisting hard. He made a wet, choking sound, eyes bulging as he staggered, his free hand scrabbling at my arm.

The fight left him in a second. I yanked him sideways, pinning his weight against the elevator wall. No arterial spray. No panicked thrashing. Just dead weight sliding down into a slump. The kill was quiet—sparing the elderly couple from an even more traumatic evening.

To my left, Raptor was just as fast. He drove his own blade upward, straight into the soft tissue under his target’s jaw, the tip punching into the base of his skull. The guy spasmed violently before collapsing like a cut puppet.

Two down. Quick, clean, quiet.

The third guy was already reaching for his waistband—bad move. Ortiz put a single round through his forehead before he could clear leather. The man’s skull snapped back against the metal railing. The suppressed shot barely made a sound over the soft hum of the elevator’s mechanics.

That left Toro.

For a guy his size, he was fast. I barely got my knife up before his elbow slammed into my ribs like a damn freight train. I hit the elevator wall hard, biting back a grunt as I saw his hand diving into his open duffel bag.

I knew what was in that bag. Uzi.

Raptor lunged, grabbing for Toro’s wrist, trying to twist it away before he could fire. But we all knew how this ended if we didn’t stop him right that second—automatic fire in a steel coffin, everyone shredded in the crossfire.

Ortiz didn’t hesitate. One round, back of the skull. Toro’s head snapped forward, and his body dropped like someone had cut his strings. The Uzi clattered to the floor, unfired.

For a second, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the elevator and the faint sound of the hotel’s lobby music drifting from the speakers. Then the old woman gave a small gasp, clutching her husband’s arm.

I turned toward them, slipping my knife back into its sheath. “You folks alright?”

The old man nodded slowly. His wife didn’t look as terrified as I had expected. In fact, she looked oddly intrigued.

I gave them a tight smile. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Mon dieu,” the woman breathed, looking around at the bodies. “C’est comme un film d’action!”

Her husband, a man who looked like he had spent a lifetime teaching philosophy at some Parisian university, adjusted his round spectacles and nodded slowly, studying the carnage.

“Well,” he said in heavily accented English. “That was… efficient.”

Jesus. They were impressed.

I sighed, rubbing my ribs where Toro had cracked me. “Listen, we’re military. Those guys were cartel hitters. They were coming up here to light the place up, and we stopped them. That restaurant upstairs would’ve been a bloodbath.” I let that sink in for a second. “It’s safe now, but there’s still a threat outside the hotel. We need you to keep this to yourselves for now.”

The old man adjusted his glasses and gave a solemn nod. “Bien sûr. We understand.”

His wife actually looked a little thrilled, like she had just lived through the highlight of her retirement.

I sighed again. “Echo, kill the middle elevator.”

“Already on it,” Echo replied in my earpiece.

Ortiz called in a Marine to stand guard on the 24th floor while we took the stairs up to 25.

CHAPTER 15

We knew we had a big problem. Toro was the only one who knew where Sofia was supposed to be taken. And he was now a fresh corpse. The driver in the parking lot was the only other guy who knew.

Raptor exhaled sharply. “Fat chance of getting him to talk. If he’s inner circle, he’d rather eat a bullet than give up Salazar.”

We didn’t have time to beat information out of him. We needed to move quickly.

Before we could throw more bad ideas on the table, Sofia joined us.

She looked straight at me, then at Ortiz. “We fake it.”

Ortiz frowned. “Fake what?”

Sofia squared her shoulders. “The kidnapping. We make it look real. You take me down to the parking lot, act like you’re Lucho’s guys helping out because Toro asked. Tell the driver Toro got shot but you managed to shoot the other cops and grab me. Create chaos, act fast. The driver won’t think—he’ll just react.”

Ortiz shook his head. “Too risky.”

She didn’t even blink. “You know this is our only play.”

I stayed quiet, watching her. There was a fire in her eyes, the kind that made it damn near impossible to argue.

Sofia turned back to Ortiz. “You know by tomorrow morning, this whole op will be shut down. Word of this hotel incident will reach Mexico City no matter how well we cover it up. And once it does, they’ll clamp down and warn Salazar. He’ll disappear. This is our only chance.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Sofia looked at me then, her dark eyes locked onto mine. “This is where you show you’re Delta.” A smirk played at her lips. “Are you telling me you can’t protect a single hostage in a situation where you control everything?”

That was low.

I narrowed my eyes. “You trying to push my buttons?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Is it working?”

Hell yes, it was.

I sighed, rubbing my jaw. “Damn it.” I looked at Ortiz and Raptor. “She’s right. It makes sense. Might be the only move we’ve got.”

Sofia crossed her arms. “Not only does it make sense. It’s the only play.”

I turned back to the team. “Alright. So this is the plan. We fake the abduction. We drag her into the SUV like we’re cartel, make it look messy and urgent. The driver won’t know us, so we use Raul, that last sicario still breathing, to sell the ruse. He tells the driver we’re Lucho’s guys, that Toro’s down but we grabbed Sofia, and that it’s chaos upstairs. That the cops are about to lock the place down, and they need to move now.”

Ortiz was still frowning, but he nodded. “We make it real enough, we’re in that SUV before the guy even thinks about questioning it.”

“Exactly,” I replied.

But the thing was, I still didn’t like the plan. Not completely.

The real risk didn’t come until we got rolling toward Salazar’s hideout. Up until then, we controlled the tempo. The driver would be panicked, running on adrenaline, trying to get clear before anyone stopped him. He would barely look at us. But the moment we reached Salazar’s people, all that would change.

Once we were in the enemy’s lair, there were too many variables. Too many people with too many guns. And if it went sideways, there wouldn’t be a damn thing we could do to get Sofia out clean.

Ortiz knew it too. He was going along with this plan, but it wasn’t because he was sold on it. It was because she was. Because she had backed him into a corner with sheer force of will. And maybe because I had thrown my weight behind it too.

Didn’t mean we couldn’t tweak it.

I turned to Ortiz. “Once we’re rolling, we figure out a way to pull Sofia out of the van. Have a vehicle manned by Marines following tight. We stay in radio contact, and when the moment’s right, we make the transfer.”

Ortiz’s eyes sharpened, then his shoulders eased just a fraction. “That I can work with.”

Sofia folded her arms. “I don’t think I’m in that much danger, even if I make it to Salazar’s hideout.”

I gave her a look. “Not happening.”

She lifted a brow. “Captain…”

“It’s a military op,” I cut her off. “There’s gonna be gunfire, there’s gonna be bodies dropping, and we’re not rolling the dice on you being in the crossfire. No discussion.”

Her lips pressed together like she wanted to argue, but she didn’t. I ignored the little flicker of something in her eyes, and focused on the mission.

I tapped my comms. “Ninja, be ready to follow the vehicles. We’ve got the two SUVs and a van moving in a tight convoy once we roll out. Keep some distance, but don’t lose us.”

“Roger that,” Ninja said, voice crisp. “We’ll shadow you.”

“Hawkeye, get off your perch and link up with the Marines. I want you in their SUV, rolling close enough to reinforce if this thing goes sideways.”

“Copy that,” Hawkeye confirmed.

I checked the back pocket of my jeans, feeling for the slim tracker stitched into the fabric. “You boys won’t have to guess where we are. I’ve got a tracker on me. Feed’s live. You can follow along on your tablets.”

“Tracking confirmed,” Ninja said. “I see you.”

Echo’s voice came through next. “And I’ve got eyes from up top. Drone will be locked onto your convoy.”

That was enough for me. We had surveillance, backup, and firepower on standby.

“Alright. We’re going in heavy.”

We had a cartel boss to catch. And a hell of a con to pull off.

Raul, the sicario, didn’t need much convincing. He knew he was screwed. He didn’t need me to spell it out. He had burned himself the moment he lured Toro upstairs, and now his only shot at making it out of this alive was by staying useful. He understood that.

Before we moved, I turned to Sofia. She stood still, squared shoulders, steady hands. But I saw it—the flicker of tension behind her eyes, the way her breath came just a little too measured, like she was forcing control.

“You ready?” I asked.

She gave a small nod. “A little nervous, but I can handle it.”

I held her gaze. “Nothing wrong with nerves. Means your instincts are firing.” I let that settle for a beat, then added, “Just remember, you’re not a mayor right now—you’re a hostage. Nervous won’t cut it. You need to look scared as hell.”

She exhaled sharply, like she hadn’t considered that part.

“Also,” I said, “I might have to be a little rough. To sell it.”

A flash of something—humor? challenge?—crossed her face. “Don’t worry about it.”

Like hell I wouldn’t. That was the part that didn’t sit right with me. I had manhandled plenty of people in my life, but roughing her up—I wasn’t looking forward to that.

But no time for second thoughts. I turned to Raul. “Make the call.”

Raul pulled out his radio and launched into rapid Spanish, rattling off the story we fed him, his voice urgent, panicked. He told the driver downstairs that everything had gone to hell. Gunfire everywhere. They had lost men. Toro was down, bleeding out. But before he passed out, he had called Lucho for help. Lucho’s guys—meaning us—had stormed in and grabbed Sofia. Now they were coming down, and they needed to get the hell out before the cops locked the place down.

A clipped response crackled back—tense, but no hesitation. The guy bought it.

Hook, line, sinker.

Raul nodded. “We’re good.”

I signaled to Raptor and Ortiz. “Time to move.”

They slung Toro’s lifeless body between them, letting his arms dangle over their shoulders like they were dragging an injured man instead of a dead one. I grabbed Sofia’s arm—not painfully, but rough enough to start setting the scene.

The elevator ride down was silent, just the hum of the cables and the steady breath of people about to throw themselves into the fire. The doors slid open to the underground parking lot. Game time.

I yanked Sofia forward, my grip rough, jerking her like she was a struggling hostage. She gasped—real or faked, I didn’t know, but it worked. Raptor and Ortiz stumbled out with Toro between them.

The parking lot was dim, oil stains on the concrete, the smell of exhaust thick in the air. An SUV and a black van idled near the exit, engines rumbling. The driver in the lead vehicle barely glanced at us—his eyes were glued to Sofia.

Raul stormed ahead, yelling at the waiting driver in Spanish to step on the gas, that they had to move right now. The driver was already shifting into drive before the doors even slammed shut.

We piled into the back of the van. I shoved Sofia inside first, making sure she hit the seat hard. She shot me a quick glare—good. That meant she wasn’t actually scared.

I climbed in after her. Raul jumped in last, still yelling at the driver. The guy didn’t hesitate. Tires screeched, and just like that, we were rolling out of the parking lot.

We were in. The plan was in motion.

CHAPTER 16

Tijuana at night was a different beast. The tourists and weekend revelers stuck to the safe zones—the neon-lit bars near the border, the upscale seafront where high-rise hotels catered to rich gringos who had no clue what lay beyond their polished lobbies. But most of the city wasn’t meant for casual strolls after dark. The real Tijuana was a labyrinth of lawless streets, where cartel gunmen and corrupt cops held the night in their grip. Out there, bodies turned up in trash-strewn alleys, and gunfire was just another part of the soundtrack.

As our convoy moved out of the underground parking lot, the roads were still smooth, lined with palm trees and glitzy restaurants. The city was still alive—neon-lit storefronts, late-night taco stands, pedestrians moving with the casual alertness of people who knew better than to stare too long at cartel convoys.

But the illusion of safety didn’t last long. Within minutes, the well-maintained avenues gave way to broken asphalt and graffiti-tagged walls. Streetlights grew sparse, leaving entire blocks swallowed in shadow. We rolled past shuttered shops, burnt-out husks of cars left to rot, and narrow alleys where figures shied away from the sight of headlights. This was cartel country, where a wrong turn could mean disappearing for good.

Our three-vehicle formation held tight. The lead SUV set the pace, followed by the black van, with the rear SUV keeping position behind us. A little farther back, Ninja and Hawkeye shadowed us in separate SUVs, tracking the signal from my transmitter. Echo had eyes in the sky with a drone feed, watching everything from above.

Inside the van, the tension sat heavy.

Sofia sat next to me, her breathing measured, but I could feel the nervous energy radiating off her. Raptor, Ortiz and Raul were across from us. Ortiz had his posture loose, but his fingers flexed near his duffle bag. I knew the SIG inside was hot and ready. Raul played his part, shifting on his seat like a man who knew he was a dead man walking if he didn’t keep selling the act.

The two cartel men sat at the ends of the bench seats near the rear doors, pretending to relax, but their eyes never stopped flicking toward us. They weren’t talking—just watching us. One of them was bouncing his knee, a telltale sign of nerves. The other leaned against the wall, half-relaxed. That made it easier.

The bulkhead between us and the driver meant we were isolated from the front, but there were small tinted windows at the back—just enough for a limited view.

Ortiz and I locked eyes. This was our moment. Time to clean house. I gave him a subtle glance and a nod.

He shifted slightly, reaching into the duffle bag. My hand followed suit. In one smooth motion, we both pulled our suppressed SIGs.

The first man barely had time to register what was happening before my shot punched through his forehead. The other’s eyes widened in shock—he reached for his waistband, but Ortiz’s shot caught him mid-motion, snapping his head back.

They slumped forward, lifeless. Sofia inhaled sharply but didn’t flinch.

Raptor and I grabbed the bodies and dragged them toward the front end of the rear cabin, shoving them near the bulkhead. Now the rear of the van was ours.

I tapped my comms. “Ninja, Hawkeye—step one’s done. Time for you boys to secure the rear SUV.”

“Copy,” Ninja replied. “You want it off the board or under our control?”

“Under control. We need it in play.”

“Roger that,” Hawkeye said. “We’ll box them in at the next turn.”

I glanced through the tinted back window, watching as Ninja’s SUV crept up, staying just outside the lead SUV’s line of sight. We had maybe two blocks before the next intersection.

Then it happened fast.

Ninja accelerated, overtaking the rear SUV and cutting in front of it at the turn. The cartel driver hesitated for half a second—just long enough for Hawkeye’s vehicle to pull up alongside on the driver’s side.

Then the shooting started.

Hawkeye’s team fired through the tinted glass with pinpoint accuracy, suppressed rounds punching through skulls and chests before the men inside even knew they were under attack. The driver jerked once and collapsed over the wheel. His foot slipped off the gas, and the SUV slowed.

Ninja’s men moved fast. Two Marines yanked open the doors, finishing off any movement with precise shots. The men inside never had a chance. In under forty-five seconds, the SUV was under our control. Ninja and two of the Marines swapped into the vehicle, engines roaring as they surged back into formation.

“Five down. We’re in the driver’s seat,” Ninja informed me.

“Good. Stay tight in formation.”

Three-vehicle convoy restored. No alarms raised. No one the wiser. The lead SUV had no clue anything had changed.

Now came the next step—extracting Sofia.

I pressed my comms again. “Alright, Ninja, Hawkeye—same drill. This time, we take the van. Then extract Sofia.”

“Copy,” Ninja said. “Prepping to execute on your call.”

I turned to Raptor. “When Sofia moves, you’re jumping out too. Get in with Hawkeye and the Marines.”

Raptor frowned. “What’s the play?”

I didn’t have a concrete plan for what came next. We had to be flexible—play it by ear and adjust on the fly. Whatever we were rolling into, I needed to keep all our assets intact and ready to move.

“No point in all of us being bunched up in one van. Fall back a little, stay out of sight. I want you in position if shit goes sideways.”

Raptor nodded. “Copy. We’ll hang back and wait for your call.”

The next intersection loomed ahead. The street ahead narrowed into a blind turn.

“Ninja, you’re up. Box in the van.”

“On it,” he replied.

The lead SUV made a right. Just as before, Ninja gunned it, overtaking us and boxed us in. The van driver instinctively slowed, unsure of what was happening. A second later, Hawkeye’s SUV pulled up alongside the van. A heartbeat later, two quiet shots punched through the side windows. The driver and passenger slumped forward.

The van shuddered as the dead driver’s hands twitched on the wheel. I grabbed the door handle and shoved it open.

“Go, go, go!”

Sofia sprang forward. As she moved past me, she squeezed my hand and said, “Take care, Captain.” A flicker of warmth in the middle of all the blood and steel. I didn’t have time to react, but I noticed.

She bolted into the waiting Marine SUV. Three Marines inside pulled her in, and the vehicle peeled off in a controlled U-turn, vanishing into the night. She was safe.

I exhaled. One problem solved. Meanwhile, Raptor had slipped out of the van and into Hawkeye’s SUV. The vehicle backed off, hanging in the shadows.

Now, we had to make sure the lead SUV didn’t catch wind of what just happened.

Ortiz and I jumped into the driver’s cabin, Raul squeezing into the passenger seat. I jammed the gear shift and gunned the accelerator.

Echo’s voice crackled in my ear. “Lead SUV just realized something’s off. They’re slowing down.”

“I’m on it,” I muttered.

I gunned the engine. The van rumbled forward, weaving through the narrow streets as I closed the distance. A few seconds later, the lead SUV came back into view.

Then the radio crackled.

A voice, sharp and impatient. “Dónde carajo están? Qué chingados pasó?” 

“Answer him,” I ordered Raul. “Convince him all’s fine.”

Raul grabbed the radio. His response was instant, the perfect mix of irritation and feigned anger.

“Pinche cabrón! A fucking truck blocked the street! Stupid pendejo stalled his engine, wouldn’t move. Almost shot the hijo de puta right there! But it’s fine now, we’re right behind you.”

A pause. Then the driver grunted. “No me jodas. Stay close.”

Raul set the radio down, looking relieved. “He bought it. But he’s not giving us a location yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “We’ll be right on his ass when we get there.”

I tightened my grip on the wheel, eyes locked on the road ahead.

We weren’t just following anymore. We were hunting.

CHAPTER 17

We had left the urban sprawl of Tijuana behind. The city lights faded behind us as the convoy left the densely packed streets and pushed into the outskirts, trading neon and traffic for the dark, rugged hills of Cerro Colorado. The roads out there were rough—tight switchbacks, blind turns, and barely enough asphalt to keep a vehicle from tumbling into the black abyss below. The darkness was thick and absolute—the only illumination came from the faint glow of distant streetlights behind us and the starry sky with just a sliver of a moon.

Ortiz exhaled sharply in the seat beside me. He had been quiet for a while, eyes fixed ahead, knuckles resting against his carbine. “We’ve bypassed Camino Verde.”

I turned my head slightly, not really getting if he was just giving me general touristy information or meant something else. “That so?”

He nodded, relief evident in his voice. “Yeah. That’s good news. Real good news.”

I glanced at him, waiting for him to explain. When he didn’t, I pressed, “What’s the deal with Camino Verde?”

Ortiz let out a humorless chuckle. “Shit, where do I even start? That place is a cartel fortress. Steep hills, narrow, snaking streets, and houses stacked so tight you couldn’t squeeze a rat between them. It’s a goddamn maze, and Salazar’s men own every inch of it. You go in there looking for a fight, you’re not coming out.”

“Locals?” I asked, even though I already had an idea.

“They either worship Salazar or are too damn scared to do anything. Even the cops don’t go in unless they got a goddamn army. And when they do? It turns into a bloodbath.”

“So if Salazar was there…” I mused.

Ortiz nodded grimly. “If Salazar was holed up in Camino Verde, we’d need air support, armor, and probably an entire Marine battalion to drag him out. And even then, he’d have fifty different ways to slip through the cracks.”

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. “Lucky us.”

Ortiz grunted. “For once.”

The van hummed as we continued eastward, the landscape becoming rougher. The roads climbed through the Cerro Colorado hills, the terrain getting steeper with every mile. The lead SUV maintained its pace ahead of us, its brake lights glowing dimly in the night.

As we rolled further east through the hills, Raul shifted in his seat. I caught him glancing at the passing terrain, chewing his lip like he had just put two and two together.

“You recognize this route?” I asked.

Raul hesitated. “Yes.”

That got my attention. I glanced at Ortiz, who was already watching Raul like a hawk.

“Then talk.”

He didn’t. Not right away. He wet his lips, then spoke. “Look, Señor, I’ll tell you. But I need something in return.”

I kept my eyes on the road but let my voice drop a notch. “You’re not in a position to bargain, pal.”

Raul met my gaze in the mirror. “I did everything you asked. I played along. I got you this far. But if I go to prison, I’m a dead man. The cartel doesn’t forget. They have long arms. They’ll find me. Kill me slow.” He let that sit for a second, then added, “Only way I stay breathing is if I disappear. Far away.”

I didn’t answer right away. He had a point. If we burned him, Salazar’s people would skin him alive the second they got their hands on him. Ortiz must have thought the same, because he cut his eyes toward me and gave a small, reluctant nod.

I turned back to Raul. “You help us bag Salazar, you walk. But after that, you’re on your own.”

Raul exhaled like I had just taken a noose off his neck. “That’s all I need.” He jabbed a finger at the road ahead. “The only thing out here is Salazar’s private narco estate. It’s up in the hills—about two miles past those next ridges.”

I tapped my earpiece. “Echo, you copy that?”

“Loud and clear. Pulling sat images now. Gimme a few.”

I nodded. “Good. Let me know if there are any surprises.”

Once we hit that estate, it would be game time. And I wasn’t about to let Salazar’s guys stay in control of the lead SUV. That would just complicate our approach and give us extra guns to deal with when we kicked in the door. We needed to take them out.

I keyed my mic. “Ninja, get ready. We’re taking out the men in the lead SUV.”

Ninja’s voice crackled in. “Roger. What’s the play?”

“I’ll try to overtake and box them in. Once we stop, we clear house.”

I pressed the gas, closing the distance. But the second I made my move, the SUV’s driver suddenly gunned it. He wasn’t stupid. He had felt something was off.

His voice crackled over the radio, sharp and suspicious. “What the fuck’s going on back there?”

Raul fumbled with his own radio, trying to play it cool. The driver snarled something again—then his tone shifted.

“Wait… why the hell is Raul answering?”

Raul scrambled to stall. “Uh—driver’s headset is busted. I’ll pass him my radio.”

A pause. Then, suspicion sharpened into alarm. “Get him on the radio now.”

I swore under my breath. That was it. The game was up. And we were running out of road.

The terrain was brutal—one side hugged a steep hill, the other dropped straight into the abyss. There was no way we could outmaneuver an SUV with this van, no space to play cat and mouse—not unless we pulled something sneaky. If I was gonna make a move, it had to be now.

I made the call. “Ninja, fall back. Keep your distance.”

I shot a look at Ortiz. “Be ready.”

Ortiz didn’t need telling twice. He had his FX-05 Xiuhcoatl locked and loaded. The Mexican-made carbine, created specially for fighting the drug wars with the cartels, was a nasty piece of work—polymer frame, ergonomic as shit, chambered in 5.56×45mm NATO, and built for surgical work. The thing had a solid recoil, but in the right hands—like Ortiz’s—it was death incarnate.

“Raul,” I said, eyes on the road. “Keep the driver busy. Say whatever the hell you want—say you’ll pass him your radio. Stall him.”

Raul nodded frantically and started spewing nonsense about radio malfunctions. While he yammered, I killed my headlights. Darkness swallowed us whole.

For a few breathless seconds, I drove blind, the darkness absolute. The only thing I had to go on was the silhouette of the SUV ahead—just a moving shadow against the night.

Then I stepped on the gas. The van shot forward.

The driver never saw it coming. When he finally did, it was too late.

His head snapped toward me, eyes going wide—just in time for me to yell, “Now!”

Ortiz unleashed hell. His FX-05 coughed out controlled three-round bursts. The muzzle flash lit up the night. The SUV driver barely had time to react. A split second of pure panic crossed his face before the bullets chewed through the windshield, hitting him square.

His head snapped sideways just as I rammed the van into his left quarter panel.

Metal screeched. The SUV bucked toward the cliffside, tires skidding. The driver was already dead, his foot still on the gas, and the men inside were scrambling—caught off guard, weapons fumbling.

Ortiz kept firing. Rounds tore through the SUV’s cabin, bodies slamming against seats. The SUV was barely holding the road now, tires screaming, bodies bouncing inside like goddamn crash test dummies.

I slammed the van into them again. This time, the SUV’s right-side wheels tipped over the edge. For a half-second, it teetered. Then—it went over.

One second it was there. The next, it had tumbled over the edge, disappearing into the canyon below. We heard the crunch of metal hitting rock. Then, silence.

I flicked my headlights back on. The road ahead was clear. Behind us, a dull whump echoed—the SUV had gone up in flames.

I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. Raul was staring at me, eyes wide as hell.

Ortiz smirked. “Remind me to never let you drive my car.”

I grinned, but only for a second. Because up ahead, past the next ridge, lay Salazar’s estate.

And shit was about to get even messier.

CHAPTER 18

I brought the van to a stop just off the road, tires crunching over loose gravel, and killed the headlights. The engine idled low, heat shimmering off the hood. The dark, rugged hills of Cerro Colorado stretched ahead, swallowing the winding dirt road that led to Salazar’s narco fortress. We had a breather. Time to plan this right.

Behind me, three SUVs pulled up, engine idling low. Ninja in one, Hawkeye and Raptor in the second, and a fireteam of Ortiz’s Marines crammed in the third. The operators got out and walked over, watching me with the same mildly amused, mildly concerned expressions.

Ninja smirked. “Hell of a way to change lanes back there, boss. You drive like my ex-girlfriend—only with better kill efficiency.”

Hawkeye chuckled. “Yeah, I was expecting a nice, tactical takedown. Instead, you went full Mad Max.”

I smirked, crossing my arms. “And it worked, didn’t it?”

“It sure did. But what’s the play now? Not planning to just wreck out way into Salazar’s fortress, right?”

“Working on it,” I replied, keying my mic. “Echo, talk to me. What’ve you got?”

Echo’s voice crackled through the earpiece. “Pulled sat images. You’re looking at a proper narco palace. High walls, steel-reinforced gate. Unless you brought an MRAP or an M1128 Stryker, you’re not punching through.”

“Well, we don’t have a Stryker.” I sighed. “What else?”

“Private road leads straight from the gate to the main house. Big place, maybe 15,000 square feet. Full cartel compound, not just some villa. There’s a helipad—he’s got a bird ready to go.”

“Got a bird, huh? Well, we’ll have to take that out first. What about security?”

“Two guard towers at the front corners. Likely more patrolling. No easy approach from the rear—built into the hillside, steep terrain.”

“That means no exit either.”

“Yup. You got it.”

I rubbed my jaw. “Salazar inside?”

“No visual confirmation, so can’t say with certainty, but I’d bet he’s inside. I tapped Toro and Velasco’s phones. Both got calls from this location. I don’t have a voice sample for a match, but I just went through the conversations, and it sounded like it was our guy pulling the strings.”

“No names mentioned?”

“Nope. They just called him patrón. I think that’s our guy.”

“I bet. Let me know if anything else turns up.”

I looked at the men. “Clock’s ticking. SUV’s wreckage is a mile and a half back, but Salazar’s gonna wonder where his men are. We need to hit now.”

Ortiz nodded. “How are we doing this?”

I stared up the road toward the compound and recalled what Echo had told me moments ago. The place was a fortress ripped straight out of a cartel fever dream—high walls, razor wire, guard towers, and enough firepower inside to make a small army think twice. No way in hell were we kicking down the front door.

“We can’t punch through the front gate, so we make them open it for us.”

Raul stiffened beside me. He knew what that meant.

“Last act, Raul, and you’re off the hook. We’ll drive up to the gate in the van. You’ll tell them we’ve got Sofia tied up in the back. We’ll have Toro’s body up front to sell the act. Tell them he’s badly hurt.”

Raul looked like a man who had been asked to step into a lion’s den. He licked his lips, nodding stiffly. “And if they don’t buy it?”

“Seeing you and Toro, they will. You’ve handled it well till now. Just keep your cool. Drive in normal, lead us in, and walk away. One last hurdle to go.”

Raul swallowed hard but gave me another nod. He knew he was damn lucky to be getting a second chance.

I turned to the others. “Once the gate opens, we breach fast. First SUV goes in heavy—Raptor, you’re lead vehicle. You drop shooters the second you clear the gate. Second SUV, Ortiz, you flank and take the left side. Your priority is putting that chopper out of commission. Ninja, you’re with me—we clear the right. Hawkeye, you take high ground. I need you glassing those towers. Soon as the gate cracks, you drop them.”

Hawkeye tapped his rifle. “Roger that.”

“Time for a final weapons check.”

I pulled back the charging handle of my HK-416 and let it slide forward with a clean metallic clack. It was suppressed, short-barreled, and tuned for CQB—my go-to for this kind of fight.

My SIG P320 rode in a drop-leg holster, extra mags tight in my vest. I had three M67 frag grenades, two flashbangs, and a breach charge strapped to my kit. In case we needed to make a new door.

The team mirrored the check. The Mexican Marines had their FX-05 Xiuhcoatl carbines, futuristic and angular, looking more like something out of a sci-fi flick than a battlefield. Their sidearms were FN Five-sevens—solid picks, armor-piercing rounds ready to punch through cartel vests.

Ortiz held a Milkor M32 grenade launcher, a six-shot revolver of pure destruction, just in case we needed to go loud. That chopper sure as hell wasn’t going anywhere.

It was showtime.

I stepped back. “Everyone set?”

Everyone nodded. No hesitation. We all knew what was at stake.

We climbed back into the vehicles and rolled out. The night was thick with tension, the moon barely cutting through the darkness. We followed the winding road toward Salazar’s compound.

Before the last bend, I tapped the mic. “Hawkeye, out.”

The SUV behind us slowed down. Hawkeye slipped out and vanished into the shadows. He moved fast, scaling a small ridge that gave him a direct line of sight to the two guard towers. We gave him a minute to set up.

I keyed my mic. “You in position?”

“Yeah. Got eyes on the towers. One guy on each post. Should be easy work.”

“Copy. Hold for my go.”

“Roger that.”

We moved forward. The reinforced steel gates loomed ahead, flanked by tall concrete walls topped with razor wire. The two watchtowers stood like silent sentinels, just visible in the moonlight. We could barely make out the silhouettes of guards, shifting in place, scanning the road.

As soon as the van rolled to a stop, a spotlight blasted us in the face.

A voice boomed from a speaker. “Who the fuck is this?”

Raul leaned out, voice steady. “It’s Raul! We got Sofia Delgado in the back—she’s tied up. But Toro got hit bad. We need to get him help, fast!”

There was silence.

Then, a new voice came over the speaker. “Where’s Carlos? He was lead vehicle.”

My hand hovered over my rifle. If Raul screwed this up, I would drop these guys myself.

Raul didn’t miss a beat. “His truck stalled a couple miles back. He told us to go on—he’s coming in a few minutes.”

More silence. Then the sound we were waiting for—metal groaning. The gates began rolling open.

I keyed my mic. “Hawkeye. Now.”

Pfft. Pfft.

Suppressed rounds. Both tower guards dropped, their bodies slumping over the rails.

“Clear,” Hawkeye reported.

Ninja and I moved in quick, rifles up. The two gate guards barely had time to react before we put them down with suppressed bursts to the chest and head. Their bodies crumpled.

“Gate secure,” I said low into my mic. “Go.”

Raptor’s SUV punched through next, rolling in hot. His team leaned out, dropping cartel shooters who scrambled toward cover.

Ortiz’s SUV veered left, gunfire ripping through the night as his men lit up the helipad. One cartel thug tried to sprint for the chopper—he didn’t make it.

Ortiz lobbed a 40mm grenade from his M32, and the explosion shook the ground. The helicopter’s tail crumpled inward, rotor blades snapping. That bird wasn’t going anywhere.

I ran right with Ninja, sweeping the flank. Two sicarios popped up from behind a low wall—big mistake. We dropped them before they could fire.

Gunfire still cracked across the courtyard, but we owned the ground. The big house loomed in the darkness, lights flickering inside.

Salazar and his remaining men were still inside. And we were coming for them.

CHAPTER 19

The mansion loomed in the darkness, its white stucco walls glowing faintly under the floodlights near the main entrance. It looked like something straight out of a narco movie. Three stories tall, painted the same off-white as every rich cartel gangster’s mansion, with arched windows, a balcony wrapping around the second floor, and thick stucco walls that could stop anything short of .50-cal.

The main entrance had a set of double doors, already riddled with bullet holes from the Marines laying down fire out front.

Gunfire blasted from inside—the deep, rhythmic hammering of AK-47s mixed with the faster bursts of MP5s. Short, controlled bursts mixed with wild, panicked spray. Classic cartel mix—some of these guys knew what they were doing, the rest just hoped they hit something.

It was the experienced guys who were the real threat. The ones whose gunfire came in bursts, covering movement. They weren’t panicked. They were dug in, playing defense. That told me they knew they had another way out.

And that meant we had to move.

I keyed my mic. “Ninja, on me. We take the back. Raptor, you push from the other side.”

A burst of 9mm fire snapped past us, the gunman leaning out from a second-floor window.

“Oh, now they’re paying attention,” Ninja muttered as we ducked behind a stone planter.

Ninja’s rifle barked twice. The guy jerked backward, arms flailing, then disappeared inside.

We moved along the left side, hugging the wall’s shadow. A cartel gunner was dug in behind a stack of crates, spraying bursts from an MP5. Ninja and I split left and right. I lined up a shot, double-tapped his chest before he could shift targets. He dropped, twitching.

On the other side, Raptor’s team took heat, a cartel thug dumping full-auto from a second-floor window. The guy leaned out too far—bad habit. Raptor put a burst through his jaw, and he pitched forward, dropping headfirst onto the pavement.

We hit the backside of the house. There was a single metal door, reinforced, no doubt designed for exactly this situation.

Ninja checked it. “Locked.”

I stepped back, pulled a breach charge from my kit, slapped it over the lock.

“Clear.”

We stepped back, and I hit the detonator. A controlled blast—not big, just enough to rip the door off the hinges. It clanged against the floor inside, kicking up dust.

Weapons up. We moved in.

The kitchen smelled like old grease and stale cigars. A gunman stepped from behind a fridge, raising an AK-47. I put two rounds through his chest before he even got his footing.

We advanced through a dining room, where two more cartel sicarios were crouched behind an overturned table. They fired blind, panicked. Bad move. Ninja and I angled left and right, flanking their cover. Two short bursts later, both were down.

Raptor’s voice crackled over the radio. “First floor clear.”

We swept through the next few rooms. More bodies. More blood.

Then—silence. No more gunfire.

Too fast. Too easy. Something was wrong. I scanned the rooms. Salazar wasn’t there.

I only knew him from mugshots and reports. Medium height, stocky, built like a bulldog. Face like he had gone ten rounds with a concrete wall and won. Thick black beard, sharp eyes. A guy like that didn’t just blend in with his own men.

I called Raul over. “You ever been inside?”

Raul shook his head fast. “No, I wasn’t important enough.”

“What about tunnels? Salazar got a way out?”

Raul hesitated. Then: “He never lives anywhere without a tunnel.”

I cursed. That bastard was already running. We had minutes before he vanished.

I keyed my mic. “Echo, I need eyes on every vehicle within a mile. Anything sitting dark that suddenly moves, anything that wasn’t there before—call it out.”

“Copy,” Echo said. “Give me a sec.”

Ninja’s voice cut in. “Cowboy, we got something.”

I followed him into a room that looked like an office—big mahogany desk, shelves stacked with ledgers and bundles of cash. The real jackpot was the wall of monitors displaying security feeds.

Three of the screens were black, turned off. Ninja flipped the switches. The grainy, flickering feed on two screens showed a narrow tunnel, braced with wooden beams, the floor packed dirt with tire ruts carved deep. A few old work lights cast a strange glow, barely enough to see the details.

I glanced at the next monitor—a desolate stretch of land with two pickups and a large truck parked in the open. I realized what I was looking at. “That’s his exit.”

Then I caught movement in the first monitor. Four silhouettes—hauling ass, moving fast down the tunnel. The image sucked, but I didn’t need high-def to know what I was looking at. The lead figure moved with purpose, the kind of confidence that said he knew he had a head start.

Salazar. Had to be. The other three were his muscle, covering his six.

I knew what my gut was telling me—we weren’t going to catch them inside that tunnel. They had too much of a lead, knew the layout, and by the time we even found the hidden entrance to the tunnel, they would be out and zipping away in the waiting vehicles.

I hit my comms. “Echo, I’ve got a visual on four men moving through a tunnel, surely headed for the trucks. Any luck locating them?”

“Working on it.” Echo sounded focused, fingers flying over his keyboard. “Thermal drone scan’s up—freshly dug tunnels vent warm air. It should pop up. If that doesn't work, I’m overlaying real-time satellite imagery to match terrain features with the background in the feed.”

A weak cough dragged my attention from the screens. I turned and saw a badly wounded cartel gunman, slumped against the wall. He had a ragged hole in his gut, dark and ugly.

He was done for—he knew it, I knew it. But he wasn’t dead yet.

I crouched beside him. “Salazar left you here to die, didn’t he?”

He didn’t answer, but I saw it—the flicker of something bitter in his bloodshot eyes. Betrayal. They all thought they were brothers—until the boss had to cut weight. Then it was every man for himself.

It hit something in me, something I had seen before. I grabbed a water bottle, tipped a little into his mouth. He swallowed with effort. I bunched up a piece of cloth, pressed it to his wound. “Hold this. Press down.”

It wouldn’t save him, but it might buy him a few more minutes. His hand shook, but he held the cloth in place.

I started to rise—then he muttered something.

I leaned back down. “What?”

His lips barely moved. “Camino Verde. When he’s scared, he hides there.”

That got my attention. Camino Verde. The place Ortiz mentioned earlier. A cartel fortress—steep hills, snaking streets, houses stacked like a maze. If Salazar disappeared there, we wouldn’t find him.

But that wasn’t all. The man gasped, swallowing hard, then forced out more words. “Waiting… big shipment. Terminal de Carg….”

His sentence remained unfinished as his eyes rolled back, his body slumped. Gone.

Damn.

I pushed myself up, and strode toward Ortiz, who was standing near the monitors. His eyes snapped to me, reading my face before I even spoke.

“Camino Verde,” I told him. “That’s where Salazar’s headed.”

Ortiz cursed under his breath. “If he makes it there, we lose our edge. He can lie low, call in favors, get word out to the authorities to shut us down. And then he disappears. Again. Until he decides to start his next reign of terror.”

I nodded. “Exactly what I’m thinking. Can we cut him off? Set up roadblocks from here to Camino Verde?”

Ortiz thought fast. “Best we can do is block the main highway leading there. Not a guarantee, but it’s our best shot.”

I turned to the monitors, scanning them fast. Second screen—there they were. Four men moving through the tunnel. Still inside, but not for much longer.

“We need to move,” I said.

Nobody wasted a second. We were already running.

CHAPTER 20

As we sprinted toward the vehicles, my earpiece crackled. It was Echo.

“Cowboy, I got something for you,” Echo’s voice came through, sharp and focused. “Thermal imaging picked up a temperature shift. I think I found the tunnel exit. More importantly, three vehicles are parked right outside it.”

That was it. I checked my watch. We were out of time.

“Send me the coordinates.”

A second later, my phone buzzed with the location as we jumped into the SUVs. I slid behind the wheel, engine roaring to life. Tires kicked up dust as we launched forward.

“They’re out,” Echo reported. “Getting into the vehicles.”

I checked the coordinates, eyes flicking between the GPS and the road ahead. If they were headed for Camino Verde, they would be coming right at us. We had a shot.

But we were in for a surprise. “Cowboy,” Echo said. “They’re going the other way.”

I frowned. “Repeat that?”

“They’re not coming toward you. Headed in the opposite direction. Not toward Camino Verde.”

I stared at the GPS, then at the map. Opposite direction. That wasn’t right. Unless… And then it hit me. Salazar was smart. He knew we might try to cut him off if he ran for the city. The highway was the obvious escape route. Too obvious. So he had a backup plan.

My mind snapped back to the dying sicario’s last words. “Terminal de Carg” something. The man hadn’t finished what he was saying.

I turned to Ortiz. “That road—does it lead to a transport terminal? ‘Terminal de Carg’ something?”

Ortiz looked at me sharply. “Yeah. Terminal de Carga Oriente. It’s a major transport hub.”

“That’s where they’re headed,” I said, gripping the wheel tighter as I floored the gas. “That’s the other thing that man told me. There’s a big shipment waiting there.”

Our convoy tore down the highway, three black SUVs moving fast in pursuit of Salazar. I drove the lead vehicle, with Ortiz riding shotgun and Ninja, Raptor, and Hawkeye packed in the back. Behind us, the other two SUVs carried Ortiz’s men. We had speed, but Salazar had a head start.

Echo’s voice crackled in my earpiece. “They’ve got a two-mile lead on you. Had the advantage coming out the other side of the hill. You’re having to take the long way around.”

I gritted my teeth and pressed harder on the gas. “How far to the terminal?” I asked Ortiz.

“About six miles,” he replied.

I ran the numbers in my head. “We’re not gonna catch them before they get there.”

Ortiz nodded grimly. “Yeah. And once they’re inside, it’s a different game. That terminal is a labyrinth—hundreds of 18-wheelers, cargo containers stacked like a maze, dozens of warehouses. Finding them in there won’t be simple.”

“I guess we don’t have the luxury of asking local cops to set up a roadblock.”

Ortiz gave a humorless snort. “Getting them involved might just backfire anyway. Even if they show up, half of them are on Salazar’s payroll.”

“At least we know where they’re going.”

I kept my eyes locked on the road, but my mind was running ahead. If Salazar was planning to vanish, he wouldn’t be doing it in some random warehouse. He had a way out.

“What’s the nearest border crossing from the terminal?” I asked.

Ortiz didn’t miss a beat. “Tecate Port of Entry. Smallest of the three in the San Diego–Tijuana region. Not like San Ysidro or Otay Mesa—it’s way quieter. Less traffic.”

“Why’s it minor?”

“Because on the U.S. side, the road leading from Tecate is a pain in the ass—narrow, winding mountain roads, nothing like the big highways at Otay Mesa.”

“That makes it even better for someone looking to smuggle coke across the border. Fewer eyes from highway patrol.”

Ortiz nodded grimly. “Exactly.”

“Then that’s probably the play. They’ve got cargo waiting. Trucks prepped. They get inside that terminal, they load up, and they roll right through Tecate like it’s just another shipment.”

The highway opened up in front of us, and as we crested the last rise, the Terminal de Carga Oriente sprawled out in the valley below. It was massive.

A sprawling industrial beast, nearly a city unto itself. Massive shipping yards stretched across the landscape, a sea of freight containers stacked in tight, towering rows. The place was alive with movement—semi-trucks rumbling through the maze of roads, forklifts zipping between warehouses, cranes lifting heavy cargo with the slow, mechanical precision of giant arms.

Everywhere we looked, there were trucks—18-wheelers in every color and size, some parked in designated holding areas, others reversing into massive loading bays. Some had their trailers wide open, revealing pallets of goods shrink-wrapped and stacked neatly inside. Workers in reflective vests moved like ants along the network of roads crisscrossing the facility.

Towering floodlights lit up the yards in a hazy yellow glow, casting long shadows across the ground. Security booths stood at key intersections, manned by uniformed personnel who barely glanced at the passing trucks. The whole place operated like a well-oiled machine—fast, efficient, and, most importantly, anonymous.

Perfect for a man like Salazar. And once their vehicles got in there, Echo wouldn’t be able to track them through drone surveillance any more. This was going to be a nightmare.

Ninja leaned forward, peering out the windshield. “So, uh… what’s the plan? We just drive in and start knocking on truck doors?”

I smirked. “Something like that.”

Then a thought suddenly struck me. Velasco—the man with the army of trucks and warehouses. The man who just happened to be best pals with Salazar.

I tapped my comms again. “Echo, what’s the location of Velasco’s phone?”

“Gimme a sec.”

The pause was barely five seconds before Echo came back. “Yeah, he’s at a transport terminal… kinda where you guys are headed. Place called—”

“Terminal de Carga Oriente,” I finished for him.

There was a beat of silence before Echo huffed. “Don’t tell me you’ve somehow got a view of my damn screen.”

“Just got lucky, Echo.” I smirked. “Send me his exact coordinates and let me know if he so much as takes a piss.”

“Roger that.”

“Also, keep a track of all calls on his phone. Salazar either called him minutes ago or will any second. I want a track on Salazar’s phone.”

Echo’s update soon came through. Velasco’s phone pinged from a warehouse deep inside the complex. If Velasco was there, Salazar would be, too—or at least on his way.

Echo’s voice soon followed. “Coordinates sent. And heads-up—I’m tracking Salazar’s convoy by drone, but this terminal’s a nightmare. I’ve seen beehives with better organization. Too many trucks, too many warehouses, and a whole lotta places for bad guys to get lost in. I’ll try my best, but we just might lose eyes on him once he’s in there.”

I knew that. “Do your best.”

“I will. Hold up—Velasco’s got a call.”

We waited in silence. A minute later, Echo came back. “Alright. This is interesting. Call came from a number that rang Velasco earlier, but the convo was too short for me to care. Slapped a tap on it just in case. Just now, I listened in—guy sounded like he owned the damn planet. I’m guessing Salazar.”

“What’d he say?”

“Velasco confirmed he’s waiting at the same spot. Didn’t specify the spot, but that ping gives us a good idea. He said all trucks are loaded, some already on the move. And—” Echo took a dramatic pause. “He mentioned Rico. Said the kid’s riding with one of the trucks. Salazar didn’t sound thrilled.”

Ortiz’s brows rose. “Rico Salazar’s with a truck?”

I met his gaze and nodded. “Yeah, and if Salazar’s unhappy about Rico being on those trucks, there’s a reason.”

Echo clicked his tongue. “Yeah, let me take a wild guess—those trucks aren’t exactly carrying Christmas presents.”

“Exactly,” I said. “They’re moving the coke. And it tracks with what we’ve got on Rico. Wannabe tough guy trying to prove himself to Daddy and the cartel.”

Ortiz exhaled. “And getting himself caught in the process. We’re not letting him get away tonight.”

I keyed my mic again. “Echo, keep listening in. Salazar’s gonna call Rico next.”

Echo chuckled. “Oh, I hope so. Family drama and felony-level trafficking? Makes for great radio. This is shaping up to be the worst ‘Take Your Kid to Work Day’ in cartel history.”

We kept moving, the glow of the terminal looming closer when Ortiz, eyes scanning the road ahead, suddenly spoke up. “Slow down. Pull over.”

I didn’t argue. I braked and pulled onto the shoulder, the other two SUVs following suit. “What do you see?”

“Police roadblock. Just up ahead.” Ortiz replied. “I don’t trust them. They could pass word to Salazar that Marines are rolling in.”

“Not just Marines,” I muttered. “Americans rolling in.”

Ortiz gave me a knowing look. “Exactly.”

I weighed the options. If the cops were dirty, one radio call and we would lose the only advantage we had—surprise.

Ortiz leaned in. “Here’s what we do. I’ll switch to the other SUV with the Marines. You and your operators stay in this one—pose as American tourists. The road to Tecate’s got plenty of gringos heading for the border. Just blend in.”

It made sense. Salazar wasn’t expecting a tail. The second he did, he would melt into the terminal’s labyrinth and we would be back to square one. “Yeah. That’ll be the smart move.”

“I’ll give you a two-minute lead before we follow. That way, even if the cops talk, they won’t link the Americans with the Marines.”

I nodded. “Sounds good.”

Ortiz jumped out, moving to the second SUV with his men. I eased the vehicle forward toward the roadblock. The two cops manning it barely looked up, more interested in their phones than stopping vehicles. One of them, a potbellied guy with a thick mustache, sauntered up to my window. He looked inside.

He gave an unimpressed snort. “Americanos?”

“Yeah, right, Sherlock,” Ninja, riding shotgun, muttered.

I ignored him and nodded at the cop. “Yeah, man. Came down to TJ to party.”

His lips twitched. “Too old for partying, no?”

Ninja leaned over with a grin. “Maybe, but the tequila don’t care.”

The cop chuckled. “And now?”

“Now we’re heading back,” I said smoothly. “Struck a deal while we were here—picking up a truckload of tequila to take home. Our truck guy’s waiting for us inside the terminal.”

The cop looked at me, then at the others, then back at me. “Truckload of tequila?”

“Gotta make the trip worth it,” I deadpanned.

He thought it over, then waved us through without a fuss. “Drive safe, gringos.”

As soon as we rolled past, Hawkeye muttered from the back, “That wasn’t difficult.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure he’s already forgotten about us. Not worth reporting to Salazar.”

We were in. Now came the real fight.

CHAPTER 21

We rolled into the transport terminal like a shark cruising through a crowded reef—slow, deliberate, and looking for prey. Kept our black Suburban’s speed just under “Suspicious as Hell” but above “Cops on a Stakeout”.

The terminal stretched out in a sprawl of crisscrossing roads, truck bays, and warehouses that looked more like bunkers. The place was a goddamn jungle of cargo trucks, forklifts, and battered semis lined up like dominoes waiting to tip over. The air reeked of diesel, dust, and the faint, sickly-sweet tang of whatever rotted inside some of those containers.

Dockworkers moved like ants, all sweat and hustle, shouting in Spanish over the rumble of idling engines. The glow of overhead floodlights barely reached the alleys between the stacks of containers, leaving plenty of dark corners where a man could disappear real quick.

Echo’s last ping on Velasco’s phone had put him deep inside the complex, near Dock 14. A couple of minutes later, we had it in our view. I pulled off to the side, tucking the SUV behind a stack of rust-streaked shipping containers. “We walk from here.”

We stepped out, keeping our SIGs tucked under our shirts. No sticking out with long guns—it wasn’t that kind of party. Not yet, anyway.

We weren’t five steps in before I realized we were about to stick out like a nun in a strip club. Four jacked Americans in tactical outfit, walking through a cartel-controlled shipping hub in the middle of the night like we owned the place. Not exactly blending in.

Then I spotted salvation—a dingy little workers’ cabin just ahead, the kind these places had for guys to warm up coffee and bitch about their shift. More importantly, there were neon safety vests hanging just inside the door.

I jerked my head toward it. “Let’s make a quick wardrobe change.”

“What?” Ninja asked, then followed my line of sight. His face split into a grin. “Hell yeah, we’re going full incognito.”

We stepped inside, grabbed four worn-out neon safety vests hanging by the door, and shrugged them on. I didn’t even want to think about what kind of sweat and grime had soaked into them.

Raptor smirked. “Great. Now we just need clipboards and bad attitudes, and we can start yelling at people to unload trucks faster.”

Ninja adjusted his vest. “I feel like I should be on a lunch break and bitching about my boss.”

I snorted. “Shut up and walk.”

We kept moving, now just four more ghosts in a sea of workers. More trucks, more forklifts, more guys chain-smoking and looking like they hadn’t slept in three days. The deeper we went, the worse the visibility. Trucks were parked haphazardly, engines running. Huge forklifts beeped as they reversed, and the air was thick with exhaust and the occasional burst of music blaring from a driver’s cab.

Then Echo’s voice came through my earpiece. “Cowboy, got something fun for you. Salazar just called Rico. And let’s just say Daddy wasn’t happy.”

I smirked. “What happened?”

“Salazar lost his shit on his kid. Gave him an ass-chewing loud enough I probably didn’t even need to tap the call—could’ve just opened my window and heard it from here. Rico kept saying he’s got it under control, but Salazar wasn’t buying it. Yelled some more. The kid hung up on his old man.”

“Perfect. So we’ve got one pissed-off cartel boss and one dumbass kid trying to prove himself. Anything else?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve been tracking Rico’s phone. It’s been moving very slowly. Guess where it is right now?”

“The border?”

“Bingo. Tecate crossing.”

This was too good an opportunity for us—Rico was right there, straddling the line between freedom and a steel cage. If only we could grab him in time. Then a thought struck me.

“Echo, can you get into the security camera feed at the terminal?” I asked.

A pause. Then, “Gimme a few minutes, but yeah. What are you thinking?”

“If you can scrub through the footage of Dock 14, maybe you can ID the truck Rico’s riding in.”

Echo caught on fast. “You want me to get a plate number by quickly scanning the last twenty minutes of footage?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll get on it. Ten minutes, max.”

If we got the plate number, that would be our opening. Rico was moving product. If we played this right, we could drop the hammer on more than just Salazar. It was a golden opportunity to hand-wrap a cartel prince and drop him at Uncle Sam’s doorstep. Time to get the DEA and the Marshals in on the scene.

“Great stuff. Patch me through to Foreman. It’s time to let our guys stateside know it’s time to join the party.”

Foreman was the callsign for Flynn. He was meticulous about codenames. Salazar was the big bad wolf.

“On it, Cowboy,” Echo said. “Stand by.”

“Copy. Also, send me Velasco’s mug. We might bump into him any second.”

“Roger that.”

The line soon clicked, then Flynn’s voice came through, cool and direct. “Cowboy.”

“Foreman,” I acknowledged. “We’re hot on the trail of the big bad wolf. Taken down at least thirty of his top dogs. He’s bleeding, but still moving. We’re closing in on him now, along with his payload of party favors.”

“Party favors” was our code for coke.

Flynn exhaled. “You have eyes on him?”

“Not yet, but we’re close. His little cub’s rolling toward Tecate in one of the trucks.”

Flynn didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re suggesting we let him slip through.”

“Exactly. Make him feel untouchable.”

“I’ll get the word out.” Then his tone sharpened. “You know this won’t stay quiet forever. Mexico City’s gonna wake up and smell the gunpowder. The second they catch wind, we’re on borrowed time.”

“I know,” I replied. “We’re moving fast.”

“Understood. Keep doing what you do, Cowboy. We’ll keep the lights on while we can. Foreman out.”

The line went dead. A second later, my tablet vibrated—Velasco’s mugshot came through. Man looked like he had never missed a good meal. Mid-forties, well-fed.

I stood partially hidden beside a stack of containers, my back against the cold steel. The night air was thick with salt and the stink of diesel, the whole transport terminal humming with the controlled chaos of a place that never slept. Ahead, Dock 14 stretched out—five long rectangular warehouses lined up in a row, each with massive rolling doors.

Hawkeye lowered his binoculars and turned to me. “Got activity in two of them. Third and fourth warehouses. Raptor and Ninja have moved up for a better angle.”

“Copy that,” I said, raising my binoculars. “What are we seeing?”

A pause, then Ninja’s voice came on, laced with quiet certainty. “Warehouse Three’s busy, but it looks normal. Pallets, forklifts, workers doing legit shit. But warehouse Four,” he clicked his tongue. “That one’s different. Got a couple of guys standing just inside the entrance, not working. They’re watching. Both of ‘em are carrying. Shoulder rigs, under their jackets.”

“Security?” I asked.

“Could be, but the way they’re standing—these guys are expecting trouble, not watching inventory.”

Raptor chimed in. “I see another two guys from my angle. Mean looking. One’s got an AK slung across his back. That’s not a shipping crew. Something’s definitely going on in there.”

I adjusted my focus with the binoculars, zeroing in on Warehouse Four. The other warehouses looked like standard shipping operations—men in uniforms moving boxes, forklifts carrying pallets of who-knows-what. But Warehouse Four had a different energy, something tight and on edge.

Two men stood just inside the entrance, exactly where Ninja called them out. No work gloves, no vests, no sign they were lifting a damn thing. Their eyes tracked every movement outside. Armed muscle. I didn’t have the angle to see the guys Raptor mentioned, but I didn’t have a doubt about his judgment.

Then something else caught my eye. Parked right in front of the warehouse, like a goddamn red flag, was a black-and-white patrol car with Policía Federal painted across the doors.

Well, shit.

My jaw tightened. “Raptor, confirm visual on the cop car outside the warehouse entrance.”

“Visual confirmed,” Raptor said. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “That we just stepped into a bigger pile of shit.”

I switched to another channel. “Ortiz, you reading me?”

“Loud and clear, Cowboy,” he replied.

“What’s your status?”

“We’re in position,” Ortiz said. “My men are parked at both ends of Dock 14, watching all exits. What do you have?”

“Warehouse Four’s looking good for Velasco,” I said. “And there’s a problem—a federal cop car is parked outside.”

Silence for a beat. Then Ortiz swore. “I see it. That’s not good.”

“Any chance they’re just watching?” I asked.

“Doubt it,” Ortiz said. “A lot of federales are happy to help a good citizen like Salazar, as long as they get their cut. If they’re in on this, and they’ve caught a whiff of what’s going on, word will travel fast to Mexico City.”

Which meant our window to act was already shrinking.

“If they’re on Salazar’s payroll, this whole thing’s going to get loud real fast,” Ortiz continued. “I’ve called in reinforcements, just in case.”

My mind was already running worst-case scenarios. Federal cops in Mexico weren’t like your standard city beat cops. Hell, the entire law enforcement structure down there was a goddamn snake pit.

Mexico had three main levels of police—municipal, state, and federal. The municipal cops were bottom-feeders—usually local hires, underpaid, overworked, taking whatever bribes they could scrape up from small-time criminals and local businesses, and happy to look the other way for a few hundred pesos. State police were better trained and better paid, but plenty of them still had cartel hands stuffed deep in their pockets.

And then there were the federales. On paper, they were the elite force. But in reality, they were just as dirty as everyone else—only difference was, they played for higher stakes. Some took bribes to look the other way. Others actively worked for the cartels, feeding them intel and muscle when needed. And to make things even worse, they weren’t even on the same side most of the time. Rival cartel factions bought out different groups of federales, turning them against each other.

Then you had the military—both the army and the Marines. They were the real blunt instruments in the drug war, kicking down doors and seizing massive shipments, but even they weren’t above cutting deals. The army had a history of being in bed with the cartels, protecting shipments and turning a blind eye when it suited them. The Marines, on the other hand, were the wild card—ruthless, disciplined, and far less corruptible. But when they did get involved, they played by their own rules, and they damn sure didn’t care who got caught in the crossfire.

Point was, if those federales were on Salazar’s payroll, we had a problem. It could turn into an all-out street fight.

One way or another, things were about to get real loud, real fast.

CHAPTER 22

I expected things to get real loud, real fast. But the speed and sheer chaos of it still caught me off guard—new players stepping onto the board before I even had time to register the last move.

One second, we were scoping out Warehouse Four, patient hunters tracking our prey, waiting for the right moment to strike. The next, the whole damn situation went kinetic, spiraling into something bigger, faster, and a whole lot messier than I had anticipated.

Velasco strolled out of the warehouse, flanked by two cops like he owned the place. He was dressed like every other rich asshole who thought money was bulletproof—crisp white linen shirt, a little too open at the collar, a silver watch that probably cost more than my truck, and a pair of designer loafers that had never seen a muddy road. He had that soft, pampered look, the kind that came from too much luxury and not enough hardship. He wasn’t a gangster, never had been—but he damn sure knew how to play ball with them.

One of the cops beside him had a radio pressed to his mouth, speaking in low, urgent tones. They weren’t leaving. They were waiting.

For what, I found out real quick. A siren whooped, cutting through the humid night air. Then another.

I turned just in time to see three black-and-white pickups come tearing down the dock road, their flashing grille lights bouncing off the metal containers stacked along the pier. Policía Federal was stamped across their sides in bold white letters.

Workers scrambled out of their path, trucks halted mid-turn, and every low-level dock rat within sight suddenly remembered they had somewhere else to be.

The first two pickups had masked gunmen in the truck beds—black uniforms, black helmets, black masks—stormtroopers from hell, each of them clutching M4s like they had been waiting all night for an excuse to put rounds in someone. The third truck made the others look underdressed. A pintle-mounted belt-fed machine gun sat in the back, manned by a gunner in full tactical kit, scanning the area, finger itching to lay down suppressive fire.

These guys weren’t here to make arrests.

Velasco lifted a hand, giving a casual signal toward the warehouse doors. A moment later, the heavy rolling doors creaked open, and two dark SUVs glided out, their tinted windows gleaming under the dock lights. Big, hulking Chevrolet Suburbans.

I didn’t need a crystal ball to know who was inside one of them. Salazar. The big bad wolf himself.

He wasn’t running. He was walking straight into the fire—because he had the firepower to back it up. He knew his son, Rico, had gotten himself in too deep, and he was making his move to yank the little cub back before the whole den went up in flames.

And just like that, our clean shot at him evaporated. Once he was gone, we weren’t getting another shot at him.

The bastard had played his cards right. He wasn’t skulking around in the shadows, wasn’t making a desperate run for it. No, he was moving in broad daylight—or as close as you could get to daylight at night. Backed by federal muscle—packing enough firepower to level half the dock if anyone so much as looked at him wrong.

The message was loud and clear: Try to stop me, and we’ll turn this dock into a war zone.

I keyed my mic. “Move! Get to the SUV! Now!”

Raptor and Ninja were already breaking cover, sprinting for our ride. Hawkeye and I followed, closing the distance in long, fast strides, my boots hammering against the asphalt.

Ortiz’s voice crackled over comms, tension coiled tight. “Cowboy, this is getting out of hand. We’re pulling back and heading for the border. We’ll be waiting to block that convoy when they get there.”

I yanked the SUV door open, sliding into the driver’s seat as the team piled in. “Think they’ll stop?”

He gave a humorless chuckle. “No. But we’re not backing down, either. There might be a standoff.”

That was putting it lightly.

The situation was deteriorating fast. The federales weren’t going to let Salazar be easily taken and the whole thing could go loud any second. We needed to be ready—because if we weren’t, we would be sitting ducks in the middle of a kill zone.

“Gear up. Now,” I barked, flipping the engine. “Full kit—416s, plates, extra mags.”

Ninja racked the charging handle on his rifle, chambering a round with a mechanical snap. “Guess we’re past the ‘subtle’ stage, huh?”

“Way past it,” I confirmed. “If they so much as flinch wrong, we drop them.”

“Copy,” Raptor muttered, tightening the straps on his vest, his sidearm shifting in its holster. “Hell of a day for a gunfight. Are we exchanging fire with the federales?”

I checked my mag, slamming it home. “Yeah. We’re treating everyone with a gun like a hostile. We clear?”

A chorus of “Copy that” filled the SUV. I put the vehicle in drive, muscles tight, eyes scanning ahead. We were about to roll straight into the fire.

Ahead of us, the three-police-truck convoy started rolling, their sirens blaring every few seconds, forcing everything in their path to make way. Salazar’s two armored Suburbans moved between them, locked in the center like royalty being escorted from a burning castle.

The window to take him down was closing fast. And we had to move before it slammed shut.

Echo’s voice crackled in my ear. “Salazar’s phone is on the move.”

No shit. I gripped the wheel, eyes locked on the convoy ahead.

“Track Rico’s phone,” I said. “He’s gotta be near the border by now.”

A few seconds passed before Echo came back. “Got him. He’s holding at the crossing. No movement yet.”

“Good. Any luck getting into the security cams?” I asked.

“Uh… I’m on it. Already in the system. I’m scrubbing through the last twenty minutes of footage now. Another couple of minutes and I’ll have it.”

“Copy. Get back to me the second you have that plate number.”

Rico hadn’t crossed yet. That gave us a sliver of time—if we could get there before Salazar scooped him up, we might still end this before it got completely out of hand.

Then something caught my eye up ahead.

A semi had reversed at an angle, its trailer jackknifed into a forklift. Right in the middle of the road. Completely blocking the federales’ path. The convoy had slammed to a stop, sirens still flashing.

“Son of a bitch,” Raptor muttered.

Federal cops were already losing their shit. There was a whole lot of shouting going on. The cops were barking orders, waving rifles, trying to clear the mess. Someone fired a warning shot into the air. That got the bystanders scrambling.

It was pure chaos. And I had a damn good idea who was behind it.

Ortiz came over the comms a second later, sounding way too pleased with himself. “That roadblock? Little favor from my guys.”

I smirked. “How?”

“Had one of my Marines stick a pistol in a trucker’s gut, politely asked him to back into the forklift, then get the hell out of there.”

Raptor let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s some next-level traffic control.”

“Remind me to never double-park around his guys,” Ninja quipped.

Ortiz just chuckled. “Buys us two minutes, maybe three. Use them.”

That wasn’t a lot of time.

“Any chance you can get a sniper in position before they hit the border?” I asked Ortiz.

“Tight as hell, but I’ll try.”

“I’m worried about that M240 on their truck. That thing opens up, and we’re in deep shit.”

The M240 machine gun wasn’t some spray-and-pray AK. That belt-fed beast spat out 7.62 NATO rounds at over 650 per minute. It would chew through vehicles, body armor, and anyone caught in the open.

Ortiz agreed. “I know. I’ll try my best.”

I gritted my teeth. “Do what you can. We’ll work with whatever we’ve got.”

“Roger that,” Ortiz replied as he got off the call.

Hawkeye leaned in, voice low but firm. “We’ve got the M107 in our truck, Cowboy. That thing will punch through anything they’ve got. If Ortiz can’t get a sniper up, we can handle it ourselves.”

He was right. The Barrett M107 was a beast—semi-auto, magazine-fed, chambered in .50 BMG. Armor, vehicles, hardened cover—none of it meant shit against that kind of firepower. A well-placed shot would take that M240 machine gun out of play before it could light us up.

“That’s our best bet,” I agreed. “That M240 needs to be taken out of the action, or this turns into a bloodbath. You ready to put it down?”

“Is that a serious question?” Hawkeye muttered.

I smirked. “I guess not. Stand by to move. The second we ID a perch, you haul ass, set up, and get eyes on.”

Hawkeye gave a tight nod. “Just get me a perch. I’ll handle the rest.”

For a split second, I considered really ending this right then. Salazar’s SUV was in at the middle of the convoy. One good hit at full speed, straight to the engine block, and we would disable it.

But then I glanced at the federales. Black-clad, masked stormtroopers with M4s. The pintle-mounted machine gun in the center pickup still swiveled, tracking movement. These guys weren’t the hesitant type. They would unload at the first sign of trouble, and that much automatic fire wouldn’t just turn us into Swiss cheese—it would light up half the damn dockyard.

Not worth it.

I yanked the wheel left, taking a side street to skirt around the chaos. I floored it, weaving through stacks of shipping containers. The federales were too busy screaming at truckers to notice one more SUV disappearing into the night.

We weren’t alone. Behind us, a cluster of headlights streaked through the night—Ortiz and his Marines, hauling ass toward the border. They were right behind us.

The road stretched out ahead, dark and mostly empty except for the occasional set of taillights. But beyond that, cutting across the landscape like a scar, was the border.

It was impossible to miss. Floodlights blazed overhead, throwing harsh white light across the sprawl of lanes and kiosks. There were six lanes for regular traffic, funneled toward inspection booths, each one manned by uniformed agents. Separate cargo lanes for trucks branched off to the side, leading to an array of secondary inspection bays, where bigger shipments got pulled for deeper searches.

Concrete traffic islands split the lanes, lined with reinforced bollards meant to stop anything short of a tank. Past that, a wide clearing where CBP officers with dogs patrolled, their movements sharp, methodical.

The northbound lanes into the U.S. were jammed—a slow-moving procession of cars, semis, and buses, their drivers gripping their wheels, staring straight ahead. Routine border traffic. But the southbound lane, the one into Mexico, was wide open. Hardly anyone heading into Mexico at that hour.

Beyond it all, just past the last layer of checkpoints and steel barriers, the road stretched into the United States of America.

We were running out of road. And if we didn’t get to Rico before Salazar did, we would be out of time, too.

CHAPTER 23

Echo’s voice came back in my ear, sharp with urgency. “Got the license plate. That’s our truck.”

Finally. “You confirm Rico’s in it?”

“Yeah, it’s him. Matched his face to our intel. He’s riding shotgun.”

I allowed myself a grim smile. The little wolf was caged. We just had to make sure he crossed into our territory before the big wolf came sniffing.

“Patch me through to Foreman.”

“On it.”

A second later, Flynn’s voice crackled in. “Cowboy, this is Foreman. What’ve you got?”

“The little wolf’s in a truck at the Tecate crossing. I have the plate.”

I read off the license plate number, enunciating every digit. No room for screw-ups.

Flynn didn’t hesitate. “Alright, listen up. We’ve got assets in place at the crossing. What’s the play?”

“Tell the assets to stay in the shadows. I need that truck waved through clean. No stops, no questions. If that means letting a few ahead of him slide through too, fine. Just get him past the checkpoint. They can pull the other trucks once they’re over the line.”

Flynn’s tone sharpened. “Understood. How close is Daddy Wolf?”

“Minutes away. And he’s rolling deep with firepower. Federal police protecting him. If we don’t move now, he snatches the kid, and we lose everything.”

“Shit. Got it.” I heard a chair scrape and the sound of rapid typing on a keyboard. “Listen up—I’m relaying everything to Echo now. He’ll patch you through directly to Deputy Director Mark Devlin, DHS. He’s running point at the border.”

“Copy that.”

“Devlin’s expecting you. You’re the ranking officer in this operation—he takes orders from you, no red tape, no hesitation. I made it clear this is top-priority national security.”

“Just what I need.”

“Good. Now go get the bastard.”

The line clicked off. I pressed the gas pedal down harder. The border was dead ahead. No second chances now.

Echo patched me through. A second later, a firm, no-nonsense voice came over the line.

“This is Devlin. You must be Cowboy.”

“That’s me. Foreman brief you?”

“Yeah, I got the rundown. We’ve got eyes on your truck. Eight semis ahead of it in the queue.”

“Perfect. I need you to start moving them through—nice and easy, no red flags. Ask a couple of routine questions, glance at the papers, then wave them on.”

Devlin let out a breath. “I hear you. I’ll tell my guys to keep it casual. No random power trips, no cavity searches—just business as usual.”

“Perfect.”

“This just a snatch, or are these guys moving weight?”

“There’s more than one truck in that queue loaded with product. But if your guys pull one, the rest turn around. Best bet is to let them all through and hammer them hard once they’re stateside.”

“Understood. We’ll be ready on the other side. What’s happening behind you?”

I checked the rearview. The federales were still tied up with the staged traffic jam, but that wasn’t gonna last forever. And once they were through, they were bringing hell with them.

“It’s bad,” I said. “Salazar’s coming to rip Rico out, and he’s got the cops in his pocket. If we don’t move now, we’re looking at an armed standoff at the border.”

Devlin swore under his breath. “How bad are we talking?”

“I’d say we’re sitting on a powder keg with a lit fuse, and I’m doing my damnedest to keep the wind from blowing the wrong way. If it blows, it’s gonna be full-scale. Automatic weapons, bodies dropping, maybe a goddamn international incident if this spills over.”

“Jesus. I’ll get them moving.”

“Good. One more thing. I need a sniper perch. Mexican side. We’ve got seconds, not minutes.”

Devlin came back quick. “You’re in luck. See that old security platform at your ten o’clock? Elevated, steel frame, used to be a watch post before they shut it down.”

I snapped my gaze in that direction. The platform stood about thirty feet up, rusted but solid, with a grated staircase winding along the side. Clear lines of sight. Good cover.

“Perfect. We’re dropping our sniper.”

“Copy. My guy’s at the door below.”

I slammed the brakes in front of the security platform, tires screeching against the pavement. Hawkeye was already moving. He threw the door open, gun case clutched tight in one hand, the other gripping the steel railing as he bolted up the steps, his boots pounding against the metal with sharp, rapid thuds.

“Clock’s ticking,” I reminded him before he shot out.

He yelled back. “120 seconds, I’m live.”

I watched him go, a flicker of relief in my gut. Ortiz was a fighter, no doubt about that, but going toe-to-toe with a mounted M240 with nothing but rifles and guts? That wasn’t a fight—it was suicide. At least now we had an equalizer.

We were setting the board, pieces moving into place. The window was closing. And if we missed it, we weren’t walking away clean. But now, we had an ace up our sleeve. If this went sideways, we would have one shot—and Hawkeye would be the one to take it.

I keyed my comms, eyes tracking the road ahead. “Ortiz, Hawkeye’s setting up on overwatch. If the federales want to push this into a fight, we take that machine gun out first. That’ll put a hole in their confidence real fast. But until he’s in position, don’t let this escalate.”

“Understood,” Ortiz replied, his tone tight.

I rolled ahead just enough to let Ortiz and his Marine convoy overtake me. Their three SUVs roared past, turning sharply into the access lane leading toward the truck queue. Then, in a synchronized, no-bullshit move, they braked hard and turned sideways, blocking the entire lane.

Doors flew open, boots hit the pavement, and ten Marines fanned out into defensive positions. FX-05 assault rifles came up, safeties off, muzzles tracking the road ahead, every man locked and ready, blocking the road with no room for negotiation.

The ripple effect was immediate.

Civilian drivers hit the brakes hard, realizing something serious was about to go down. Some panicked, slamming their gears into reverse, tires screeching as they tried to get the hell out. Others just abandoned their cars altogether, throwing open their doors and sprinting for cover behind kiosks and concrete barriers.

Pedestrians scrambled like a riot just broke out—diving behind parked cars, ducking into side alleys, anything to get clear of the crossfire that hadn’t even started yet.

Then the federales rolled in.

Their lead pickup barreled forward, moving too fast for this to be a normal approach. Fifty yards out, the driver finally tapped the brakes, but instead of stopping, just slowing to a menacing crawl.

Sirens whooped—short, aggressive bursts, more taunt than warning. No attempt to stop. No attempt to show they weren’t looking for trouble. The message was clear: Move, or we’ll move you.

Then came the voice, blaring over a loudspeaker. “¡Atención! This is the Policía Federal! Clear the road immediately!”

Ortiz didn’t flinch. He raised his own megaphone and fired back. “Negative. We’re the Cuerpo de Infantería de Marina. The access lane is blocked. No one crosses until I receive further orders from my Admiral.”

A tense silence stretched the distance between us. Three seconds. Maybe four. Then—Crack!

A single warning shot split the night—a hard, flat report that punched through the tension like a knife through fabric.

The Marines didn’t so much as twitch. Their grips tightened on their rifles, muzzles shifting just a fraction, tracking the federales’ lead vehicle.

I didn’t move either. Just pressed a finger to my earpiece as Hawkeye’s voice came through, calm as ever. “Cowboy, I’m up. I’ve got eyes on the gun truck.”

I kept my tone steady. “Hold position. Wait for my go.”

The federales’ lead vehicle finally stopped, but something else was moving now. The last truck in their formation suddenly swerved out of line, tires grinding against the pavement as it pulled ahead of the others. It skidded to a stop at the front, and the mounted M240 swung around.

The gunner crouched behind the weapon, his fingers curling around the grips, his stance shifting as he lined up his aim. The barrel swung, sweeping across the Marines’ defensive line like a scythe ready to mow them down.

“Hawkeye, now. Machine gun first, then the truck.”

The response was instant. The .50-cal thundered.

The first round ripped through the air with the force of a freight train, its sonic boom rolling back toward us like a shockwave.

The impact was immediate. The .50-cal round crossed the distance in a fraction of a second, slamming into the M240’s receiver with a force no steel could withstand. Metal twisted, buckled, and exploded in a shower of shredded steel. The weapon snapped sideways, useless, its internal components turned to scrap. The gunner recoiled, stumbling back, his hands flinching away from the smoldering wreck of what used to be his firepower.

Then came the second shot.

The .50-cal round speared through the grille of the truck, the armor-piercing incendiary slug punching straight into the engine block. The entire front end of the vehicle shuddered violently, a burst of superheated steam and oil erupting from under the hood as metal shrieked in protest. The pickup lurched once, gasped, and died. Smoke poured from the destroyed engine, curling into the night sky like a signal of defeat.

Hawkeye’s voice came over comms, cold and certain. “Gun’s out. Truck’s down.”

The immediate threat was neutralized, but the air was still thick with menace—guns raised, fingers twitching on triggers, every man on edge. The whole damn thing was a powder keg, waiting for the slightest spark to blow it all to hell. Someone had to blink first, or this was about to get ugly.

CHAPTER 24

I clenched the wheel, my eyes scanning the federales’ line. I needed this to deescalate—fast.

The heavy firepower on both sides, the open public location swarming with civilians, the sheer number of itchy trigger fingers in play—this had all the makings of a full-blown bloodbath. And a brewing diplomatic shitstorm. If this turned into an all-out gunfight, it wouldn’t be just bodies dropping—it would be the whole damn operation going up in flames before I could get my hands on Salazar.

For a few seconds, neither side moved. The federales held their ground, the Marines locked in place. The tension was a physical thing, pressing against my chest like a weight.

The federales blinked first.

Their leader, the one with the megaphone, raised a hand, barked an order to his men, and took a step forward. He had realized they had lost their edge. No machine gun, outgunned, and facing off against a force willing to go all the way—not to mention the sniper perched above who could start picking them off one by one. The man wasn’t stupid.

He lifted the megaphone to his mouth. “We’re coming over to talk. Hold your fire.”

Echo’s voice crackled in my earpiece. “Cowboy, Rico just called Salazar.”

That got my full attention. “What?”

“He called him just now. Told him, ‘We’re through. We’re in America.’”

My pulse kicked up. We had Rico.

Seconds later, I received confirmation from Devlin. “Your truck’s through. No stops, no checks, just like you wanted.”

I exhaled. “Good. DEA got their net up?”

“Locked and loaded. Roadblock’s half a mile ahead. They’re gonna yank ‘em, bag ‘em, and tear that truck apart.”

“They know to keep it quiet?”

“Yeah. Low-profile grab, no sirens, no show. We keep it clean.”

“Appreciate it, Devlin.”

Ortiz needed to know this before his chat with the crooked cop.

I keyed my comms. “Ortiz, we’ve got Rico. No need to push this into a firefight. Salazar isn’t slipping away. Try to keep this from going hot.”

Ortiz clicked his mic twice in acknowledgment.

The federales’ leader was already on the move, stepping forward, weapon lowered but not holstered. Ortiz mirrored him, lowering his rifle as he walked to meet him halfway.

Neither side fully trusted the other. The federales fanned out, fingers still on triggers. The Marines mirrored them, safeties off, sights locked on heads and chests.

It was a tightrope walk, one step away from disaster.

Then came the burst.

A sudden, ear-splitting burst of automatic fire tore through the night. Ortiz jerked violently as rounds slammed into his chest, center mass. His body whipped back before he collapsed, hitting the pavement hard, his rifle bouncing away.

For a split second, everything froze.

Then the federales leader whipped around, his face contorted in rage and shock—just before retaliatory Marine gunfire ripped into him dead center. He staggered, eyes wide in shock, before crumpling to the ground.

And then—all hell broke loose.

Gunfire exploded from all directions. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness like strobes, brass casings rained onto the asphalt. Bullets whizzed inches past my head, snapping through the air like supersonic razors.

Marines hit the ground, some firing from cover, others shifting positions. The federales fell back, taking cover behind their pickups, but not before one of their men cried out and dropped, his rifle spinning away.

Stray rounds whipped past civilian vehicles, slamming into metal, shattering windshields. Somewhere, a car alarm blared in protest, a panicked staccato against the chaos.

A round snapped against my SUV’s side mirror, blowing it apart in a spray of glass. But by then, I was already inside, shifting it into reverse. The moment Ortiz got hit, I jumped into the driver’s seat, yelling, “Suppressive fire! Cover me!”

I slammed the SUV into gear and gunned it toward Ortiz.

Bullets riddled the vehicle as I closed the distance—pinging off the hood, punching into the frame, tearing through metal like it was paper. A round cracked the windshield, leaving a spiderweb of fractures. Another ricocheted off the grille, sending sparks flying.

Ortiz wasn’t moving.

I skidded to a stop, slammed the door open, and jumped out. More rounds smacked into the SUV. I grabbed Ortiz by his plate carrier straps, heaved him up, and hauled him into the SUV. I threw myself back into the driver’s seat, shifted into reverse, and floored it.

Rounds punched through the rear of the SUV, tearing into the seats, missing me by inches. The Marines kept laying down heavy suppressive fire, pinning the federales behind their vehicles.

I yanked the wheel, spun the SUV around, and stopped behind Marine cover. I turned to Ortiz, ripping off my glove and pressing two fingers to his neck. Nothing.

“Shit.”

I grabbed his jaw and gave it a shake, hard. No response. I pulled a water bottle from the console, poured some over his face. Nothing.

Then, just as I went to check his pulse again, he suddenly sucked in a ragged breath, coughing hard. Relief flooded through me.

His plate had taken most of the rounds, but one had clipped his upper arm. Blood leaked from the wound, but it wasn’t an arterial hit. He was knocked out cold from the force of the impact, but he would live. He was gonna be sore as hell, probably feel like he got hit by a truck, but he would make it.

I couldn’t see shit from ground level, too many vehicles, too much darkness, but Hawkeye had the angle.

I keyed my mic. “Hawkeye, what the hell just happened?”

“Shooter came from Salazar’s SUV. Someone got out and lit Ortiz up.” Hawkeye’s voice was calm, but I could hear the tension in it.

“You got a shot at the shooter?” I asked.

“Negative. Too much movement. But I’ve got a visual on one of Salazar’s SUVs. And I can give the federales a reason to rethink their life choices.”

“Do it. But no kills. Just make them feel it.”

“Copy.”

A fraction of a second later, the .50-cal cracked. The bullet destroyed one of Salazar’s two SUVs, spearing through the grille of the truck, tearing straight through the engine block.

A second later, Hawkeye’s rifle spoke again.

A federale who had just poked his head up to fire jerked back with a scream, his rifle flying from his hands—Hawkeye had shot it clean out of his grip.

Another federale ducked too late, and a bullet punched into the ground inches from his boot, kicking up asphalt and making him stumble back in terror.

The rest of the federales flinched at the sheer force of the impact. They might have had numbers, but they sure as hell didn’t have a response for an overwatching sniper capable of blowing their rifles into scrap metal.

One of the federales had had enough.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” he shouted, voice strained with panic. Some of his men were already raising their hands, ready to drop their weapons.

For a second, it looked like the fight was over.

Then—BOOM! The night turned into fire.

A federales pickup erupted in flames, the explosion rocking the ground beneath me. The shockwave slammed into my chest, heat blasting against my face. Flaming debris rained down, bouncing off vehicles and pavement.

Somebody had just lobbed a grenade into the federales’ own damn truck.

I barely had time to process that before two smoke grenades hit the pavement—hissing. Spewing thick clouds of gray, choking the street in an instant.

We lost vision. And just like that—the battlefield descended into chaos.

The federales were down, their morale shattered, the night was thick with smoke and tension. But my focus was locked on one thing. Salazar.

And I had complete clarity on what was going on. Salazar was the one who shot Ortiz. He was the one who started the gunfight. Now, when the federales were pinned and ready to surrender, he had blown up the truck as a diversion to escape.

The explosion had done its job—sowed chaos, bought time, and covered Salazar’s escape. And now he was slipping away.

CHAPTER 25

I keyed my mic. “Echo, we’ve lost visual! I need eyes on Salazar’s SUV. Where the hell is he?”

Echo was already ahead of me. “Got him. He reversed and pulled a hard U-turn. He’s hauling ass toward the transport terminal.”

Ortiz, still slumped in the passenger seat, gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw against the pain. “Go. Grab them.”

I nodded, already moving. “Ninja, Raptor—grab one of the Marine trucks. Stay on him.”

They peeled off, jumping into one of the Marines’ SUVs.

I called Hawkeye. “Pack up and get down here. Now.”

“Already moving.”

By the time I got two Marines to help Ortiz out of my SUV, Hawkeye had arrived, his Barrett strapped to his back. His eyes burned with the same fire I felt in my gut.

We were about to jump into the SUV when Ortiz called out, his voice firm despite the pain. “Take a Marine.”

I paused, gripping the door handle. “What?”

“Mission parameters,” Ortiz gritted out. “Advisory role. We lead, you assist.”

I knew what he meant. On paper, Delta was just consulting. In reality, we had been knee-deep in direct action the whole time. But the Marines were the official face of this op, which meant their presence gave us cover. The second it looked like this was purely a Delta hit, the diplomatic shitstorm we were about to get in after this public shootout would get even worse.

I nodded. “Good point. Let’s go.”

Two Marines jumped in the back, rifles ready. I slammed the SUV into gear and tore out of there, dust and gravel spraying behind us as we punched it toward the terminal.

The radio crackled. “Cowboy, it’s Ninja. SUV is headed straight for Velasco’s warehouse on Dock 14.”

That could only mean one thing. There was still product waiting in the warehouse. I clenched the wheel and gunned the engine, pushing the truck past eighty, dodging abandoned vehicles and burning debris.

Half a minute later, Ninja’s voice came through again, sharper this time. “Boss, SUV just went inside the warehouse. And listen—there was that federales car from before parked outside. It just moved to block the entrance.”

“Go around the back. Cut off any escape routes. No one gets out.”

“Roger that.”

As we neared Dock 14, I spotted the cop car parked sideways across the warehouse’s main entrance, a half-assed barricade that told me they weren’t expecting company but weren’t letting anyone in without an explanation. Two federales stood outside, backs against their vehicle, weapons held low but not relaxed.

One cradled a shotgun across his chest, the other had an M4 slung at a low ready—no hesitation, no pretense of law enforcement. They weren’t just dirty cops—they were gangsters in uniform.

I slowed the SUV as we approached, scanning the scene. The cops weren’t exactly on alert, but their eyes tracked us with wary interest. I couldn’t blame them. This wasn’t some beat-up cartel truck rolling up—it was a government SUV packed with armed men who looked like they meant business.

“How do we take out these guys without announcing our arrival to Salazar and his men inside?” I asked Hawkeye.

Behind me, the Marines in the back were already murmuring in Spanish, trading quick, sharp whispers. I caught the occasional word—chinga su madre—which told me exactly how they felt about these federales. I didn’t catch all of it, but I caught enough to know they weren’t discussing dinner plans.

One of them, a square-jawed guy with a fresh buzz cut, leaned forward. “Leave it to us, señor,” he said casually. “We’ll talk to them and clear the way.”

I gave him a look. “You sure you can convince them to move? We’re running out of time.”

He smirked. “Sí. No problem. Just a few seconds.”

Hawkeye looked at me. “This I gotta see. These guys seem to have a way with words.”

I pulled up next to the federales’ cruiser. The second I did, the cops adjusted their stance. Their grips tightened on their weapons. They weren’t outright aiming at us, but they were close enough. They weren’t in the loop about what had gone down at the border—not yet, anyway. They were watching, waiting. Trying to figure out if we were friend or foe.

The Marine in the passenger seat stepped out, his posture shifting into full ‘I’m in charge’ mode. He squared his shoulders, exuded authority, and walked toward the federales like they worked for him.

“You two,” he barked, pointing at them like they were boots in a barracks inspection. “I need to talk to your jefe at the border, now.”

The cops blinked, thrown off by the sudden authority in his voice.

Shotgun Guy squinted. “Qué?”

“You heard me,” the Marine snapped. “Border’s gone to shit. Your jefe needs to de-escalate before things get worse.” He jerked his chin at the radio inside the cruiser. “Get him on the radio.”

The federales hesitated. The second one—M4 Guy—looked at Shotgun Guy. A silent question passed between them.

Shotgun Guy sighed. “Mierda…” He turned and reached through the open car window, grabbing for the radio.

Big mistake. The Marine struck. Fast.

He ripped his FN Five-seveN from his vest holster and jammed the barrel into M4 Guy’s gut—hard.

The cop froze. Breath caught in his throat. His grip on the rifle twitched. The Five-seveN’s 5.7mm rounds at that range would punch straight through his vest and out his back. He knew it. The Marine held his stare and muttered something low, just for him. Whatever it was, it was enough. M4 Guy let go of his rifle.

At the same time, the second Marine made his move.

Thwack. The Marine’s baton cracked against the back of Shotgun Guy’s skull. His head snapped forward, bouncing off the car roof with a dull thunk. His knees buckled, but before he could even begin to go down, the Marine grabbed him and drove another savage crack into his right elbow.

Crunch.

The bone snapped clean. The federale let out a strangled sound and crumpled, his arm useless. The man didn’t even have time to scream. The Marine caught him by the vest, banged his head once more on the car roof, ripped the car door open, shoved him into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut.

Meanwhile, M4 Guy was still frozen, eyes wide, the FN’s barrel still digging into his ribs.

The Marine studying him gave a slow, knowing nod. “Smart man.”

Then he smashed M4 Guy’s face against the cruiser’s roof. The federale staggered back, stunned, but the Marine finished the job with a brutal headbutt sending the cop’s eyes rolling back as his legs went out from under him. As he slumped, the Marine lifted his boot and stomped down hard on his forearm.

Snap. That was his radius bone. Broken.

The man collapsed without a sound. The Marine bent down, grabbed him by the vest, and shoved him into the back seat of the cruiser.

The two Marines stepped back, admiring their work like mechanics admiring a freshly tuned engine. Then, as if nothing had just happened, they adjusted their vests, wiped their hands, and turned back to us.

Fifteen seconds. That’s all it took.

Hawkeye let out a slow whistle. “Jesus. I thought you guys were gonna talk to them.”

One of the Marines shrugged. “We did.”

I arched a brow. “That was talking?”

The Marine gave a completely innocent nod. “They listened, didn’t they?”

Hawkeye chuckled. “Yeah, they listened. Just not sure they remember any of it.”

I stared at the Marines, who were standing there looking entirely too pleased with themselves. Their knuckles flexed, and one of them actually grinned.

“You boys been sittin’ on some unresolved anger?” I asked.

One of them smirked. “They shot our Captain.”

Fair enough.

I sighed, rubbing a hand down my face. “Next time I ask you guys to de-escalate, remind me to be more specific.”

The problem was solved. Now, it was time to hit the warehouse.

CHAPTER 26

There was no trace of Salazar inside the warehouse.

The SUV that had led us there sat in the middle of it all, parked dead center with its doors hanging open. Bullet holes riddled the frame, glass shattered, seats slick with blood. But Salazar wasn’t inside. Just his men. And most of them were either dead or dying, cut down in the hail of lead the Delta and Marines had unleashed.

But Salazar had slipped the net—again.

He had played us, using the chaos at the border, the gunfight, the explosion and the smokescreen from the grenades, to melt away into the crowd. Sending the SUV back to the warehouse had been a distraction. A deliberate play. He knew the Marines would chase it back here, wasting time mopping up his men while he disappeared into the crowd. Smart move.

Salazar had no idea Delta operators were in the mix. We had remained in the shadows, never coming across him face to face. At the border, he had seen the Mexican Marines coming for him. He had seen federales picking sides, seen the chaos, the gunfire. But he didn’t know we were there. Not yet. And despite that, he had still managed to ghost us.

Twice, we had been close. Real close. First, when we took out his narco estate in Cerro Colorado. And then at the border—he had been not even a hundred yards away from us, protected by a wall of corrupt cops who were more than happy to let him fade into the chaos.

And now, he was gone. We had jack shit on his location. Not a clue.

Even Echo couldn’t track him any more. Once Salazar realized Rico had been taken, he had dumped his phone, cutting off our best chance of tracking him. Echo was good, but he wasn’t a miracle worker.

I checked my watch, expecting HQ to call in any second to tell us to pull the plug. Until then, we had work to do.

I scanned the bodies in the warehouse. Most of them were down for good. A few twitched here and there, groaning in the kind of agony that only ended one way.

Salazar had made sure we took the bait. And now we were standing in the aftermath, picking through the pieces, trying to find something—anything—that could put us back on his tail.

Ninja stepped past me, his boots crunching over broken glass. “Well, that was a lot of effort for a bunch of dead guys and no Salazar.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, scanning the warehouse. “But we’re not leaving empty-handed. Start turning this place over. If he left anything useful, we’ll find it.”

We spread out, moving through the warehouse, kicking over crates, pulling open drawers.

We found two things of value.

First, a stash of cocaine—over two tons of it. Not too difficult to spot—stacks of bricks wrapped in plastic, lined up in tight rows, two tons of pure Colombian powder.

Raptor gave a low whistle as he pulled a blade from his vest and slid it into one of the packages, peeling it open. The fine white powder inside practically gleamed under the warehouse lights.

By most standards, that was a serious haul. At least a hundred million in street value back in the States. But Salazar had probably picked it up for eight million tops from the Colombians. Losing it would hurt, sure—but it wouldn’t cripple him. A guy like him had plenty more where this came from. Still, watching all that product stacked neatly in rows, all that potential cash just sitting there, I knew it had to sting.

The second find was a hell of a lot more useful. Velasco.

The guy had been holed up in a hidden compartment inside the warehouse’s main office. He wasn’t a cartel soldier, not a sicario—he was a transporter. The kind of man who didn’t just move product but handled logistics, managed routes. The kind of guy who knew things.

And right now, he was huddled on the floor, back against the wall, sweating bullets. His breathing was ragged, his hands trembling. He knew the score.

I watched him for a second, weighing him. He wasn’t built for this. Guys like him operated in the shadows, quietly, efficiently. Not like this. Not on the floor of a warehouse filled with corpses, staring at a group of operators who had zero patience left.

I squatted in front of him, watching him. “Bad night, huh?”

No answer. He just stared at me, then at the two Marines standing behind me, their expressions blank.

It was time to get the guy to talk.

Lucky for us, in those two Marines, we had two very articulate individuals in our company. The kind of men who didn’t need lengthy speeches or empty threats to get their point across. They were efficient. Direct. The way they handled those two federales outside? That had been a conversation.

This was just another one.

Velasco tried to stall, licking his lips, sweating through his designer shirt, shaking his head. “I-I don’t know anything.”

The Marine closest to him sighed, like a father disappointed in his kid’s report card. He cracked his knuckles. “Wrong answer, amigo.”

I stood up and stretched my shoulders. “Alright. He’s all yours.”

The Marines didn’t hesitate.

I turned away as they went to work. Didn’t need to watch. I already knew how it would end. Two minutes. That’s all it would take.

And sure enough, before my watch hit that mark, Velasco cracked like a dropped egg. No screaming, no drawn-out theatrics. Just quick, effective persuasion.

The Marines stepped back, looking completely at ease, like they had just finished their morning workout. Velasco, on the other hand, looked like he had just discovered religion.

Damn, these guys were good.

Hawkeye let out a low whistle. “Man, these guys are natural communicators. Real persuasive.”

I smirked. “Looks like the conversation went extremely well.”

“What do you think they said to him?”

“Regular conversation starters, I guess. Probably asked about his hopes and dreams.”

Hawkeye grinned. “Real deep, emotional stuff, huh?”

I nodded. “Exactly. And judging by his face, I’d say they got through to him.”

Velasco spilled, and just like that, the whole op took a sharp turn. What he gave us was pure gold. The kind of intel that made operations worth the blood, sweat, and brass. It changed the whole game.

CHAPTER 27

Velasco revealed that Salazar hadn’t just taken a bad hit. He had suffered a career-ending, bullet-to-the-head, dig-your-own-grave kind of blow.

It started with Rico, thinking he had pulled off some genius move. Devlin’s crew had let him and his trucks glide through the border, all smooth and effortless. No stops, no delays, just a smooth ride straight into the U.S. like they were delivering Amazon packages instead of cartel dope. Probably thought they had pulled off a masterclass in crime.

But then, less than a mile in, DEA was waiting. They didn’t roll in with sirens blaring or guns drawn. No, they played it cool. Laid-back as hell. Just a routine traffic stop. Probably even asked for license and registration. Except they were armed to the teeth and knew exactly what they were looking for.

And then, they went to work. Started tearing the whole damn convoy apart.

Rico knew the second he saw them tearing into those trailers that he was fucked. That was when he lost his shit. So, he did the only thing he could—panicking, he called Salazar.

Salazar, to his credit, didn’t panic. He knew Rico was done. The feds had him. There was no getting those trucks back, no bribing his way out. Not with DEA. So, Salazar made two calls—one to Velasco and one to the nearest sewer drain, where he dumped his phone before disappearing.

What nobody knew at the time—not the DEA agents going through those trucks, not even some of Salazar’s own lieutenants—was exactly what was sitting in those trailers.

Eighty tons of cocaine.

I almost laughed when Velasco said it. Thought I had misheard. Even the DEA didn’t know just how big of a bust they were in the process of making.

Eighty tons. That wasn’t just a shipment. That was the backbone of Salazar’s entire operation. A goddamn apocalypse for him.

That was the bulk of the 100 tons Salazar had scored from the Colombians. He had pushed all his chips to the center of the table, betting on his growing network across the U.S. to move the weight fast enough so that no one would catch up to him.

And now, it would sit in some impound lot with DEA agents crawling all over it.

And Salazar was completely, utterly screwed.

The two tons we found at the warehouse? That was a flesh wound. Losing that stung, but it wouldn’t kill him. Eighty tons, though? That was fatal.

I did some quick math in my head. That was $5 billion worth of cocaine on the street.

And yeah, Salazar hadn’t paid that much. He had gotten it straight from the Colombians at cartel wholesale prices. But even that was $400 million in cash. To be paid within a very tight time frame.

And now, with all that coke flushed down the federal drain, Salazar was in deep shit.

Cartels ran on cash. No wire transfers, no convenient bank loans to cover a bad quarter. Sure, Salazar had millions stashed away in walls, barrels, and buried across half of Mexico. But $400 million? You don’t just shake that out of the couch cushions.

And the Colombians weren’t exactly forgiving types.

That was part of the reason Mexican cartel bosses were so goddamn brutal. It wasn’t just because they were psychopaths. It was also because they were terrified of what would happen if they couldn’t pay their debts. The Colombians didn’t do polite payment reminders. They sent chainsaws, gasoline, and a promise that your entire bloodline would pay for your failures.

Salazar was a dead man walking. He knew that better than anyone. And right then, he was on borrowed time. His empire was crumbling. We had already taken out dozens of his top guys. His estate was gone. Now, his biggest shipment had been torched in a single bust.

Salazar was losing his money. Losing his men. And most importantly, losing his fear factor. And without fear, he was nothing.

But he wasn’t giving up. He wasn’t crawling into a hole. He was buying time. Time to convince the Colombians to give him another shot. That last call to Velasco was Salazar’s Hail Mary before he dumped his phone and disappeared.

Salazar figured he still had one shot at survival. One way to salvage his reputation and claw his way back from the grave. All he had to do was prove he was still the guy who could pull off the impossible.

He knew the world would expect Rico to vanish into a U.S. supermax, but he was going to prove them wrong. He would get Rico out, and show the Colombians he was still the man to bet on. Salazar believed if he did that, the Colombians would throw him a lifeline. Give him credit for another 50 tons of coke. One last shot at getting back on his feet.

And this time, he would move fast. Flood the streets. Flip it into cash before the feds could react. Pay back the Colombians and it would become business as usual again.

That was the plan.

And Velasco was the poor bastard who had to make it happen. Move the 50 tons. No delegation. No outsourcing. His hands on the wheel. No more deniability.

And when that was done? More shipments. Bigger.

Velasco wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what that meant. He had been in this game long enough to know how it ended. The Colombians would squeeze him dry, then discard what was left. There was no retirement plan in this business—just a bullet or a chainsaw.

Velasco was done. He knew it. I knew it. But more importantly, Salazar didn’t. And that was the key.

I let the silence stretch. Let him sit in it.

I locked eyes with him. “You know there’s only one way out.”

Velasco let out a slow breath. His face was slick with sweat. He nodded. “Either Salazar survives, or I do.”

That was the smartest thing he had said all night. It looked like he had finally seen the light. Not out of any moral awakening—he just knew he was screwed. Velasco had just sealed his fate by ratting out his boss. If Salazar ever found out, Velasco wouldn’t just die—he would be put on display. A slow, bloody warning to anyone else thinking about switching sides. The kind of execution that made the headlines and sent a message. But now I had him exactly where I needed him.

I leaned in, keeping my voice calm, steady. “I’m running a covert op for the U.S. government to capture Salazar,” I told him. “Only way you walk out of this alive is by making sure that happens.”

Velasco’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. He wasn’t dumb. He knew this was his only shot at survival. Salazar was heading for the U.S., and if we caught him there, it was game over. He would spend the rest of his miserable existence in a tiny concrete box in a supermax, where his connections, bribes, and terror tactics didn’t mean shit.

Mexican prisons were like playgrounds for guys like Salazar. The right cash, the right people in your pocket, and you could keep the empire running like you were still sitting on your throne. But in the U.S., Salazar would be locked down so tight he would have to beg permission to scratch his own ass.

Velasco finally nodded. “I get it. If Salazar goes down, he never comes back.”

“Exactly. Which means you need to help us get him before he figures out you flipped.”

Velasco got it. Now, I needed to set the stage.

State cops were inbound. The Marines had kept the scene locked down, but that wouldn’t last much longer. Once the cops came into the picture, the two tons of cocaine would disappear.

I couldn’t let Velasco look completely incompetent. Salazar had disappeared. Ditched his phone, fallen off our radar. The only way he would come back into view was if he reached out to someone he trusted. That someone was Velasco.

We needed Velasco to stay in play. But Salazar wouldn’t trust a man who just lost two tons of his cocaine. Which meant we had to make sure he still had it.

“Alright, boys,” I said, turning to my team. “Change of plans. We’re taking the coke.”

That got some looks.

“Say what now?” Raptor asked, arching a brow.

I pointed at the pallets of neatly wrapped bricks. “Load it all up into a truck. Every damn kilo.”

Ninja exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Shit, Cowboy. You realize we’re getting real comfortable with the whole drug-running gig?”

Hawkeye gave a mock sigh, hoisting a bundle of coke onto the truck bed. “I always dreamed of this day. Hauling illicit narcotics under the watchful eye of the U.S. government.”

“Yeah,” Raptor muttered, tossing another brick up. “We’re getting real good at this business. Maybe we should rethink our career paths.”

Ninja let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he hoisted a bundle onto the truck bed. “DEA’s gonna love this report. ‘Delta operators now smuggling coke across Mexico.’”

I smirked. “Relax. We’re just holding onto it.”

While they worked, I grabbed a tracker and passed it to Ninja. “Plant this somewhere discreet. I wanna know exactly where this truck is at all times.”

Ninja gave a mock salute. “Aye, aye, El Jefe.” He popped the hood and got to work.

Now for the story.

I turned to Velasco. “Here’s the story you tell the cops. Salazar’s men came to the warehouse to move the coke. But before they could load it up, a group of masked gunmen stormed the place and wiped them out.” I gestured at the bodies still cooling on the concrete. “They’ll believe that part. It looks like a warzone in here.”

Velasco nodded. “And me?”

“You survived by hiding in your office. By the time you came out, they were all gone.”

He frowned. “And the coke?”

I jerked a thumb at the truck. “Your managed to get your driver to get it out just in time. Before the shooting started. It’ll make you look good.”

Velasco nodded slowly, starting to see where this was going. “So, when Salazar contacts me again…”

“You tell him what happened. His men are dead, but you saved his shipment. You’re still his guy.”

Velasco exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah. Yeah, that could work.”

“It better,” I said. “Because if he doesn’t buy it, he’ll kill you before you get another sentence out.”

Velasco didn’t argue.

With the scene set, we rolled out. I took the wheel of an SUV, my team packed in with me. The Marines followed, their truck packed with enough blow to turn Wall Street into a goddamn war zone.

And as we drove off, I had to admit—things had taken a weird turn. We weren’t busting coke shipments anymore. We were saving them. Keeping them out of the hands of the cops, who would probably just flip the shit to the highest bidder anyway.

Hawkeye let out a low chuckle from the backseat. “We spent all this time busting cartel shipments, and now we’re smuggling them.”

“Yeah,” Ninja agreed. “Feels like we missed a memo somewhere.”

Raptor grunted. “We really gotta sit down and evaluate our life choices.”

I smirked, eyes on the road. “Just shut up and enjoy the ride. If this doesn’t work, we might need to apply for jobs in the cartel.”

CHAPTER 28

We rolled into the Marine compound just past midnight, the SUV humming low and steady while the five-ton truck behind us carried something that, under normal circumstances, would have had us all thrown into a black site. Two tons of pure cartel cocaine. Not something I ever thought I would be personally escorting, but here we were.

The compound was alive with activity—Marine sentries at the gate, patrols moving in their circuits, floodlights casting long shadows across the tarmac. We passed a few guys heading toward the barracks, their heads turning as the truck lumbered in behind us.

First stop—the medical facility.

Ortiz had taken a round to the shoulder during the border firefight, and while I had seen men shake off worse, I needed to see for myself that he was still in the fight. Not just physically, but mentally. Guys like Ortiz didn’t sit out of ops willingly. If he was laid up, it was eating him alive.

Inside, the place smelled of antiseptic, fresh gauze, and old sweat. Standard field hospital setup—white walls, stainless steel carts stacked with medical gear, and a few Marines on cots getting patched up from whatever scrape they had been in last.

Ortiz was propped up in bed, bare-chested except for the heavy bandage wrapped around his right shoulder. His right arm was in a sling, but he was sitting up straight, eyes sharp despite what I assumed was a cocktail of pain meds pumping through his system. A Marine through and through—he looked pissed off, not like a guy who just had a bullet dug out of his body.

“You look like shit,” I said, stepping up to the bed.

Ortiz snorted. “And you look like a guy who let Salazar get away.”

Fair enough. I pulled up a chair, sitting down with a sigh.

He shook his head. “Salazar was right there, Blaze. We had him.”

I met his gaze. “We had him until we didn’t. That’s the way it goes sometimes.”

“I know. I’ve been there before. Remember we had him just three days ago and had to let him go?” Ortiz replied, frustration written all over his face.

I knew that feeling. I had felt it plenty of times myself. The bastard had slipped through our fingers, and no amount of post-mission debriefs or rationalizations would change the fact that he was still out there.

But I wasn’t about to let Ortiz sit there stewing in it.

“We’re not done,” I told him. “We got something just as valuable.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Velasco flipped.”

That got his attention. His brows shot up, and he leaned forward slightly despite the obvious discomfort. “You serious?”

I nodded. “Dead serious. He’s in survival mode. Knows it’s either him or Salazar.”

Ortiz exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I always figured Velasco for a survivor, but I didn’t think he’d turn that quick.”

“He didn’t have a choice,” I said. “If Salazar ever finds out he ratted, they’ll be pulling his teeth out with pliers before they cut his head off. He knows it.” I crossed my arms. “And we grabbed Rico. That’s the key. Salazar needs to get him back. The second he crosses into the U.S., he’s ours.”

Ortiz let that sink in, then gave a slow nod. “Alright. That’s something.”

Ninja stepped up, arms crossed. “Also, your Marines? Certified badasses. Took down the federales like they were extras in a B-movie, then got Velasco talking like they were running an interrogation masterclass.”

Ortiz grinned, despite himself. “Yeah, well, I train them hard.”

Raptor spoke up. “Hell of a job, Captain. By the way, where do you want us to stash your two tons of coke?” he asked, his eyes flicking to the truck outside.

Ortiz blinked, then gave me a look like he thought he misheard. “Come again?”

I sighed, rubbing a hand down my face. “Long story. The short version is we needed Velasco to stay in play with Salazar, and losing that coke would’ve made him useless. So we took it off the board before the federales could ‘confiscate’ it and sell it to the highest bidder.”

Ortiz’s expression was somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, it’s not exactly standard operating procedure,” I admitted. “But it keeps the game going. Velasco tells Salazar he got his guys to sneak the shipment out before the Marines arrived. That keeps him in play. Which means it keeps us in play.”

Ortiz shook his head, but I could see the logic sinking in. “You Delta boys sure have a funny way of fighting crime.”

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed. The call I had been expecting. Flynn.

“Hell of an operation you just pulled off.”

I let out a breath. “We did what we could.”

“Well, you’ve got the DEA’s Mike Harrigan doing backflips over the coke bust. He says it’s one of the biggest single seizures in years, maybe their biggest ever. That’s eighty tons off the streets. Puts a hell of a dent in the supply chain.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s one win. What about Rico? Is he in secure custody?”

Flynn’s tone didn’t waver. “No doubt. Assistant Director Mark Flynn of the U.S. Marshals is personally handling it.”

I noted the way Flynn said it—not ‘my brother’, just ‘Assistant Director’. But then I figured I would probably do the same if I had to talk about my own brother, Captain Ryan Blaze, in an official setting.

“Good,” I said. “That’ll force Salazar’s hand. He won’t let Rico rot in prison. He’s gonna make a move to get him back. And when he does, we’ll be waiting.”

Flynn was quiet for a second, then asked, “What’s the damage report?”

I listed it off. “Sixty-plus of Salazar’s best gunmen—gone. His narco estate burned to the ground. He’s got no safehouses left here. Eighty tons of coke seized, his supply chain is shattered. And he’s got the Colombians breathing down his neck. His whole empire is crumbling.”

Flynn was quiet for a moment. Then, “Sounds like it’s only a matter of time before he’s either taken out by his rivals or lands in custody.”

“That’s the hope,” I said. “But that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. He’s wounded, and wounded animals don’t go down easy. He could still lash out in ways we don’t expect.”

Flynn acknowledged that. “Which is why I need to talk to you about the next step.”

I sighed. “I have an idea where this is going.”

“You and your team are coming home.”

I clenched my jaw. “Yes, sir. Figured as much.”

Flynn continued. “The border incident kicked up too much heat. Diplomatic pressure’s already rolling in from Mexico City. We kept this off the books, and it needs to stay that way. No official record of Delta being there.”

“Understood. We’ll be wheels up tonight.”

I stood there for a second, staring out at the compound. I didn’t have a damn clue how soon Salazar would come roaring back—or how much hell he would bring with him.

But I knew one thing for sure. This fight wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

CHAPTER 29

It was time for goodbyes. Or maybe just hasta la vista. Either way, I was in a final meeting with Sofia Delgado and General Arturo Rojas—Baja California’s Secretary of Citizen Security. The operation had been a tactical success, but this wasn’t just about dead sicarios and captured cartel brass. This was about the people. The citizens of Baja California, and of Tijuana in particular. How much safer were they after the past twenty-four hours of blood and bullets? And how much danger still lurked in the shadows?

I sat across from Sofia and Rojas in a cramped, windowless meeting room that had all the warmth of a morgue. The fluorescent lighting was harsh, the walls a dull beige, and the battered wooden table between us looked like it had been repurposed from a police evidence room. A clock on the wall that looked like it had stopped giving a damn sometime in the ‘90s. But none of that mattered—not when Sofia was in the room.

Even in the middle of a crisis, she was all effortless poise. Drop dead gorgeous. Raven-black hair framing a face that was a mix of striking beauty and fierce intelligence. If I wasn’t in the business of hunting bad men, I would have had a hell of a time keeping my focus.

Sofia leaned forward, her forearms resting on the table. “It’s hard to believe,” she said, her voice calm but edged with something that sounded like exhaustion. “Just over 24 hours ago, we were on a plane to Fort Bragg with nothing but an idea—an idea that we might be able to do something about Salazar. And now?” She exhaled, shaking her head. “Salazar's empire is in pieces. His son is in U.S. custody.”

Technically true. But there was a gap in that logic big enough to fly a C-17 through. She had left out the part where Salazar himself had slipped through my fingers. I guess she was being nice to me. But that part still burned. It didn’t really feel like a win.

I let a beat pass, then nodded. “The operation had its wins. Your Marines played their part perfectly—I can’t praise them enough. But the fact remains, Salazar’s still out there.”

That part, she didn’t argue.

She met my eyes, and for a brief second, I saw something raw flicker across her face. I knew that look. It wasn’t just about unfinished business. It was personal. Salazar had murdered her brother. Until he was brought to justice, she wasn’t going to let herself breathe easy.

General Rojas, who had been quiet until then, straightened in his chair. “Salazar is significantly weakened. He’s no longer the immediate threat he was yesterday.” His tone was steady, measured, like a man accustomed to playing the long game. “That alone is a major achievement.”

He hesitated, then continued. “But, as expected, word has already reached Mexico City. Government officials are asking questions. Before they start digging too deep into what’s happened here, it’s best that we suspend all operations against Salazar. Effective immediately.”

Translation: They want this to disappear before it turns into an international incident.

I understood what he was saying. Mexico City wanted plausible deniability. The moment their own government started snooping around, the best move was to pull the plug before this turned into a full-blown scandal.

But that didn’t mean we were done.

I leaned forward slightly, resting my forearms on the table. “I get it. The op has to halt here. But let’s be clear—halt doesn’t mean shut down. The operation isn’t over. It’s just relocating north.”

Rojas gave me a long look, then nodded once, satisfied that I wasn’t pushing back harder. “Do you have any active leads on Salazar?”

“Rico’s capture has given us leverage,” I replied. “We know Salazar’s going to make a move—he won’t sit idle. The trick is waiting for him to show his hand. When he does, we’ll move on him fast.”

Silence settled over the table. Sofia was quiet, but I noticed the way her fingers traced slow circles against the tabletop, like she was debating whether to say something.

I glanced at her. “Something on your mind?”

She hesitated, her fingers stilling against the table. Then, finally, she spoke.

“Salazar might be down, but he’s vicious,” she said quietly. “People underestimate him because they think he's just another cartel boss. But he isn’t.”

She lifted her gaze, meeting mine. “When he strikes, he surprises people. By the insane cruelty he’s capable of. Not just by what he does, but by how far he’s willing to go.”

The way she said it made the air feel heavier. I had seen enough of Salazar’s handiwork—the bodies left in streets as warnings, the people burned alive in oil drums, the families executed because someone had picked the wrong side.

She had a point. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I gave her a small nod, filing away her words in the back of my mind.

The meeting wrapped up after that. We all stood, shaking hands. I promised to keep them updated. Then I turned to leave. I had made it a few steps before something made me stop.

I glanced back. Sofia was still there, standing at the table, watching me.

I walked back, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “This thing isn’t over until Salazar gets what’s coming to him.”

She nodded. “I know that.” A hint of a smile played on her lips as she continued, “You don’t strike me as a man who walks away before the job is done.”

“You don’t strike me as a woman who leaves things unfinished, either.”

Her gaze held mine, something unreadable flickering across her face. “Maybe we have that in common.”

“Until we get him, keep your Marines close,” I said. “Salazar’s desperate. That makes him dangerous.”

She gave me a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t worry about me, Captain. You already have a lot on your plate.”

Captain. That was all she had called me since day one.

I held out my hand. “It’s Axel.”

Her fingers were warm as she shook my hand. There was a moment of silence—heavy with things unsaid.

I glanced at the door, then back at her. “When we take him down, that’s when the mission will be over. Drinks will be on me.”

Her brow arched slightly. “Drinks?”

“Unless you’d rather have a tactical debriefing.”

This time, she did smile. “I’ll take the drinks. I’ll hold you to that, Axel.”

First time she said my name. I liked the way it sounded. I let go of her hand before I was tempted to hold on. Then I turned and walked away.

I found my team in one of the makeshift barracks near the airstrip. Raptor sat leaning back in a chair, feet propped up on a crate, flipping a knife between his fingers. Hawkeye was double-checking his gear, even though he had already checked it twice. Ninja stood against the wall, arms crossed, watching the room like he expected a fight to break out any second.

They all looked up when I stepped inside.

“Wheels up in one hour,” I said.

No one moved. Instead, they exchanged glances. Raptor was the first to speak.

“Doesn’t feel like a mission completed,” he muttered, spinning his knife one last time before catching it. “Feels like we just put the first bullet in a two-shot job.”

Hawkeye nodded. “We got the son, but the father’s still breathing. Doesn’t sit right.”

I couldn’t argue with that. Salazar wasn’t just a loose end—he was a ticking bomb.

“Yeah,” I said, glancing at them. “We’re not done. Not by a long shot. But we’ll take our time, do this the right way.”

That got nods of agreement all around. No more words needed. We all knew—this wasn’t over.

We got dropped off at the same remote clearing where we had been inserted the previous morning. It was dark, quiet. In the distance, I heard it. The low thump-thump-thump of rotor blades.

A few minutes later, the Black Hawk appeared over the horizon, cutting low across the desert before banking toward us. The wheels barely touched the ground before we loaded up, strapping in as the pilot turned to glance at us.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You guys really are out here in the badlands, huh? Thought I was picking up cartel defectors.”

“Close,” Ninja Man said. “Our Captain was about five minutes from switching sides.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered. “Next time, I’ll let you do all the negotiating.”

Hawkeye smirked. “The Captain doesn’t negotiate. He just stares at people until they get uncomfortable and agree to whatever he wants.”

The pilot chuckled, shaking his head as he turned back to his controls. “No wonder Delta’s always in the weirdest places.”

The Black Hawk lifted off, banking north. I leaned my head back against the seat, but I knew I wasn’t going to sleep. Sofia’s words replayed in my mind: "Salazar is vicious. When he strikes, he can still surprise people by the insane cruelty he’s capable of."

And then there was Velasco’s warning before I left.

I had asked him if he had any idea how Salazar planned to get Rico out. Velasco had only shrugged. “I doubt even Salazar knows yet. All he told me was… ‘I still have a few aces left. And the world is about to remember why it feared me.’”

Ominous words.

I didn’t like unfinished business. And I sure as hell didn’t like the idea of Salazar holding any damn cards.

Men like Salazar don’t go quietly. They don’t stop until someone makes them. And the only way they stop for good… is when they stop breathing.

CHAPTER 30

At 1100 hours the next morning, I walked into Lt. Colonel Flynn’s office. Fort Bragg was a world apart from where I had been just hours ago. The office was neat, orderly, climate-controlled—the kind of place where men in crisp uniforms planned operations in sterile environments. A sharp contrast to the chaos of Tijuana, where blood ran in the gutters, bodies dropped without warning, and life was cheap. The lawlessness of that place clashed hard against the controlled efficiency of Bragg.

Flynn sat behind his desk, flipping through a thick mission file. The familiar scent of burnt coffee and old wood mixed with the distant hum of activity outside. Flynn’s expression was unreadable, but I knew the man well enough to sense the weight behind his words before he even spoke. No pleasantries, no small talk—just straight to business. That’s how we operated.

“Hell of an op,” Flynn said, closing the file. “We put a dent in Salazar’s operation, but the bastard’s still out there. And knowing him, he’s already moving pieces on the board.”

I nodded. “He’s not the type to take a loss lying down. And with Rico behind bars, he’s desperate. He’ll throw everything he’s got at getting his son back.”

Flynn leaned back in his chair. “The DEA moved the cocaine shipment to one of their secure warehouses. It’ll stay there as evidence until the trial, and they’ll destroy it afterward. And since they’re feeling pretty damn good about themselves after that big bust, I’m sure they’ll want to turn the destruction into a PR stunt. Press coverage, the whole nine yards.”

I leaned back, processing. “A PR stunt might not be a good idea. At least not right now. That’s a big, fat target for Salazar.”

Flynn nodded. “We’ve got the feds watching it, but yeah—makes my gut itch too. Anyway, we can’t do much about that.”

“And Rico?” I asked.

“Arraigned first thing this morning. U.S. Marshals ran the show. Locked down transport, decoy convoys, air cover. Judge denied bail, so they hauled him to MCC San Diego.”

That surely sounded fine. Metropolitan Correctional Center (MCC) San Diego was a fortress. Federal supermax-style protocols, multi layers of security, layers of fencing, controlled access points, and cellblocks designed to keep even the most connected inmates in isolation. Guards weren’t just rent-a-cops; they were trained for high-risk prisoners, armed, and ready.

The facility was designed to keep high-risk federal detainees like Rico in and anyone stupid enough to try and break them out, out. Escape was damn near impossible. I was sure Rico wouldn’t be strolling out the front door of that place.

I folded my arms. “Even though Velasco’s turned, Salazar won’t reach out to him until he’s already got his plan in motion. Velasco’s role in this starts later. That means we’re flying blind until he makes a move.”

Flynn shut the file and leaned forward. “So we wait. Can’t say that sits well with me.”

Didn’t sit well with me either. Waiting for the enemy to make the first move went against everything in the Delta playbook. We weren’t built for sitting on our hands and reacting. We struck first, dictated the fight, stacked the odds in our favor before the other guy even knew he was losing, and ended it on our terms. That was the way of the warrior. But here we were, sitting on our hands, blind to where the hammer would fall.

The thing was, we had no lead, no actionable intel, just the certainty that Salazar was coming. We didn’t know where the hit would land, when it would happen, or who the target would be. We were stuck watching. Guessing. Hoping we saw Salazar’s punch before it landed.

My thoughts drifted back to Luke Jones—the guy who, just a couple of mornings ago, had damn near been turned into an ISIS suicide bomber in the heart of Spring Lake. I had stopped him, barely. And then the Mexican op had kicked off at breakneck speed, leaving no time to process what had happened. But now we were back stateside, scrambling for a lead, and Luke might be just that.

I had interrogated him under a ticking bomb—literally. The timer counting down while I worked the wires, trying to keep his heart from decorating the walls. Whatever came out of his mouth in that moment, I knew it was God’s honest truth.

He was just a dumb kid who had gotten in deep with the wrong people. A gambling debt in Raleigh had put him in the crosshairs of a local mob outfit, and those guys had used him. No ties to ISIS. No ideological commitment. No radical beliefs. He never even knew the men in the SUV were ISIS. They gave him the package, told him to deliver, and he did. He was nothing but a disposable asset in their eyes.

But that didn’t mean he was useless. If those mob guys were the link between him and ISIS, there was a chance they were tied into Salazar’s network, too. He might still know something—someone in Salazar’s network who had brought him in. A link we could pull on.

Flynn leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You got something else on your mind, Cowboy?”

“Luke Jones,” I said. “You know what happened to him?”

Flynn’s brow furrowed. “Guy from the bombing incident? That case was handed off to local law enforcement. They’d have dealt with him.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Just wondering if they got any extra intel from him.”

Flynn shrugged. “You think he’s got something useful?”

“It’s possible. The whole thing started because I spotted Luke in time. After that, everything went to hell so fast I didn’t even have time to think about him. But I doubt the cops or the Feds dug into the Salazar angle when they interrogated him.”

Flynn tilted his head. “You think the local gangsters who roped him into this could lead to Salazar?”

“It’s definitely possible. And I doubt the cops connected the dots from some small-time mobsters in Raleigh to a major cartel boss in Mexico.”

Flynn considered that for a second. “You could be right. Definitely worth a shot.”

Luke was the only link to the guys who put him in touch with the ISIS cell. He might have given the cops some names, but that didn’t mean much. The cops wouldn’t be able to make a case stick. These weren’t the kind of guys you could take down with an arrest warrant. They knew how to work the system, knew exactly what to say and what not to say.

If Luke was the only thread we had, I planned on yanking it hard enough to unravel something real. If I wanted to get ahead of whatever hell was coming, I needed to see him. Fast.

I got up and headed for the door. “I’ll check it out and let you know.”

I walked out of Flynn’s office and into the long corridors of the office building, my boots echoing against the polished floors. As I walked, I ran through the situation in my head.

What I hadn’t told Flynn was I wasn’t about to let legal red tape get in the way of saving lives. I was well aware that I didn’t have the same kind of leeway in the U.S. that I had in Mexico. Down there, I could cut through the bullshit. But here, I had to play by the rules—rules that guys like these had spent their whole lives learning how to dodge. If I wanted answers, I had to deal with them in a language they understood.

I pulled out my phone and called Luke. It rang twice, then went to voicemail. Not good.

I frowned and scrolled to another number. Elijah Harris—the police chief in Spring Lake. We had spoken after the bombing incident that morning. We had had a solid conversation back then, and he had appreciated me stepping in before things got real ugly. I had put in a good word for Luke, told Harris he wasn’t some radical terrorist, just an idiot who got tangled up in something way over his head.

Harris picked up on the second ring. “Captain Blaze. What can I do for you?”

“Chief, I called to ask about Luke Jones,” I said. “Got any leads out of him?”

Harris sighed. “A couple of names. Not much. Like you said, he didn’t know much. I didn’t even get into a room with him until this morning. FBI took over his interrogation. Cut us off completely.”

“Figures. Did they get anything useful?”

Harris gave a dry chuckle. “If they did, they sure as hell aren’t sharing. What I do know is that all the names Luke gave them disappeared fast. Except for one guy. Feds got their hands on him, but he lawyered up within the hour. Won’t say a word unless he gets some kind of deal.”

That was exactly what I had been afraid of—time getting wasted on legal bullshit while Salazar made his next move.

I got to the point. “Where’s Luke now?”

“We didn’t have anything to charge him with. He just got processed and let go, not even ten minutes ago. Said he had his car parked downtown since the morning two days ago.”

“He got his phone back?”

“Yeah, should have it.”

“Thanks. I’ll give it a try.”

“Keep me in the loop.”

“Sure thing,” I said as I hung up and redialed Luke’s number.

Straight to voicemail. Shit.

I scrolled through my contacts and hit the name I needed. If Luke wasn’t picking up, I had to go to the one guy who could track him down faster than a bloodhound on fresh scent. The line rang twice before a familiar voice answered. Echo.

“Well, well. If it ain’t Cowboy,” Echo said, his tone lazy but sharp as ever. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you this soon. Thought you’d be off somewhere celebrating after blowing up half of Salazar’s operation.”

“I wish. But Salazar’s still breathing, and he’s cooking up something big stateside.”

Echo whistled low. “Shit. That ain’t good.”

“No, it ain’t. I need a trace on a phone—owner’s an important lead. He’s gone missing.”

“Missing, like ‘I lost my car keys’ missing? Or ‘bad guys stuffed him in a trunk’ missing?”

I rubbed my jaw. “Probably closer to the trunk.”

“Copy that. Gimme the number.”

I rattled it off. Echo’s keyboard clacked in the background. “Alright, sit tight. I’ll hit you back in a few.”

I walked out of the building, my pace quick. As I neared the parking lot, I spotted a familiar figure sitting on the hood of my pickup, arms crossed like he had all the time in the world. Ninja Man.

I smirked. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought this was your day off?”

Ninja grinned. “Missing work too much. Figured I’d come find the boss.”

I shook my head. “You need a hobby.”

He hopped off the hood. “Nah, I need a raise.” Then his expression shifted slightly. “Actually, came looking for you ‘cause I had a thought.”

I opened the truck door. “Jump in. Tell me on the way.”

Ninja slid into the passenger seat as I got behind the wheel.

As I pulled out, he said, “I was thinking about that guy Luke—the wannabe suicide bomber. He might be a lead to Salazar.”

I chuckled, shaking my head.

Ninja frowned. “What’s so funny?”

“That’s exactly where we’re headed.”

CHAPTER 31

The truck rumbled beneath me as I sped toward downtown, the engine growling like it had something personal against the road. I wasn’t in the mood to argue.

I glanced over at Ninja, who was lounging in the passenger seat like we were on a Sunday drive instead of tracking down a scared kid who might lead us to a mass-murdering cartel boss. He was fiddling with the air vent, adjusting it every few seconds like he was trying to dial in the perfect breeze.

“The one thing I can’t do,” I said, eyes on the road, “is sit on my ass waiting for Salazar to make a move.”

Ninja nodded, still messing with the damn vent. “Couldn’t agree more. What’s the play?”

“Up until this morning, Velasco was our best bet. Once Salazar called him, we’d have his location.” I shook my head. “But that’s risky as hell because Salazar might not call for hours. Maybe even days.”

“And when he does,” Ninja said, “it won’t be for a friendly chat.”

I nodded. “Nope. You can bet it’s gonna be violent as hell. Which means instead of waiting for the explosion, we start pulling threads now. There’s a chance Luke can point us toward someone. Someone who leads us to someone else. We keep pulling the string until we get to Salazar.”

“Could be a hell of a long chain,” Ninja said, stretching out the word.

“Yeah. Could be.”

“Could be a really long chain.”

I shot him a look. “You done?”

He smirked. “Maybe.”

I turned back to the road. “This isn’t an official op. We handle it off the books.”

Ninja huffed a laugh. “No shit, boss. I can’t remember the last time we did something on the books. Wasn’t our Mexican vacation kinda off the books as well?”

“Fair point,” I admitted. “But this one’s different. I wasn’t planning on bringing anyone else in. Just me.”

Ninja gave me a slow, unimpressed look. “Yeah, see, that’s the dumbest thing you’ve said all day.”

“I can handle it.”

“You know damn well that ain’t happening.”

I sighed, knowing there wasn’t a fight to be won here.

My phone buzzed. Echo.

“I got your boy,” Echo said. “Last ping came from downtown Spring Lake.”

“Great stuff. I’m on my way.”

“You want me in the loop?”

“Stay ready. If I need you, I need you fast.”

Echo chuckled. “You know I don’t sleep.”

I got off the call and redialed Luke. This time, he actually picked up.

“Jesus, man,” I said, “you planning to make a habit of ignoring my calls?”

Luke’s voice came through the line, shaky and apologetic. “S-sorry, Captain, I just—I just turned the phone on. Didn’t know if I should turn it on. I think they might be tracking me.”

“Who’s they?”

“I—I don’t know,” he said, voice raw. “I don’t know who to trust. I just know I don’t have long.”

He sounded like he was about five seconds away from a full-blown meltdown.

I softened my tone. “You’re gonna be fine. Where are you?”

“Heading for my car,” he said. “Trying to figure out where to go where they can’t find me. Then the second I turn on my phone, you call.”

“Good timing. Here’s what you’re gonna do. Head to the diner.”

Luke hesitated. “You mean the Chow Line?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Luke. How many diners you see in that downtown market?”

“Uh… one.”

“Then why the hell are you asking stupid questions?”

Luke let out a nervous laugh. “Because Betsy scares the hell out of me.”

I blinked. “Betsy?”

“Yeah, man,” he said. “Last time I was in there, she looked like she wanted to rip my throat out.”

I rolled my eyes. “You mean the time when you were planting a goddamn bomb in her diner?”

“Uh… yeah.”

I sighed. “Luke, that diner is the safest place for you right now. You’ve got soldiers in there all the time. I’ll call Betsy and make sure she doesn’t kill you before I get there.”

“Great. Appreciate that,” he mumbled.

“Get there now,” I said, my tone serious. “I’ll be there in five.”

Luke hung up, and I immediately dialed Betsy.

She picked up on the second ring. “Captain Blaze.”

I blinked. “How the hell did you know it was me?”

“Saved your number,” she said. “Not every day I get a real-life superhero in my contacts.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “That’s a little dramatic.”

“You defused a bomb that was about to turn my diner into a fireball. Doesn’t get more heroic than that.”

I cleared my throat. “Not a big deal.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unimpressed with my humility. “What do you need, Captain Superhero?”

I exhaled. “So, uh… talking of bombs—you’re not gonna like what I’m about to say.”

Betsy’s voice flattened. “Go on.”

“I told Luke, the kid from the other day, to meet me in the diner,” I said. “He’s about to walk in, and I need you to let him stay put until I get there. Preferably alive.”

Silence. Then a long-suffering sigh. “You really like testing my patience, huh?”

“It’s a gift,” I said dryly.

“If it were anyone else asking, I’d tell them to go straight to hell,” she muttered. “But seeing as it’s you—and seeing as you saved my damn diner—I guess I can let the little bastard stay alive until you get here.”

I shook my head. “Appreciate it, Betsy. Be there soon.”

I tossed my phone on the dash and looked over at Ninja, who had been listening with an amused expression.

“Man,” he said, shaking his head. “She did not sound happy.”

I pulled onto the main road, accelerating. “Nope.”

“Wouldn’t wanna be Luke right now.”

“Nope.”

Ninja leaned back, smirking. “Wouldn’t wanna be you either, boss.”

I sighed. “Nope.”

A few minutes later, we left the truck in the parking lot and walked toward the Chow Line diner. As we approached, my mind flashed back to two days ago—Luke standing right about there, frozen like a deer in headlights. He had hesitated just long enough for Betsy to walk out of the diner, his rucksack slung over her shoulder like a trophy. It had been one hell of a moment.

I pushed open the door, and the bell overhead jingled as we stepped inside. The air smelled of burnt coffee, fried bacon, and the kind of grease that had been seasoned into the griddle for a few decades. Betsy was behind the counter, wiping a coffee cup with the kind of focus that said she was thinking about something—or someone—she would rather be wringing the life out of.

I braced for the full force of her glare, but instead, she gave me a neutral look and signaled for me to come closer. We walked up to the counter, and Betsy leaned in, her voice low but sharp. “Outside, benches at eleven o’clock and two o’clock,” she said. “Couple of guys look real eager to have a word with your boy.”

I didn’t glance back immediately. “What makes you say that?”

“They’ve been hanging around for a couple hours. Not eating. Not talking to each other. Just waiting. Looking twitchy, like they’re expecting something to happen—or someone to show up.” She folded her arms. “After the fun little party we had in here two days ago, I’ve been watching everything like a hawk.”

That, I could easily believe.

She continued, “I was already keeping an eye out after your call. When I saw Luke walking over, those two started shifting, signaling each other. Moved like they were gonna cut him off. And they looked heavy—I’d bet my last damn tip both of them are packing.”

Ninja let out a low whistle. “Gotta say, Betsy, your situational awareness is dialed in.”

She smirked. “Ain’t lost my touch.”

I was impressed. “Hell of a job.”

She waved that off like I had complimented her on making a decent pot of coffee. “Did what needed doing.”

I chuckled. “So what happened?”

She leaned on the counter. “I didn’t give those two time to make a move. Stepped outside and called out to Luke—Hey, there you are! I’ve been waiting on you! Get your scrawny ass inside, now!”

I glanced at Luke, sitting in the back booth. The man looked like he had aged a year in two days. He had always been skinny, but now he looked like he had lost another five pounds he couldn’t afford to spare.

Betsy continued, shaking her head. “Kid looked so damn surprised, I thought he was gonna collapse right there. Nearly tripped over his own feet. I was ready to pick his sorry ass up and carry him in if I had to.”

“And the two guys?”

Betsy shrugged. “They had no choice but to fall back. My voice was loud enough to turn some heads, and they weren’t about to make a scene.” She leaned in. “But they’re still out there, which means they really want a word with your boy.”

I nodded. “Appreciate it, Betsy. You just saved his skin.”

She huffed. “Well, someone’s gotta look out for the dumbass.”

I turned, making my way toward a booth at the front. Ninja slid in next to me, both of us with a clear view of the street—and the two guys Betsy had flagged. They weren’t doing anything yet, but I could feel the tension from there.

Before I sat down, I caught Luke’s gaze and gave him a sharp nod. He hesitated, then swallowed hard and slid out of his booth, making his way toward us. He slid into the seat across from me, his movements stiff like he was walking on eggshells. His knee bounced under the table, fingers twitching as he glanced at the two men outside. I didn’t blame him. Between the two men hanging around outside and the ass-kicking I had given him two days ago, the kid had plenty of reasons to feel jumpy. But jumpy didn’t help us.

It was time to get him talking—time to pull some leads that would eventually take us to Salazar.

CHAPTER 32

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table. “Alright, Luke. Those two assholes waiting for you outside. Who are they?”

Luke flicked a nervous glance toward the front window. “I haven’t seen them before,” he muttered. “But it’s not hard to guess who sent them… and why.”

I waited. “Go ahead. Guess.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “They look like the usual guys Viper sends when he wants to remind someone their time’s up.”

Ninja raised an eyebrow. “Viper? What, dude thinks he’s a supervillain?”

Luke gave a humorless chuckle. “Pretty sure he thinks he’s something. His real name’s Benjamin Cox. Runs the loan sharking business I got stuck in.”

“What else do you know about this Viper guy?”

“He’s ex-military—likes to tell people Viper was his callsign because he was a deadly killer.”

Ninja snorted, looked at me, and rolled his eyes. “Deadly killer, huh?”

Luke licked his lips, looking like a man standing on the edge of a cliff. “I didn’t… I didn’t realize how bad the shit I was in really was.”

Ninja let out a sharp laugh. “No shit. The bomb inside the bag you were carrying didn’t give you a clue?”

Luke winced. “I mean, not until Captain Blaze kicked my ass in the restroom and showed it to me.” He exhaled shakily. “Then the FBI locked me in a room for two days, grilling me nonstop. I’ve been scared as hell since. I don’t know who to trust.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Do you trust us?”

Luke’s answer came quick, no hesitation this time. “You’re the only reason I’m still alive. I trust you more than anyone in the world.” His voice dropped lower. “And… thanks. For asking Betsy to look out for me. If she hadn’t—” He shook his head, looking toward the two men again. “I’d be dead. Those guys look like killers.”

His breathing hitched, and for a second, I thought he was going to break down right there in the damn booth.

I pressed forward before he had the chance. “Walk us through everything again. Quickly. We don’t have much time.”

Luke nodded and dragged a shaky hand down his face. “It started with poker… I’ve always been good at counting cards. Not Rain Man good, but enough to win steadily at the smaller tables.” He gave a humorless chuckle. “But I never played big. That changed the night I got wasted at a high-stakes underground game. A buddy’s birthday. One drink turned into five, and next thing I know, I’m sitting at the table with some serious players.”

I said nothing, letting him talk.

“At first, I was winning—easy money, more than I made in a month at my shitty day job. The rush was… addictive.” He exhaled. “Then the losses hit. Fast and hard. In two hours, I was down fifteen grand. Money I didn’t have.”

I could see where this was going. Ninja did too. His expression said: Jesus, kid.

“And that’s when Viper stepped in.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Viper was there himself?”

Luke shook his head. “Nah. He doesn’t sit in places like that. He sends guys. One of them put a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘We like you. We’ll cover your debt. Pay us back, plus a little extra.’”

Ninja scoffed. “‘Little extra’ my ass.”

Luke nodded. “Drunk and desperate, I agreed. Signed a marker. The next morning, I woke up sober and realized I was in deep shit. The ‘little extra’ turned out to be triple the original debt.”

Ninja leaned back. “Yeah, that checks out.”

Luke rubbed his face. “No way out. No way to pay. And these guys don’t do payment plans—they do beatdowns and disappearances.”

I tilted my head. “And Viper? He send someone to remind you?”

Luke nodded. “Oh yeah. Bright and early. That’s when I met Tank.”

Ninja raised an eyebrow. “Tank?”

“Big bastard,” Luke muttered. “Makes those two outside look small.”

Ninja let out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s like saying a grizzly makes a black bear look small.”

I drummed my fingers on the table. “So Viper gave you a friendly offer, then sent his personal wrecking ball to let you know the terms?”

Luke nodded grimly. “They gave me one alternative. You work off your debt, or we bury you.’”

I leaned back slightly, arms crossed. “Define ‘work’.”

Luke gave a hollow laugh. “Smuggling. At first, just cash. Then drugs. And then… well.” His throat bobbed. “Then they handed me a bag, told me not to open it, and sent me on my way.” Luke ran a hand through his already-messy hair. “The rest, you already know.”

He finished his little story and sat looking like a guy who had aged a few years in the last couple of minutes, shoulders hunched, fingers tapping against the side of his coffee cup. He had good reason to be nervous—his life expectancy had taken a sharp nosedive the moment he got tangled up with the wrong people.

He sat there, pale as hell, eyes flicking between me and Ninja like he was waiting for one of us to tell him he would be fine. That his life wasn’t circling the drain.

I let the silence stretch for a moment, giving him time to absorb the weight of his own words. Then I leaned in slightly and asked, “Do you really understand why those two guys out there are staking you out?”

Luke exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he muttered. “They think I’ll lead the cops to them.”

I shook my head. “No, it goes deeper than that. If these guys were just your standard loan sharks running some small-time dope operation, they wouldn’t give a damn about you talking to the cops. Worst case, they move shop, start fresh under a new name. You got played into running jobs for guys who don’t just move product. They’re in the terror game now. And they aren’t running scared of the cops. What scares them is the cartel on one side and ISIS on the other. And if they don’t take you out, then they become the loose ends. And in that world, loose ends don’t get second chances.”

Luke swallowed. I saw the moment it hit him—the realization that he was caught between two nightmares, neither one leaving witnesses.

“These guys seem tough to you because they lean on nobodies, guys who don’t have the muscle to fight back,” I continued. “But compared to the cartel and the kind of people you just helped smuggle explosives for, they’re small fry. And they know it. They’re scared.”

Ninja scoffed. “Scared people do stupid shit. Like try to whack you in broad daylight.”

Luke’s face turned a shade paler. “But even if they get me, they’re still screwed?”

“Exactly,” I said. “The cartel and ISIS don’t need the Feds sniffing around when they’re planning something this big. You’re a liability, but so are they. And that means there’s only one way this ends for them.”

Luke’s shoulders slumped. He let out a hollow chuckle. “So… I’m dead either way. No matter what, I get a bullet.”

I shook my head. “Not necessarily. But it’s on you now.”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“The only way you walk out of this is if that whole chain—every last one of them—gets burned to the ground. No one left standing. You make sure of that, and you get to live.”

Luke scoffed, but it sounded more like he was trying to stop himself from panicking. “And how the hell am I supposed to do that?” He gestured at himself. “Seriously, have you looked at me? I weighed 120 pounds two days ago, back before I found out I was carrying a ticking bomb in my bag, got my ass handed to me by you, and then got grilled by the Feds for 36 hours straight. Pretty sure I’ve dropped ten pounds since then. Now look at those two hulks out there, both looking like they could bench press a goddamn truck.”

I chuckled. “Relax. I’m not expecting you to wrestle them down or start throwing haymakers. That’s what we’re here for.”

Ninja snorted. “You just focus on walking out. We’ll handle the heavy lifting.”

I locked eyes with Luke. “Do you really think those two out there—or even cartel hitters and terror cells—can take on Uncle Sam’s finest?”

His eyes flicked between me and Ninja. I saw the gears turning. His posture straightened a little, his breathing evened out. For the first time, I saw something shift in him. Hope.

“We’re going to wipe these guys out. But we need you to get us inside.”

“How?”

“It starts with those two assholes outside.”

Luke frowned. “So… what do you want me to do?”

“You let them grab you.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Those two out there aren’t here for just watching you, Luke. They’re here to grab you. They need to take you someplace and find out what you told the cops.”

His throat bobbed. “And after that? They aren’t just gonna let me walk away, are they?”

I shook my head. “No, they won’t.” I let that settle for a second before adding, “If Ninja and I hadn’t turned up this morning, they’d have already taken you by now. Do you doubt that?”

Luke exhaled sharply, shook his head. “No.”

“The only way you get out of this alive is if we take out all of them.”

He ran a hand through his hair, breathing sharply. He already knew that, but hearing it out loud made it real.

“So, what do you think I should do?”

“Main thing is they’re not here to kill you. If they wanted that, they could’ve done it any time. They wouldn’t show up in a public place. They need to grab you because that’s the easiest way to find out what you know. That means they’re taking you somewhere—and that’s what we need.”

Luke swallowed. “And once they grab me, you’ll follow?”

“Every step. Ninja and I will be right behind you. The second they move, we follow. We’ll track where they take you, and once we know where their nest is, we burn it down.”

Luke still looked unsure, but he knew I was right. He didn’t have a better option.

I reached into my crossbody bag and pulled out a small, black device no bigger than a key fob. I held it up between two fingers.

“This,” I said, “is your lifeline.”

Luke eyed it warily. “What is it? One of those tracker things?”

“Not just a tracker, a listening device as well,” I clarified. “Once they grab you, we’ll have your exact location in real time. And hear everything going on around you.”

“You’ll hear everything?”

“Every damn word.” I tapped the side of the device. “It transmits a live audio feed to my phone and tablet. If they start talking about where they’re taking you or who they work for, we’ll hear it.”

A look of relief crossed his face. “And you’ll be up close, right? Following close behind?”

“Yeah. Every step.”

He looked at the device, then down at himself. “Where do I put it?”

I held out my hand. “Give me your belt.”

He unbuckled it and handed it over. I flipped it over, peeled back the adhesive strip on the tracker, and stuck it to the back of the belt, just beside the buckle. Hidden. Secure. Out of sight unless someone was looking for it.

I handed it back. “Wear it like normal. Don’t touch it, don’t fidget with it.”

While Luke fastened his belt, I dialed Echo.

“Echo, need you to run a check on a guy.”

“Sure, who’s the lucky bastard?”

“Name’s Benjamin Cox. Raleigh-based. Runs a loan sharking business. Calls himself Viper. Supposedly ex-military.”

Echo hummed. “Viper? That’s original. Bet he also calls himself ‘a businessman’.”

“Yeah, probably right before he breaks someone’s kneecaps.”

Echo’s keyboard started clacking. “Alright, gimme a few. If he sneezed near a military database, I’ll find him.”

“Good. Let me know what you dig up.”

“Copy that, Cowboy. Sit tight.”

As soon as I got off the call, Ninja drained the rest of his coffee and stretched. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

I looked at Luke. “You walk out of here, act normal. Carry a delivery box with you—that’s your excuse for coming to the diner. You go straight to your car. Don’t look at them. They’ll make a move. Maybe at the car, maybe they have a vehicle waiting.” I met his gaze. “Either way, we’ll be watching. And when they make their play, we’ll be on their tail.”

Luke exhaled, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “And then?”

Ninja’s voice was flat. “Wherever they take you, we’ll grab them. Then we get them talking.”

Luke licked his lips, looking between us, nodding slowly. Then he swallowed and asked, “And… you won’t let them kill me?”

I looked him in the eye. “Luke, that morning, we wiped out an entire terrorist kill team. Two low-level hitters aren’t exactly a challenge.”

Ninja crossed his arms. “Only danger is if one of us slips in their blood and sprains an ankle.”

Luke blinked at us. “You guys are scary, you know that?”

Ninja smirked. “It’s the job.”

I pushed back from the table and stood. “Let’s move. We’ll be in position before you step out. Just follow the plan.”

Luke gave a nervous nod. I clapped his shoulder once before heading for the door with Ninja.

CHAPTER 33

The air outside was crisp, carrying the faint scent of fried food from the diner’s kitchen vent. The parking lot was half-full, mostly old trucks and beaters. Luke’s car—a battered 1998 Honda Civic, the kind you saw parked outside payday loan joints—sat near the back. Right next to it, like a vulture waiting for something to drop dead, was a white panel van. The kind of van people disappeared into.

I clocked the two guys immediately. Big boys. Heavyset, thick around the neck, the kind of muscle that specialized in breaking people, not finessing them. Heavy hitters. The type that used bulk, not skill, to put people in the hospital. It had probably worked for them every other time. But they were about to find out what happens when the guys they are dealing with know a hell of a lot more about taking men apart than they do.

The driver sat in the van, hands loose on the wheel, his attention split between the lot and his phone. But I caught the subtle tells—the way his head didn’t move much when he glanced toward the diner, how he barely shifted when we stepped out. A pro at watching without looking like he was watching.

The other guy was perched on a worn-out wooden bench, cigarette pinched between thick fingers. His eyes flicked to the entrance the second the door swung open, like a hound catching scent. He looked relaxed, but his posture was all wrong for a guy just enjoying a smoke—knees wide, feet planted, weight evenly distributed. He wasn’t sitting. He was staging.

Ninja and I split up, taking separate angles as we took a somewhat circular route to the parking lot. Ninja’s voice came through the comms. “What’s the play, Cowboy? We letting ‘em grab him first?”

I kept my hands in my pockets, angling toward the far end of the lot. “Yeah. We grab them now, we’ll have to find a place to stash them, wake them up, work them over. Too much time, too much effort. We let them take Luke, and they’ll lead us straight to their boss. This way, they do the hard part for us.”

“Works for me. You think he’ll hold his nerve?”

I watched through the diner’s glass as Luke hovered near the counter, gripping a grease-stained bag like it was a life raft. He was nervous, sure, but he wasn’t backing out.

“We can only hope. But he knows this is his shot at a clean break. He’ll grab it.”

The diner door soon swung open, and Luke stepped out. He had a large paper bag in his hands, CHOW LINE printed in bold red letters across it. He walked like his shoes were made of concrete, but he didn’t falter. His head jerked slightly toward the bench, eyes flicking to the big guy before he forced himself to look away.

The guy on the bench exhaled smoke, flicked his cigarette away, and stood. Smooth. No rush. The confidence of a predator moving in for the kill.

Luke did his part. He walked toward his Civic, food bag clutched like a lifeline, keys in his other hand. He fumbled with them just a little, made a show of trying to fit the key into the lock.

The guy moved in. Fast now.

Luke placed the food bag on the roof, just as the big man came up behind him—one hand clamping onto his collar, the other yanking the van’s sliding door open in one smooth motion. Luke barely had time to react before he was shoved inside.

The driver hit the ignition. The van rumbled to life.

By that time, Ninja and I were already inside our pickup, engine running. As the van pulled out, we eased onto the road right behind it.

Game on.

The van took a northbound road, kicking up dust as it rumbled away from Spring Lake’s downtown. Ninja and I tailed it, far enough back to avoid suspicion but close enough to keep them in sight. We had the tracker as back up. But it wasn’t hard to follow—thing handled like a brick and the driver sure as hell wasn’t in a hurry.

Through the surveillance mic, we picked up some movement in the back. Then a man’s voice, rough and to the point. “We’ve got him, Viper.”

Ninja and I exchanged a look.

We couldn’t hear the response on the other end, but the guy followed up with, “Yeah, I got it. No names on the phone.”

Then finally—“We’ll be there before you. Be there in twenty minutes.”

Ninja smirked. “Well, ain’t that convenient? We don’t even have to find Viper—he’s coming to us.”

I kept my eyes on the van. “Yeah. He’s our link to Salazar. Even if he’s just one piece of the puzzle, it’s the only piece we got.”

Ninja leaned back. “Remember what I said about how this could be a really long chain?”

“Yeah, wiseass. You repeated those pearls of wisdom twice for my benefit.”

“Well, here’s an update. If we get our hands on Viper, it might not be that long after all.”

“Well, ain’t it my lucky day.”

A moment later, Luke’s voice cut through the mic, nervous and tight. “Where are you taking me?”

His captor didn’t bother sugarcoating it. “Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”

Silence followed. Luke got the message.

Right then, my phone buzzed. Echo. I put him on speaker. “Tell me something good.”

Echo chuckled. “That depends on what you call ‘good’. Your boy Benjamin Cox? Real piece of work. Not exactly a war hero.”

I frowned. “But he’s ex-military, right?”

“Technically,” Echo said. “11B Infantry. Did one short-ass tour in Afghanistan, then got pulled for a disciplinary review after he got caught stealing gear and selling it to locals.”

I raised a brow. “Go on. Sounds like there’s more.”

“You bet,” Echo continued. “Then he got yanked back stateside and reassigned to some rear-echelon unit and tried running a side hustle scamming his own guys with fake investment deals.”

“And how’d that end?”

Echo snorted. “Badly. Battalion JAG got wind of it. His CO gave him two options—court-martial or dishonorable discharge. He took the latter.”

“Figures,” I said. “So he’s a wannabe badass with a dishonorable under his belt.”

Ninja chuckled. “Deadly killer my ass.”

Echo whistled. “Is that Ninja? They let him out of the retirement home for this one?”

Ninja grinned. “Yeah, and they said to tell you your spot’s still open, grandpa.”

Echo snorted. “Didn’t know they let cavemen use comms.”

Ninja chuckled. “Didn’t know they let nerds grow balls, but here we are.”

I rolled my eyes. “Alright, enough of the love affair. Unless you two are planning to elope, let’s get back to business.”

Echo laughed. “Right, boss. Getting back to our man Viper, after his discharge, he bounced around between shady security gigs and loan sharking. Found his niche breaking kneecaps instead of fixing engines. Went from shaking down Iraqis to shaking down his own people back home.”

Ninja sighed. “Real patriot, huh?”

“You bet. I’m sending you his last knowns. You need me, holler.”

“Thanks Echo. I’m gonna have a chat with Mr. Viper.”

About twenty minutes later, the van veered off the main road onto a dirt path. The pavement disappeared, replaced by thick gravel and dry earth. Trees lined both sides, growing denser as the van bounced along.

I killed the engine and let the truck roll toward an area concealed by thick foliage of trees and undergrowth before stopping. We got out and moved through the trees, keeping low. The dirt path opened up to a run-down cabin, the kind of place where bad things happened quietly.

Three men were already hanging around the cabin before the van drove up, two leaning against a rusted-out truck while a third sat on its hood. The van stopped next to them. The side door slid open and Luke got yanked out, barely staying on his feet. His two captors shoved him forward and marched him inside.

The door slammed shut. But instead of following him in, the two guys came back out, dragging a couple of worn-out chairs onto the front porch. They plopped down like this was just another day at the office.

I scanned the area. That place reeked of bad history.

Ninja was thinking the same thing. He murmured, “Feels like the kind of place they’d use to hide the ones they leaned too hard on.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Bet if we took a shovel to the ground out here, we’d find a few bad debts paid in full.”

Almost like the guys on the porch had read our minds, one of them let out a dry laugh.

“Man, I don’t think this guy’s gonna be walking away.” He jerked his chin toward the back of the cabin. “Probably gonna end up back there.”

Ninja and I exchanged a glance. What the hell was “back there”?

His partner answered our question. “That old well’s got loads of space.”

Ninja and I peeled off, circling through the trees, keeping our steps light. The forest floor was dry, the occasional snap of a twig underfoot blending with the rustling of leaves. We moved to the back of the cabin, staying just beyond the clearing, eyes scanning for whatever the hell these guys were talking about.

Then we saw it.

An old half-collapsed well, ringed by moss-covered stones. The wooden cover had rotted away, leaving a gaping hole, dark and deep. A graveyard disguised as a water source.

We crouched behind a fallen tree, eyes on the five men outside the cabin. The place had that perfect “dump-a-body” vibe—secluded, run-down, forgotten. Now, with the well out back, we knew it wasn’t just a vibe. It was a fact.

I muttered to Ninja, “Once the cops dig out the bodies, these guys are going away for a long time. Luke won’t have to worry about them anymore.”

Ninja exhaled. “Yeah, if he makes it out in one piece.”

He had a point. We still had to take these guys down, and Viper could show up any minute. We didn’t know if anyone else was inside the cabin with Luke. If someone was inside and spotted us, shit would go sideways real quick. On the other hand, if we started dropping these guys out front and someone came running out the door with guns blazing, we would be in a bad spot.

The only way to be sure was to peek through the back window. Problem was, it was late afternoon, and that made things tricky. We were standing in daylight, fully exposed, while the cabin’s interior sat in relative darkness. If we got too close, the difference in light levels would make us easy to spot—a moving shadow against the brightness outside. Peeking through that window was a gamble.

I turned to Ninja. “We need to move on them now. Fast and clean. Preferably without gunfire.”

He nodded. “Yeah, don’t want Viper rolling up mid-shootout. Gotta love a stealth job in broad daylight.”

I was about to move when Luke’s voice crackled in my ear.

“Captain… I hope to God you followed me. If you’re out there and can hear this…” His voice trembled. “I’m not walking out of here alive unless you do something.”

I paused, listening. Smart guy. He remembered I could hear him and, even though this was one-way communication, he was trying to be useful. That took presence of mind—especially for someone who wasn’t trained for this.

Luke let out a shaky breath, then mumbled like he was talking to himself. “God, I hope that damn device is still working. Blaze, any second now, man. Just come busting in here.”

Then, almost like he was snapping himself out of it, he muttered, “OK, don’t sound like a panicked teenager. Keep it together.” His voice steadied. “I’m alone inside. All five of them are outside. Thought you might want to know that before you make a move.” A short pause. Then, quietly, “I’m waiting. I know you’ll get me out of this.”

I signaled Ninja to hold. “Luke just checked in,” I murmured. “Said he’s alone inside. All five assholes are out front.”

Ninja huffed. “Smart guy. Lucky for him, he’s got good instincts.”

“Lucky for him, he’s got us,” I muttered back.

That changed things. No unknowns inside. No one to worry about jumping us from behind once we moved in. We were ready to take out the five men.

I shifted slightly, keeping my voice low. “Alright, we go in fast, take them out before they know what’s happening. Then we get Luke out.”

Ninja cracked his knuckles. “Sounds good. What’s our opening move?”

“You take the two on the porch. I’ll handle the three by the truck.”

He gave me a slow nod. “Alright. Try to save some for me.”

We were locked in. It was time to throw a few punches.

CHAPTER 34

We split up, flanking the cabin from either side, moving in sync like we had rehearsed this a hundred times—which, in a way, we had. The late-afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting long streaks across the clearing. The five morons had no clue what was coming.

I hit the truck crew hard and fast. The first guy barely had time to blink before I struck him in the side of the neck with the arc between my thumb and index finger. It was the kind of hit that sent the brain into reboot mode—lights out, system down. His knees buckled, and I grabbed his collar, using his own momentum to slam his head against the truck’s open tailgate. He went limp in my grip before sliding to the dirt.

I was already moving.

The second guy stood frozen, wide-eyed, his hands up, like that would somehow stop me. Bad call. I kicked hard below his kneecap, felt the crunch of ligaments giving way, and caught his right hand before he could pull back. A sharp jerk broke two fingers with a wet pop. His scream barely had time to escape before I yanked him forward by the collar and drove his skull into the rusted truck bed. His body sagged, crumpling like a folding chair.

The third guy had better reflexes. He jumped off the hood, hand darting toward the back of his pants. Too slow.

I planted a hand on the truck’s hood, using it to propel myself forward, and drove my knee straight into his chin. His feet left the ground, head snapping back from the impact. He was unconscious before gravity yanked him back to earth.

I glanced toward the porch just as Ninja stepped over the two bodies sprawled across the wooden planks.

Ten seconds. Five men down.

Ninja grinned. “That’s what I call stress relief.”

I shook my head. “Pretty sure most people just hit the gym.”

He smirked. “CQB, baby. Best damn part of the job.”

I crouched and checked the guy I had dropped last. “Anyone still conscious on your end?”

Ninja scratched his head. “Breathing? Yeah. Conscious? That’s a no.”

I sighed. “We might need one awake in case Viper calls.”

Ninja groaned. “Oh, now he tells me I was supposed to use a soft touch.”

“We’ll wake one up. First, let’s hide these guys before Viper rolls in.”

We grabbed the three by the truck and dumped them in the back. A ripped-up tarp sat there, collecting dust and god-knows-what-else. We tossed it over them—not perfect, but unless Viper climbed in, he wouldn’t notice.

Then we moved to the porch. I grabbed one guy, Ninja took the other, and we hauled them inside. Luke sat wide-eyed in a chair, tied up, looking like he had just seen ghosts.

Ninja grinned. “How you holding up, tough guy? Told you we’d come busting in.”

Luke just sat there, blinking at us like he had just been dropped into an alien planet. Couldn’t blame him. Watching two guys haul unconscious bodies into the room like bags of dirty laundry wasn’t something you saw every day.

I snapped my fingers near his face. “Earth to Luke. You with us?”

He jerked slightly, eyes focusing. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”

I crouched down and started untying the knots on his wrists. “You did good, giving us the all-clear on the cabin.”

That seemed to shake off the last of his daze. “I figured you’d be listening in,” he said, rubbing his wrists. “Hoped it’d give you an idea on how to take them out.”

I clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Sure as hell did.”

Meanwhile, Ninja was already moving, patting down the unconscious guys with the efficiency of a man who had done this a thousand times. He pulled two pistols from their waistbands, dropping them on the table with dull thuds. A quick check of their pockets produced two burner phones.

“Well, look at that,” he said, mock surprise in his voice. “More toys for the box.”

I picked up one of the burners. Cheap plastic, probably bought with cash at a gas station. “Looks like Viper got smart. Switched to burners after he found out the cops got their hands on Luke.”

“Yeah,” Ninja muttered. “Dumbass is learning.” He grabbed a half-empty water bottle from the counter, crouched beside one of the knocked-out goons, and unceremoniously dumped it over his face.

The man jolted awake with a sharp inhale, coughing and sputtering, blinking against the light. His eyes darted around, brain catching up to the situation. He saw me. Then Ninja. Then Luke. Then the guns on the table. His mouth opened, probably to spit some choice words. He got a gun barrel shoved in his mouth instead.

Ninja gave him a friendly grin. “Good morning, sunshine. Here’s the deal. Three of your buddies are outside, stacked up in the back of the rusted-out truck like frozen meat.” He gestured vaguely toward the door. “You wanna join ’em, or you wanna be a good boy?”

The guy’s breathing hitched. His eyes darted toward me, searching for help. He didn’t find any.

Ninja raised an eyebrow. “No? Maybe?” He wiggled the gun. “I need an answer.”

The guy nodded—quick, jerky.

“There we go.” Ninja pulled the gun out. “See? We’re all getting along.”

I held up his phone. “Passcode.”

The guy hesitated. Then he glanced at Ninja, who was already tilting his head like he was considering putting the barrel back in his mouth.

“OK, OK,” the guy rasped. “Three-four-six-nine.”

I typed it in. Unlocked. I scrolled through his contacts and found the number labeled Viper. Pressing my comms, I called it in. “Echo, I got a number for you. Need a location.”

Echo responded immediately. “On it. Give me a few.”

I set the phone down and glanced at Ninja. “Time to take positions.”

Ninja nodded and stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles. “Echo send you a mug shot?”

“Yeah. Big guy, moves in army camos,” I replied, showing him the photo on my phone.

Ninja scoffed. “Oh yeah. Gotta establish those ex-military street creds. Bet he thinks it’s real intimidating. Probably flexes in the mirror before bed.”

“There’s more. Dude’s got a tattoo of a viper on his right forearm. The word ‘Viper’ is inked on his left in some fancy font.”

Ninja scoffed. “A tattoo and camo pants? Damn, guy’s practically screaming ‘I swear I was Special Forces’.”

I turned to Luke. “Anything else you can tell me about him?”

Luke’s expression darkened. “Yeah. He’s a sadistic bastard. Likes hurting people just for the hell of it.” He swallowed. “And he usually rolls around in a Humvee.”

I snorted. “Figures. Nothing says ‘tough guy wannabe’ like rolling around in a surplus Humvee.”

Before Luke could respond, the guy Ninja had just woken up very unceremoniously, suddenly spoke up.

“Viper ditched the Humvee.”

That got my attention. I turned to him, studying his face. He wasn’t posturing or trying to be a tough guy anymore. There was something else in his eyes now—something closer to fear.

I leaned in slightly. “That so?”

The guy nodded. “Yeah. He’s been running scared ever since the cops and Feds picked up him—” he jerked his chin toward Luke, “—and started raiding his joints.”

I shot a glance at Ninja, who raised an eyebrow. This was getting better by the second.

I looked back at the guy. “You expect me to believe this is the first time the cops have knocked on Viper’s door?”

The guy gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Oh, they’ve come knocking before. But this time’s different.” He shifted uncomfortably. “We’re stuck in some real bad shit we never signed up for.” His gaze flicked between me and Ninja. “You guys know that, don’t you? You don’t need me to tell you.”

I crossed my arms. “Who do you think we are?”

He snorted. “C’mon, man. You’re undercover Feds. Or some kinda SWAT team. The way you took us out, the way you’re talking to your guy on the phone… Either way, you ain’t cartel, and you sure as hell ain’t with us.” He exhaled sharply. “Look, man, all that terrorism shit? That’s Viper. Me and my partner, we’re just muscle for hire. Freelancers. We never signed up for any of that jihadi bullshit.”

I tilted my head. “Oh yeah? And what exactly did you sign up for?”

He sighed. “We’re criminals, yeah. Ain’t denying that. We’ve done some bad shit. But we still got a code. And that code sure as hell don’t include working with ISIS, Al Qaeda, or whatever psycho bastards planted that bomb in this guy’s bag.” He nodded at Luke. “That was never part of the deal.”

I exchanged a glance with Ninja. We had just gotten lucky. This was turning into a real goldmine. I hadn’t expected much out of this guy—hell, I had figured he would just keep his mouth shut or feed us bullshit. Instead, he was spilling intel that actually mattered.

I pulled up a chair and sat down across from him. “What’s your name?”

“Riley.”

“Well, Riley,” I said, resting my forearms on my knees, “you really thought getting in bed with cartels would just mean moving some coke and whacking guys?”

He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “I know what I am. I ain’t no saint, but I ain’t no cold-blooded killer-for-hire either.” His lip curled. “Breaking bones? That’s my thing. Dropping bodies for a cause that ain’t mine? That’s something else.”

I tilted my head. “Yeah? So what about all the bodies buried out back in the well?”

Riley’s eyes twitched slightly, just enough for me to know he hadn’t expected that. “That happened before I got here.” He swallowed. “Far as I know, there’s only a couple bodies back there.”

That confirmed it. There really were bodies buried back there.

I kept my face blank, giving him a long, hard stare. Then I nodded toward Luke. “And you really expect me to believe you grabbed him and brought him here for a friendly chat?”

Riley opened his mouth, hesitated. His fingers curled into fists behind his back. “Look, man, we were all running scared. Viper told us that if we didn’t get this guy, we were all going to the slammer on terrorism charges.” His voice dropped slightly. “And that’s something we really don’t wanna do.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who minds doing time.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “Been in and out a few times. Ain’t nothing new to me.” His eyes darkened. “But terrorism? That’s bad shit. That’s the kinda charge where you never see the outside again. Gets you buried so deep in a federal hole they forget you exist.”

I leaned back, weighing my next move. “Only way you’re dodging that charge is by giving us something better—like a way to get to the cartel and the guys who planned that diner bombing.”

Riley shook his head. “Viper knows some cartel guys. Gets his supply from them. But the bombing? Nah. I don’t think even he knows who those guys were.”

Ninja folded his arms, expression unreadable. “So he’s got no idea who actually pulled it?”

“Didn’t even know we were tied up in it until last night,” Riley admitted. “That’s when he told us to lay low, ditch all our phones, and go full ghost. That’s why he wanted this guy—” he nodded toward Luke again, “—gone. If he disappeared, our link to that mess disappeared with him.”

My comms clicked. Echo’s voice came through, sharp and to the point.

“Got a hit on Viper’s phone. He’s moving toward you. Couple miles out.”

I signaled to Ninja. Time to move.

Ninja grabbed a pair of flexicuffs and pulled Riley’s arms behind his back, securing them tight. Then he drove his gun into Riley’s temple. The man slumped forward, out cold. Ninja caught him before he hit the floor, slung him over his shoulder, and dumped him inside the kitchen like he was a sack of potatoes.

I glanced around the cabin. It wasn’t much—just one big central hall with a kitchen on one side and a storage room on the other. Bare-bones furniture. Old wooden floors. Faint smell of damp and dust mixed with stale cigarette smoke. The late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the cracked blinds, cutting across dust motes in the air.

Ninja dusted off his hands. “That’ll keep him out of the way.”

I moved to the window, scanning the dirt road leading up to the cabin. The trees cast long shadows, stretching across the ground as the sun dipped lower.

Ninja checked his gun. “I’ll take the trees.”

I nodded. “Go.”

He slipped out the back door without a sound, disappearing into the shadows beyond the tree line.

I turned to Luke. “Stay down. Keep quiet.”

He gave a quick, nervous nod.

I checked my weapon, chambered a round, and took position by the window, keeping my eyes on the dirt road.

Viper was coming. And we were ready.

CHAPTER 35

I turned to Luke and jerked my chin toward the far corner. “Grab that chair, drag it over to that corner, and have a seat.”

Luke glanced at me, not really sure what I had in mind, but did as told. He moved the chair, pulling it into position, and sat down. I gave him a quick once-over. From the doorway, at a quick glance, it would look like he had been tied up the whole time.

“Perfect. Now you look like you’ve been a hostage all along. Try to look a little miserable, just in case.”

Luke rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. The low growl of an engine outside made me shift my focus. I moved to the window, just enough to get a peek.

A battered Chevy Silverado—an old, mid-2000s model—rolled up and stopped beside the van. The kind of truck that blended in anywhere, especially in backwoods country. Not too fancy, not too suspicious. A perfect ride for a guy trying to stay off law enforcement’s radar.

Two men climbed out. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who they were.

The first guy out of the passenger seat stood just over six feet, solid build, with a thick beard and a camo outfit tucked into combat boots like he was fresh off a recruiting poster. Except the way he wore it screamed “wannabe operator” more than actual military. Try-hard GI Joe bullshit. I didn’t need an introduction to know this was Viper.

The second guy was taller by a couple of inches, but where Viper had a solid build, this one was just big. At least 270 pounds. Some of it was muscle, some of it wasn’t, but with that much mass, he could probably plow through a bar fight like a human wrecking ball. Until he ran into someone who actually knew how to handle himself.

That wouldn’t be happening today. I didn’t have time for that kind of fun.

Both were packing heat, but they walked with the easy confidence of men who thought they owned the place. No situational awareness. No hands near their weapons. No checking corners. Just dumbass bravado.

That made things simple.

I stepped back from the window and flattened myself against the wall beside the door. Ninja had already ghosted outside. I didn’t see him, but I knew exactly where he would be—circling wide, getting into position.

The steps creaked under their boots as they came up the porch. The door swung open. Viper stepped in first, his eyes locking onto Luke. His focus narrowed, tunnel vision kicking in.

Rookie mistake.

Outside, Tank started to follow him in. Then came the telltale thwack of a hard strike connecting with a skull. Tank let out a grunt—half surprise, half pain—before stumbling a little. Stunned, but not knocked out. Not yet.

Viper’s head jerked toward the sound, but he was already too late. He was still turning when I swept his legs out from under him. He hit the floor hard, landing flat on his back with a thud that rattled the floorboards.

Even then, he had just enough presence of mind to reach for his gun. His hand dove toward his shoulder holster. I stomped on his wrist before he could clear his jacket, pinning his hand against his chest.

“Don’t,” I warned, my gun leveled between his eyes.

Behind me, another thwack echoed through the cabin. The floor trembled slightly as Tank’s oversized bulk hit the ground like a dropped sandbag.

I glanced over my shoulder. Ninja stood over the guy. I called out, “You’re losing your touch. Used to be one hit, one down.”

Ninja exhaled sharply. “Guy’s got the thickest skull I’ve ever hit.”

I turned my attention back to Viper. He was glaring up at me, breathing heavily but holding still. I took my foot off his wrist but kept my gun on him.

“Turn over. Face down. Hands behind your back,” I snapped.

Viper let out a slow breath, like he was calculating his odds. Then, he bared his teeth in something between a smirk and a sneer. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

I leaned in slightly. “You should be more worried about whether or not I break your arm before I cuff you.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Like he was about to argue—until a look of recognition crossed his face. He studied me, really studied me. Like he was connecting dots in real-time. Then, without another word, he rolled over and put his hands behind his back.

Smart decision.

I pulled flexicuffs from my belt and locked his wrists together, cinching the plastic tight enough that he would lose circulation if he moved too much. He grunted but didn’t mouth off. Then I grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up into a sitting position, pushed him back against the wall, and took a step back.

Footsteps sounded behind me. Ninja strolled in, carrying a black duffel bag over one shoulder. He stopped a few steps in, gave Viper a long, exaggerated once-over, and smirked.

“Well, well, well. If it ain’t the legend himself—Viper, the man, the ex-military badass turned… what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh yeah. Loan sharking dirtbag.”

Viper sneered but didn’t bite.

I glanced at the duffel. “What’s in the bag?”

Ninja dropped it on the table with a thud and unzipped it. “Let’s see… a laptop, couple of SIM cards, three burners. Nothing crazy, just the usual ‘I’m up to no good’ starter pack.”

Viper didn’t respond immediately. He took a few seconds, looking at us in turn. I again got the feeling that there was something like recognition in his eyes. When he finally spoke, his words caught us by surprise.

“I know who you are.”

I didn’t react, just stared him down.

He tilted his head slightly. “You’re Captain Axel Blaze.”

That made me pause. Behind me, I felt Ninja pause for a fraction of a second too. Not many people outside my circle knew my name. Delta guys didn’t exactly sign autographs. We operated in the shadows and stayed there.

But then I remembered. The bombing downtown.

I had tried my best to stay out of the spotlight. As soon as the scene was secure and the bomb squad took over, I disappeared. Even the official press release from Fort Bragg had been vague, just stating that ‘intervention by a soldier prevented further catastrophe by identifying and defusing the explosive devices’. They kept Delta’s name out of it, as usual.

But as it turned out, I wasn’t an actual ghost. Some press photos had caught my face in the aftermath. Blurry shots, grainy video stills, but clear enough for someone determined to ID me. The real question was, how the hell did Viper get my name?

Then it clicked. A guy like Viper—wheeler, dealer, scumbag for hire—had military contacts. Maybe ex-military, maybe guys who owed him favors. And with how big the bombing incident had been, the name of the soldier involved wouldn’t have been too hard to dig up.

I exhaled sharply. “Huh. Guess I should’ve smiled for the camera.”

Viper leaned his head back against the wall, looking way too pleased with himself. “I also know your buddy with the smart mouth is military too. I’m thinking Special Forces.” His smirk widened. “Both soldiers, just like I used to be.”

I stared at him for a long beat, then shook my head. “That’s where you’re wrong. You get kicked out with a dishonorable, you don’t get to call yourself a soldier anymore.”

Viper’s smirk faltered. His jaw tightened, and I saw it land—like a gut punch he hadn’t been bracing for. His lips parted, then pressed together again. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “Not everything is black and white.”

I shrugged. “That’s what guys say when they don’t like the way the truth sounds.” I let the words hang there, then tapped his knee. “But enough about your personal failures. Let’s talk about the shit you’re actually in right now.”

Viper’s ego took the first hit, but that was just an opening salvo. Viper needed to understand that the only thing between him and a bullet was how useful he made himself. Time to drive that lesson home.

CHAPTER 36

Viper gave me a wary look, but I saw the shift in his posture—he was listening.

“You’re a smart guy,” I said. “Smart enough to know your little loan sharking operation is done. Grabbing Luke, trying to take him out? That was desperation. A last-ditch attempt to cover your ass. You wanted to make it out of this without a terrorism charge.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—surprise, quickly smothered. His face barely moved, but the way his jaw tightened told me that what Riley had just told us was true.

Viper rolled his shoulders, trying to act like he wasn’t rattled. “Nice theory.”

I shook my head. “Not a theory. Fact. The cops are on their way, and the feds won’t be far behind. FBI, Homeland—they’re all gonna want a piece of you. And once they get you, you’re going into a hole so deep you’ll forget what the sun looks like.”

I let a beat pass, watching him. He was good, but not good enough. His silence told me everything.

I leaned in, voice flat. “Let me tell you another fact. You and I both know how this was supposed to play out. Luke was never gonna walk away. The plan was for him to blow up downtown, be the fall guy. Cops would’ve spent months chasing their tails, trying to figure out why some random guy blew himself up, while the real guys carried out more attacks. No heat on them. No heat on you.”

I let that sink in. Then I dropped the hammer.

“But the second that plot got foiled? Everything changed. Now it’s about tying up loose ends.” I tilted my head. “Luke was one. And you?” I let that hang. “You’re next.”

I saw the slightest shift in Viper’s breathing, the way his shoulders locked up for half a second before he forced himself to relax again.

I leaned in a little. “With you out of the way, the cartel’s hands are clean. No one left to tie them to all this shit. No evidence, no witnesses. No loose ends.” I let the words settle. “And you know that. That’s why you’re running scared.”

Viper’s throat worked as he swallowed. His gaze flickered to the duffel bag on the table, to Ninja, then back to me. He was calculating, thinking through every possible escape route, but he wasn’t finding one.

“You’re stuck in a bad place. Not just worried about the Feds, are you?” I let my voice drop just a notch. “You know that if they don’t get to you first, the cartel will. Death or a dark hole—those are your two options.”

That got him. A tiny flicker in his eyes. The kind of moment where a guy realizes just how screwed he really is.

I sat back, resting my forearms on my knees. “I can give you a third option. A way you stay breathing, do prison time, but avoid getting slapped with a terrorism rap. You help me get Salazar.”

I gave him a look that left no room for misinterpretation. “And before your brain starts working overtime thinking you can cut a deal, let’s be clear that you only get this option if you start talking immediately.” I gestured toward the duffel bag. “We both know there’s enough intel on those phones and laptop to put me on their track. And if you figured out who I am, then you know the kind of tech wizards I have on my side. You think it’ll take them long to crack your shit?”

I crouched slightly so I was eye level with him. “It’ll take them an hour. Tops.”

For the first time, real doubt crossed his face. And that told me everything I needed to know. His laptop and phone had what I needed.

I let him stew for a moment. Then I gave him the final push. “I’m only giving you this chance because every minute wasted here means more people could die. More bombs. More innocent Americans in body bags.” I watched his face. “You’re smart enough to know I’m not bullshitting you.”

Viper licked his lips, glancing at the bag again, then back at me. I pressed forward. “You got a decision to make. And you gotta make it now. The second I walk out of this room, your chance is gone. You’ll be just another footnote in a federal indictment.”

Viper exhaled slowly. “If I tell you what you wanna know… You let me walk?”

I chuckled. “You’re smart enough to know that’s not happening. Your name’s already in the system. The Feds and Homeland Security are watching you. You’re going to prison.”

Viper swallowed. “Then what’s my play here? Surely you’re not expecting me to do it for the glory of Uncle Sam.”

I crossed my arms. “Oh no, I’ve got no illusions about that. But tell you what, if you somehow manage not to get killed by the cartel, you only have two choices—do time and have the possibility of getting out someday, or spend the rest of your life rotting in a hole with ‘terrorist’ stamped on your record.”

Viper’s expression shifted. A little more tension in his shoulders. “The cartel will get me in prison if I snitch.”

I could see he was convinced. He knew he was screwed. Now he was just trying to cover his bases.

“Cartel won’t know you talked.” I stared him down. “You think we’ll just let it slide—those terrorists trying to wipe out a platoon of 82nd Airborne right under the nose of Bragg? When we go after Salazar, it won’t be to chat. We go to finish it. By the time we’re done with them, there won’t be anyone left to care.”

Viper sat there a few seconds, eyes darting back and forth like he was working through every possible angle. Finally, he spoke. “How do I know the Feds will listen to you?”

“You don’t.” I nodded toward Luke, still sitting in the chair. “But that kid who carried the bomb isn’t in a dungeon, is he?”

Viper glanced at Luke.

I continued. “I told the cops he was a patsy. That he got played. Same as you.”

I let that sink in. Then I delivered the knockout punch. “You thought you were running the show. But when you sent Luke to carry that bag, you had no clue what you were stepping into. I know Salazar’s cartel played you.”

That hit home. I saw it in his face.

Viper’s nostrils flared. “I’m no damn terrorist.” His voice was tight. “Yeah, I did some shit in the Army. But I fought for Uncle Sam. I just wanted more than a government paycheck.” His lip curled. “That don’t mean I’d work with ISIS. Or Al Qaeda. Or whatever piece of shit planted that bomb.”

I let that sit for a second. Then I asked, “Who do you get your product from?”

Viper exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples like he had the worst headache of his life. He knew I had him boxed in, and I could almost hear the gears grinding in his head as he weighed his non-existent options.

“Alright,” he finally muttered, his voice tight. “You wanna know where I get my product?” He shook his head. “I don’t.”

I frowned. “The hell does that mean?”

“I don’t deal in drugs,” he said. “Never have. I stick to my loans, ‘cause that’s what I know. Drugs are messy. Too many variables. Too many bodies.”

Ninja snorted. “Yeah, wouldn’t wanna get your hands dirty.”

“All I do is, my clients, the ones who can’t pay, I offer them a way out.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. They work off their debt?”

Viper nodded. “They move product for the cartel. They work as mules, moving shit across state lines.”

Ninja gave a low whistle. “Man, I take it all back. You’re a real humanitarian.”

Viper’s lip curled, but he let the comment slide.

I leaned forward. “So why don’t you move product? And don’t tell me it’s your deep-seated moral principles keeping you out of the drug game.”

He actually smirked at that. “Moral principles, huh? That’s cute. No, it’s about survival. You ever seen how that business works? I have. It’s a damn death sentence. You don’t just push weight and make money—you make enemies. You find every lowlife trying to carve out a piece. It’s bloody. It’s chaotic. I’ve seen too many guys end up in dumpsters ‘cause they pissed off the wrong people.”

“So you stick to breaking kneecaps?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Loan business is simple. You owe me money, you either pay or you take what’s coming. I don’t have to worry about turf wars or some trigger-happy punk trying to take over my corner. Drugs? That’s just chaos.”

Ninja gave an exaggerated nod. “A real man of peace, this guy.”

Viper smirked. “Call it what you want. I’m just telling it like it is.”

“Alright, let’s talk names,” I said. “Who’s Salazar’s guy that you deal with?”

Viper rubbed his jaw. “I mostly work with Smokey. He’s been my main contact. But he’s not who you’re looking for.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Then who is?”

Viper shifted, cracking his knuckles as if debating whether he really wanted to keep talking. But he had already crossed that line.

“Everything went to shit when a guy named Carlos showed up from Mexico a couple months ago,” he said. “And he didn’t come alone. He brought a crew with him—mean-looking bastards, walking around like they own the place. Not the type who came here to pick fruit, if you catch my drift.”

Ninja smirked. “Shocker. So what’s Carlos’s deal?”

Viper sighed. “He changed the game. Started pushing way more product, doing it out in the open, not giving a damn who saw. Smokey started getting pressure to move more product. A few of his guys disappeared. And then…” He trailed off, meeting my eyes. “Then downtown happened. The C-4.”

I held his stare. “You didn’t know what was in the bag?”

“No, man,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought we were moving coke. That’s all it was supposed to be—a routine deal. Then, boom.” He snapped his fingers. “Turned out we were hauling a damn bomb.”

I didn’t react. Just let him talk.

“Even Smokey didn’t know about it,” he went on. “Man, we were all spooked. After that, Smokey got real nervous, told me to watch my ass. He said Carlos was moving different, and he wasn’t just talking about drugs anymore. He told me it was gonna get worse.”

Ninja tilted his head. “Define worse.”

Viper rubbed his jaw. “Smokey’s seen more of that shit. C-4. Sitting in Carlos’s warehouse like it’s another product on the shelf.”

I narrowed my eyes. “How much more?”

Viper hesitated, then shrugged. “More than what was in that bag. A lot more.”

That set off alarms. Cartels dealt in drugs, guns, bodies. Not military-grade explosives. Not unless they were planning something big.

I leaned in. “Where’s Smokey?”

Viper shifted. “Laying low. He thinks Carlos is clearing house.”

I let that settle before asking, “What’s his deal?”

Viper sighed. “We go way back. I know you’ll sneer at it, but Smokey was Army. Long time ago. Same as me.” He gave a dry laugh. “We had that in common. That and being local boys. Had a good thing going until the fuckin’ cartel rolled in.”

I didn’t sneer. Just waited.

“For a while now, Smokey’s been nervous about the Mexicans. Jumpy as hell. Said the cartel’s been leaning on him, making him take bigger risks, setting him up for something he didn’t wanna be a part of. And he figured sooner or later, they’d decide he couldn’t handle the game anymore.” Viper exhaled. “And we both know what that means.”

“Means he’ll be a loose end,” I said.

Viper nodded. “Same as Luke. Same as me.” He looked up. “Smokey figures his number’s up too.”

Viper’s voice was matter-of-fact, but I saw the tension in his shoulders. He knew the score. And he wasn’t wrong. Carlos’s crew was tying up loose ends, and Smokey was next in line. Only question was if I could get to him before the cartel did.

“Tell me about Carlos,” I said. “And anything that gets me to Salazar.”

Viper gave a dry chuckle. “Salazar? Man, I ain’t never had access to him. I doubt he’s even been here. Carlos? Yeah. But Salazar? He’s a goddamn ghost.”

I wasn’t surprised. Salazar didn’t get his hands dirty. That’s what guys like Carlos were for.

“What’ve you got on Smokey?”

Viper licked his lips. “His number. But I dumped mine last night. Same as him.”

Ninja glanced at me. “Well, that’s convenient.”

Viper scowled. “Look, we got spooked. Figured Luke might’ve talked, so we went dark. Switched to burners.”

“You don’t have the new number?”

Viper shook his head. “Nah. But I know where he’ll be—same place he always goes when he needs to disappear.”

I raised a brow.

“Smokey owns a dive bar. When he needs to lay low, that’s where he goes.” Viper smirked. “And he’s got his guys there. Feels safe.”

I let that process. Smokey might feel safe, but that just meant he would see me coming.

“What’s Smokey look like? You got a picture?”

Viper scoffed, shaking his head. “Oh yeah, man. We took a selfie last time we had brunch. Really captured the bromance.”

I stared, not looking too amused. Viper sighed. “No, man, I ain’t got a damn picture. But he’s a good-looking bastard. Got a thick-ass ‘stache— real cowboy shit, Sam Elliott level. And a scar, right across his cheek. Trust me, you’ll know him when you see him.”

“What’s Smokey’s real name?”

“Caleb Griffin.”

Ninja chuckled. “No shit? And yours is Benjamin Cox, right?”

Viper’s smirk faded slightly. “Yeah… why?”

Ninja shook his head in mock amazement. “Man, those sound like two fellas who’d be running a Sunday school, not a cartel pipeline. Life’s full of surprises.”

I had to suppress a chuckle. But we had gotten all we could out of Viper. It was time to get Smokey.

“Hold tight,” I told Viper. “Cops will be here soon.”

Viper gave a dry laugh, trying to break his cuffs. “Yeah? And here I was thinking about making a run for it.”

I smirked. “Look, as much as you hate the idea, a lockup is the safest place for you right now. Carlos’s guys could decide to clean up at any time, and you’re top of that list.”

Viper sobered at that. He knew it was true.

I stood. “I’m going after Smokey. You better pray I get to him and get a lead on Salazar. ‘Cause if I don’t? Salazar gets to you. And a lot of people are gonna die.”

Viper swallowed hard. I turned and walked out. Ninja followed, hands in his pockets.

“Think Smokey’s still breathing?” he asked.

I exhaled. “Not for long.”

One way or another, I was going to find Smokey. If he was still breathing, he had answers. If he wasn’t, I would make damn sure his ghost pointed me in the right direction.

CHAPTER 37

Luke stood outside the cabin, shifting from foot to foot, looking unsure as hell. He was free, but he hadn’t figured out what the hell to do next. He had that look—like a guy who just dodged an execution but wasn’t sure if the gunman had changed his mind.

I walked up to him. “You’re good for now,” I said. “Cops are coming for Viper. Once he’s locked up, nobody’s gonna be looking to clean you up as a loose end.”

Luke’s exhale came sharp, almost shaky. He looked like he had been holding his breath since the moment he got grabbed. His whole body sagged with relief. “Jesus, man… I—” He ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “I thought I was dead back there.”

“You almost were.” I clapped his shoulder. “Word of advice? Skip town. Lay low for a couple of days till this blows over.”

Luke nodded fast. “Yeah. Yeah, good idea.” And then, before I saw it coming, he lurched forward and wrapped his arms around me in a tight, grateful hug.

Well, shit.

I patted his back once—quick, efficient, enough to get the point across but not enough to encourage further emotional outbursts. He got the hint and stepped back, grinning sheepishly.

Then he turned to Ninja. “Man, you too, thanks—”

Ninja lifted a hand before Luke could get any ideas. “Whoa, I’m good, dude.” He took a step back. “No hugs, no emotional moments. Just take this lesson and apply it to your life: stay the hell away from stupid shit.”

Luke laughed awkwardly and dropped his arms. “Yeah, yeah. Lesson learned, trust me.”

I jerked my head toward the truck. “Come on. We’ll drop you near your car. After that, you need to skip town and keep your head down. Let the dust settle.”

Luke didn’t need to be told twice. He climbed in, squeezing between me and Ninja. The truck rumbled to life as Ninja threw it into gear and pulled onto the dirt road.

As Ninja drove, I called Spring Lake’s police chief, Harris.

I kept the conversation simple. Told him how Viper’s guys had grabbed Luke because he was a loose end. How I had followed the car, found their hideout, and cleaned house. Viper and six of his men were cuffed and waiting to be picked up. Then I mentioned the well next to the cabin—told him he might want to send some guys with shovels.

I told him I would come by later to give a formal statement, then hung up before he could ask too many questions. The only reason he was giving me a lot of rope was because I had saved his ass when I stopped that bombing plot right under his nose.

Ninja glanced at me as he pulled onto the main road. “You think Harris is actually gonna dig up that well?”

“He’s got bodies to process first.”

Ninja tapped the wheel. “Kinda curious what’s down there.”

A few minutes later, we pulled up near Luke’s car. He jumped out, looking a hell of a lot lighter than he had back at the cabin.

“Seriously, Captain. Thank you,” he said.

I just nodded. “Stay out of trouble.”

Ninja gave him a lazy salute. “And don’t get yourself duct-taped to a chair again.”

Luke gave us a mock salute and jogged off.

Ninja pulled back onto the road, heading toward the outskirts of town. The buildings got fewer, replaced by open fields and thick tree lines. Long shadows stretched across the highway in the late afternoon light, the golden hue making everything look almost peaceful.

I was just settling in when my phone buzzed. Echo. He didn’t waste time. “Got two things for you.”

“Go on,” I said.

“First, I’ve been tracking Velasco’s phone. Salazar just called him a few minutes ago. Said something big was going down tonight. Once that was done, Velasco needed to be ready to move another major shipment.”

I frowned. “Where’d the call come from?”

“Busy commercial area in San Diego—think marketplace, lots of foot traffic. Probably why he picked it. Too many people, too much movement. Harder to track. But the second the call ended, the burner was trashed.”

Smart. But it also meant Salazar was in San Diego.

“The second thing,” Echo continued. “Judge handling Rico’s case—Henry Whitaker—died a couple hours ago.”

That made me sit up. “How?”

“Truck plowed into his car.” Echo paused. “Happened fast. Looked like an accident, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Jesus.” Judge Whitaker was a hard-ass when it came to drugs. Zero tolerance. No bribes. No deals. I doubted if his death had been an accident.

I stared at the road ahead, processing. If Salazar was taking out a judge, that meant he was still playing the long game. Still making moves.

“Appreciate the heads-up,” I said.

“Yeah. Figured you’d want to know. Watch your back, Cowboy,” he said before he hung up.

Ninja shot me a look. “That sounded like some real bad news.”

“Yeah. Salazar’s still making moves. Told Velasco something big’s going down tonight, and now judge handling Rico’s case is dead. Truck hit his car.”

Ninja let out a low whistle. “Man plays for keeps.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. “Well, shit. Stakes just went sky high. No time for pussyfooting around. The second we walk into Smokey’s, we grab him and get him talking.”

“Straight to the point, huh?”

“Yeah. Salazar’s already tying up loose ends. If we don’t get to Smokey fast, he might end up under a truck like the judge.”

We drove in silence, leaving Spring Lake behind. The highway stretched out, empty except for the occasional rusted-out mailbox or overgrown driveway leading to abandoned properties. The late afternoon sun bathed everything in gold, but the trees lining the road cast long, dark shadows.

Eventually, we turned onto a narrower road that cut through dense forest. The pavement gave way to dirt and gravel. The trees thickened, branches arching overhead like a tunnel. It was the kind of place where no one heard gunshots, and no one came looking if you went missing.

Then, through the trees, we saw it. The Smoke House wasn’t just some rickety backwater dive—it was a fortress. The main structure was a squat, rectangular building with reinforced metal siding, its paint peeling in places to reveal raw steel underneath. The roof was covered with a mix of tar paper and sheet metal, giving it a patched-together, bunker-like appearance.

The lot was half-full, mostly trucks and a couple of cars. A few motorcycles were lined up near the side, their chrome gleaming in the dying sunlight.

Two armed men stood near the entrance, both alert, their eyes tracking us before we even pulled into the lot. One of them—a wiry guy with a buzz cut and dark sunglasses—lifted a radio to his mouth as soon as he saw us.

Above the door, a small security camera swiveled, tracking us as we climbed out of the truck. The red light on it blinked like a warning.

We parked in the open, making sure not to look like we were sneaking in. Ninja killed the engine.

“So the play is we go in, grab Smokey, and get him talking, right? No sitting around for a beer and a show?” he asked all seriously.

“Yup. Clock’s ticking. If we can do it friendly-like, great. Or else, we’ll send a different message.”

Then we stepped out and headed toward the entrance. Whatever was inside, it didn’t look like it was going to be friendly.

CHAPTER 38

As we approached, boots crunching against the gravel lot, the two gunmen sized us up. They weren’t sure if we were trouble, but they were leaning toward ‘yes’. One stepped forward, planting himself square in our path.

“Why’re you here?” he asked.

I gave him a straight look. “Two guys walking into a bar. Why do you think we’re here?”

The guy didn’t find it funny. His mouth twitched like he was debating whether to let us through or send us back. “Go on in,” he said finally. “But take care inside. Act like a smartass in there, and you’ll get thrown out.”

Ninja grinned. “Damn, man. Say it like that, and we might get scared and run off before we drop all our cash on the top-shelf stuff y’all serve.”

The guy gave him a blank stare.

“Yeah, I bet you’re real fun at parties,” Ninja muttered as we stepped inside.

The place was exactly what I expected—dim, loud, and reeking of bad choices. The air hung thick with cigarette smoke and weed, mixing with the scent of stale beer and cheap perfume. The lighting was low, partly to hide the stains on the walls, partly to make sure no one had to see anyone else too clearly.

A long wooden bar ran the length of the left wall, scuffed and chipped from years of bad tempers. The bartender worked quickly, pouring drinks for a row of regulars who looked like they hadn’t seen daylight in years. The far corner had a small stage, where two girls in cheap heels worked a pole like they were half-asleep. A few waitresses navigated between the tables, dropping drinks and dodging wandering hands.

Loud rock blasted from the speakers—something old-school, heavy on the guitar, the kind of song that made you want to fight or drink until you forgot why you wanted to fight in the first place.

Ninja leaned toward me. “Nothing says fine dining like the faint aroma of stale smoke and bad cologne.”

I smirked. “Yeah. Classy joint.”

We walked to the bar. The bartender was a thick-necked guy with a greasy ponytail, pouring whiskey for some guy whose forehead was stuck to the counter.

I rested an elbow on the bar. “We need to talk with Smokey.”

The bartender barely glanced at me. “Don’t know any Smokey.”

Ninja didn’t miss a beat. “How about Caleb Griffin?”

That got a reaction. The bartender shrugged, but I saw the way his eyes flicked—subtle, but enough. A quiet signal to two guys in the back corner.

At the same time, at the far end, a door swung open. Smokey stepped out, flanked by an automatic-toting bodyguard. One look, and I knew we had our guy. Viper had been right—you’ll know him when you see him.

The dude looked like a cowboy outlaw straight out of a Western, right down to the thick Sam Elliott-style mustache. Dark, slicked-back hair, a scar running along his jawline. Sharp eyes that were already assessing us. The kind of guy who looked like he always had a backup plan. His bodyguard had a dead-eyed stare and an MP5 slung across his chest.

Meanwhile, the bartender moved, crouching slightly, his hand drifting toward the shelf beneath the counter.

Ninja leaned forward, his voice low and easy. “Hey, pal, we’re just here for a friendly chat. But if you reach any further for that shotgun, I’ve got an nine-inch blade in my boot that says I can pin your hand to the bar before you clear it. Wanna see who’s quicker?”

The bartender stiffened. His fingers twitched. Then, slowly, he straightened, backing off with a forced smile.

The two goons he had signaled were closing in.

I snapped my fingers at the bartender. “Turn the music down.”

He hesitated just long enough to make me think about repeating myself. Then he reached for the dial, and the music dipped low. The shift was instant—conversations trailed off, heads turned, and the two tough guys paused mid-step. I locked eyes with them and gave them a slow shake of my finger. Wordless, but they got the message. Stop. Now.

They stopped.

Then I called out to Smokey. “Your friend Benjamin Cox sent me. Said I should drop by with a message you better pay real close attention to.”

I deliberately used Benjamin Cox instead of Viper. No one else in this place knew Viper’s real name except Smokey. I was hoping he would get the hint that I wasn’t just some random guy.

A tense silence stretched. Smokey didn’t move, his expression unreadable. The bodyguard at his side shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on the MP5.

But my ploy worked. Smokey did get the hint. He gave a small nod and gestured toward his office. “Come on in.”

We walked toward him, and the room slowly started breathing again. Conversations picked back up. The bartender cranked the music back up like nothing had happened.

Smokey’s office was exactly what I expected from a mid-level drug dealer with ambitions. Sure, there weren’t any cheap neon or stained tables, and no half-dead drunks slumped over their drinks. But the place had too much leather, too much glass, and a desk that was supposed to look expensive but just looked like it was trying too hard.

Smokey sat behind it in a high-backed chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the surface. He leaned back like a man who owned the place—which, technically, he did. His bodyguard hung back, standing just behind our chairs, exactly where he could put a bullet in the back of my skull if things went south.

Smokey gestured lazily for Ninja and me to sit in the chairs facing him. “Sit.”

Ninja and I sat, keeping our hands loose, relaxed—but ready.

Smokey laced his fingers together and fixed me with a measured look. “Alright. You walked in here throwing around Benjamin Cox’s name. Let’s hear this message.”

I tilted my head slightly. “It’s an important message. You sure you don’t wanna hear it alone first?”

Smokey’s fingers stopped drumming. His eyes flicked toward his bodyguard. For the first time, there was hesitation. That told me whatever I was about to say, he already had a bad feeling about it.

Instead of answering, he asked his own question. “Where’s Viper?”

I gave a slow shrug. “In hiding. And scared as hell. He’s got a choice between the cops slapping a terrorism charge on him—or you and your mutual friend deciding to take him out.”

I watched that sink in. Smokey might have been a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. I could see the math working behind his eyes. His face barely changed, but his fingers tightened ever so slightly where they rested on the desk. That was the confirmation I was looking for. I had just given him information he didn’t want his bodyguard hearing.

Sure enough, Smokey nodded toward the door. “Wait outside.”

The bodyguard hesitated, but only for a second. Then he moved, stepping out and pulling the door shut behind him.

The moment the latch clicked, Smokey leaned forward, his voice low. “Alright. What mutual friend?”

I met his gaze. “Carlos. And Carlos’s boss—Javier Salazar.”

Smokey’s expression went tight. He didn’t like hearing Salazar’s name spoken like that, but he didn’t deny anything. I leaned forward.

“We don’t have time for games, so let’s skip the part where you act cagey. I had a real heart-to-heart with Viper, so I know where you stand. But I’ll lay it out so we can skip to the real conversation.”

He didn’t respond, so I kept going.

“The first thing is the terrorism shit. That downtown bombing attempt? That’s got your name all over it.”

Smokey’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the slight tightening at the corners of his mouth. “What terrorism shit?” he asked.

I held up a hand. “Let’s not waste time with denials. I’m not a cop. I’m not here to throw cuffs on you. I’m just here to tell you how bad this situation is for you—and then show you the only way out.”

That shut him up. He leaned back. “Go on.”

I did. “I’m assuming you didn’t know about the C-4 in the bag. But once that shit went down, the plan was to tie off the loose ends. That means Luke was supposed to be dead. When that didn’t happen, Viper was supposed to take him out. Well, that didn’t happen either. Luke’s safe. And that means Viper became a loose end, too.”

Smokey didn’t move, but I could see the gears turning behind his eyes.

I went on. “Viper’s still alive and in a safe place. That leaves one loose end. You.”

Smokey’s fingers started drumming again.

I kept my tone even. “Salazar doesn’t do trust. He doesn’t take people at their word. He cleans up his messes. Sooner or later, he’s going to decide you’re one. And if by some miracle, he doesn’t get to you, then congratulations—you’ve still got a federal terrorism charge waiting for you. You’re the one who sent Luke to meet those guys who gave him the bomb.”

I let the words settle, watching him. Smokey was a man used to weighing odds. Right now, he was staring at a bad bet with no good way out.

After a long moment, he tilted his head and spoke. “You’re the guy, aren’t you?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“The one who defused the bomb. When I first saw you, I thought you looked familiar. Now I know.”

I smirked. “You and Viper do your homework. Yeah, that was me.”

Smokey nodded slowly, absorbing that. Then he spread his hands. “Alright, you laid it out. I’m fucked. No way out. That can’t be the only reason for this little chat.”

I gave a slow nod. “You’re right. I’m here to give you the only way out.”

Smokey raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”

“You lead me to Salazar and I take him out. The cartel’s already halfway up in flames in Mexico. The rest of it won’t last much longer.”

Smokey’s eyes sharpened. “What’s happening in Mexico?”

I shook my head. “Can’t share the details. But you must already know that Rico Salazar has been nabbed by the DEA, awaiting trial in San Diego. After the shit they pulled with that bomb, the cartel has a big red target painted on it. DEA and Homeland Security are closing in. One way or another, everyone involved is going to go down.”

I let that sink in, then leaned forward. “The only reason I’m offering you a chance to save your skin is because I want to end Salazar before he causes more mayhem. And we both know that’s exactly what he’s planning.”

Smokey’s jaw tightened. He knew I was right.

“All that C-4 Carlos has?” I said. “That’s not for show. Salazar’s up to something big. You know it.”

Smokey opened his mouth like he was going to argue—then shut it again.

I tilted my head. “Lemme guess. You were about to pretend you didn’t know about the C-4. But then you thought better of it.”

Smokey sighed. “Yeah. Guess that’d be pointless.”

“Pretty much.”

Smokey was quiet for a long moment, staring at the desk. Then he looked up at me. “Alright. What’s in it for me?”

“You get to live.” I let that sink in. “Without the cartel breathing down your neck. Without a federal indictment hanging over your head. But let’s be real—sooner or later, the cops will come for you anyway. If they do, you’d rather it be on some drug charge than a terrorism beef.”

Smokey stared at me, weighing his options. Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I gotta think about it.”

“No, you don’t.” I shook my head. “Time’s the one thing you don’t have. Salazar’s already making moves. Whatever he’s planning? It’s happening tonight. And I’m willing to bet it involves that C-4.” I held his gaze. “You either take me to Carlos and that stockpile right now, or I walk. And you can take your chances with Salazar.”

A few more seconds of silence. Then Smokey exhaled, a short laugh escaping his nose. “Shit.” He shook his head. “Alright. I’m in. I’ll help any way I can.” A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Not every day a guy in my business gets some of the US Army’s best to clean up my shit for me.”

Ninja finally spoke, dry as sandpaper. “That’s true. In a twisted way. But don’t push your luck.”

Smokey chuckled. “Fair enough.”

Then he grew serious, steepled his fingers, and stared at me across his desk like he was about to deliver bad news to a condemned man.

CHAPTER 39

“You ain’t gonna like this,” Smokey began.

I kept my face blank. “Try me.”

“The C-4 was in a warehouse Carlos had been using.” He paused for effect, watching me like he expected me to flip the table. “But it ain’t there anymore.”

I didn’t react. I already knew there was more. Smokey was enjoying his moment, dragging it out like some second-rate crime boss in a B-movie.

“When was it moved?” I asked.

“Few hours ago. Not just the C-4, either. Carlos and his main crew skipped town. Gone for a few days.”

That was bad. That was real bad. It meant I didn’t have a lead on Carlos, and by extension, I didn’t have a lead on Salazar. And if Carlos was suddenly playing it safe, that meant whatever Salazar had planned was about to go down.

Smokey watched me, waiting for a crack. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing any frustration. He was holding something back—otherwise, he wouldn’t be dragging this out.

He leaned back. “You ain’t gonna ask what I do got for you?”

I folded my arms. “Nah. I figure you’re enjoying the suspense. Gotta let you have your moment.”

Smokey’s lips twitched like he wanted to grin but was trying to act serious. “Carlos skipping town buys me a little breathing room,” he admitted. “But I ain’t stupid. I know it don’t mean my problems are over. He’ll be back. And unless you put the cartel in the ground, I’ll never be free of their shadow.”

I nodded. “No argument there.”

“This ain’t just about business, Captain,” Smokey continued, and for once, I believed he was being straight with me. “I don’t mind pushing dope, moving weight. But this bomb shit? That’s a different game. I don’t wanna be tied to that. Problem is, I don’t get a say unless Salazar’s dead and the cartel’s wiped off the damn map.”

I tapped my fingers on the armrest of my chair. “Go on.”

Smokey leaned forward. “C-4 was moved by truck. Destination was a small airfield near Laurinburg-Maxton Airport. About two hours from here.”

That made sense. Laurinburg-Maxton was a perfect staging ground—rural enough to keep things quiet, but with an airstrip long enough for bigger birds to come in. The cartel must have had an operation running out of there for a while.

“Alright,” I said. “Keep going.”

“There was a chartered flight scheduled to leave that airfield for San Diego this evening. Might already be airborne by now.”

My gut clenched.

“I didn’t think much of it until you mentioned that Rico Salazar is sitting in a federal lockup in San Diego,” Smokey said. “Now it makes sense. That C-4’s meant for something. So if you’re planning to stop it, you best move your ass.”

I considered that. We had to assume the explosives were already in the air. That meant we needed to figure out where they were going and who was waiting to receive them on the other end. I would have to get Echo to pull all available flight data.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Yeah. Carlos activated a new phone when he left town. I got the number.” Smokey grabbed a notepad off his desk, scribbled the number, and handed it over. “Figured your guys could track it.”

I pocketed it. “You figured right.”

Smokey spread his hands. “That’s all I got for now. But if I hear anything else that’ll help put these cartel bastards in the ground, I’ll let you know.”

I stood. “Then you just might live through this.”

Smokey gave a dry chuckle. “I sure as hell hope so.”

Ninja and I walked out of the bar and climbed into the truck. Ninja slid into the driver’s seat, fired it up, and glanced at me.

“Where to, boss?”

“Bragg.”

He let out a low whistle. “Oh, damn. We calling in the big boys?”

I buckled in. “I’m not sure yet. Just step on it.”

Ninja pulled out of the lot, tires crunching over gravel, and gunned it down the road. I pulled out my phone and dialed Echo. He picked up on the first ring.

“Pull every flight that left or is about to leave Laurinburg-Maxton airfield today. Especially any headed to San Diego.”

Echo didn’t ask why. Just said, “On it. Anything else?”

I gave him Carlos’s new burner number. “This guy we’re chasing activated this burner a few hours ago. See if you can track it. I don’t care if you have to hack every tower from here to Mexico—just get me a location.”

Echo let out a low whistle. “Damn. Somebody’s in a mood. Alright, I’ll let you know what I find.”

Ninja glanced at me as I got off the call. “Alright, now you gonna tell me why we’re hauling ass to Bragg?”

I smirked. “Gotta have a conversation with Flynn.”

Ninja snorted. “Oh yeah? One of those ‘this conversation never happened’ chats? Where you don’t really ask for permission, and he doesn’t really give it?”

“Something like that.”

Ninja chuckled. “This gonna be one of those black ops that technically doesn’t exist?”

“Technically.”

He nodded. “Man, I love those.”

As soon as Ninja pulled up outside HQ, I was already reaching for the door handle. I opened the door but stopped halfway out. “Grab Raptor and Hawkeye. Have them kit up. Soon as I get the go-ahead, we’re wheels up.”

Ninja gave me a skeptical look. “You sure Flynn’s gonna play ball?”

“If this were any other tight-ass boss, I wouldn’t be. But it’s Flynn. He’ll bust my balls over it, but he’ll sign off. There’s no other play. We’re stopping this.”

Ninja nodded. “Alright. But if he chews you out too bad, just remind him you were his favorite problem child.”

I smirked. “That’s why he drinks.”

I climbed out, shut the door, and strode inside. Flynn’s office door was open. That was either an invitation or a warning.

I knocked once on the frame. “Sir.”

He looked up from his desk and nodded. I shut the door behind me.

Flynn leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Alright. Give it to me straight.”

I ran him through everything—Luke’s tipoff, Viper’s intel, Smokey’s confirmation, and the final link between Carlos, Salazar, and the C-4. He listened, face unreadable, fingers drumming slowly against the armrest.

When I finished, he nodded. “Not bad at all. That’s a lot of progress in a short time.”

I shook my head. “Not the time to feel good about it, sir. Salazar’s planning something big for tonight. And we both know if he’s got a shipment of C-4 moving into San Diego, it’s not for interior decorating. No point playing guessing games on what kind of hell he’s about to unleash.”

Flynn gave me a flat look. “I get that. But if you’re wrong, I’ll have to explain to my bosses why Delta’s running around without a leash.”

“If I’m right, we stop Salazar from turning a major U.S. city into a crater,” I countered.

Flynn pressed his lips together. “So you’re here for one of those conversations.”

“The kind that never happened? Yes.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really hate those conversations.”

“I don’t enjoy them much either, Sir” I replied. “But this one matters. I’d call the DEA or FBI, but you know how that goes. Five different agencies, ten different chains of command, and by the time they approve action, Salazar’s fireworks display will already be on the news, and he’ll be sipping margaritas in Cancún. This is exactly why Delta exists—to handle threats before anyone even knows they were threats.”

Flynn let that sit for a second. Then he shook his head. “You know, I was hoping for one peaceful goddamn day.”

“I can put in a request, Sir” I chuckled. “Should be approved in five to seven business years.”

He huffed. “Fine. You get twenty-four hours. Go in, do what you have to do. No trail, no mess, and if anyone so much as whispers about this op, I’ll deny I ever knew you.

“We’ll stay in the shadows,” I assured him. “Surgical strike. No one sees us, and no one knows we were there.”

Flynn pointed a finger at me. “If this thing goes sideways—”

“It won’t.”

Flynn stared at me for a beat. Then he sighed and reached for his coffee. “You give me ulcers, Cowboy.”

I grinned. “Part of my charm, sir.”

I walked out of Flynn’s office and found the team already waiting by the truck. Ninja had one boot propped against the bumper. Raptor had his arms crossed. Hawkeye was checking his scope like we were rolling out in five minutes.

I stopped in front of them. “We’re going back to San Diego. And this time, we finish what we started.”

Raptor cocked his head. “Flynn actually signed off?”

I shrugged. “More like he accepted the inevitable.”

Hawkeye smirked. “I’d love to see his blood pressure after one of your meetings.”

“His blood pressure’s going to be fine if we pull this off. Salazar’s got C-4 en route to San Diego, which means he’s got something big planned. We move fast, intercept that shipment, and shut this down before it starts.”

Ninja cracked his knuckles. “So we’re talking subtle, sneaky, and professional?”

“As much as possible,” I said.

Raptor rolled his shoulders. “And when that goes to hell?”

“Then we improvise.”

While the team got ready, I made a couple of calls. The plan was moving fast, and once we were wheels up, there would be no time for catch-ups. One call was necessary for the mission. The other... well, it was necessary too, just in a different way.

First up—Ortiz.

Keeping him in the loop wasn’t just a courtesy. It was insurance. Once we turned the heat up on Salazar in the States, he might try slipping back into Mexico. If he did, Ortiz and his Marines had to be ready.

The line barely rang before he picked up. “Blaze.”

“Figured I’d find you still in the fight.”

“Hospital beds aren’t my thing.” Ortiz’s voice had the rough edge of someone who had been running on fumes but wasn’t about to stop. “We’ve been clearing out more of Salazar’s operations in Tijuana. Found something big—one of his tunnels. The main one.”

That got my full attention. “How solid is the intel?”

“Rock solid. We rolled up a few of his guys. They talked.” A pause. “It’s a people-mover. Salazar’s been running bodies into the U.S. through it. We’ve got the entrance locked down on our side. Planning to hit it soon.”

“Hold off on it,” I said immediately.

Ortiz went silent for a beat. Then, “Talk to me.”

“If Salazar’s got a tunnel that good, it’s his exit plan. We hit it now, we spook him. He’ll change course, and we’ll lose our shot at pinning him down. Better to let him think it’s still safe.”

Ortiz let out a slow breath. “So we sit on it.”

“For now.”

He didn’t like it—I could hear the hesitation. Ortiz was a hammer, and hammers liked to strike. But he trusted me.

“Fine,” he said. “You tell me when to move.”

“I will. Soon. I’ve got a solid lead. Moving on him tonight.”

“Tonight? I see you haven’t been sitting idle over there.”

I chuckled. “You can say that, pal. That’s the reason I asked you to hold off. If he tries sneaking back across the border, I want you to be there to greet him.”

“Copy that.”

“Where exactly is the tunnel?”

“On the U.S. side, it opens up in a warehouse near Otay Mesa Industrial Park, close to the border. Runs almost half a mile underground. Comes out in a warehouse district in Tijuana.”

I frowned slightly. Otay Mesa. Same area as the DEA secure warehouse, where they were holding Rico’s seized eighty tons of cocaine as evidence. Coincidence. Had to be. Still, I didn’t like it. But I didn’t say it out loud.

“Send me the coordinates,” I said. “If Salazar makes a run for that tunnel, I want to be waiting.”

Ortiz’s response was instant. “On your phone now.”

A second later, my phone buzzed with a new message. Coordinates attached. A lifeline Salazar thought he still had.

“Got it. Thanks,” I said.

“We’re playing this your way, hermano. But when the time comes, I want first crack at that bastard.”

“You will, brother. I know what it means for you.”

I hung up. Next call—Sofia.

She picked up after the second ring. “Axel.”

Her voice was smoother than I remembered, or maybe that was just my brain playing tricks on me.

“I’ve got a lead on Salazar. We’re making a move tonight.”

A pause. “You sure?”

“As sure as I can be. Not waiting for certainty.”

She didn’t argue. Just said, “Then I hope it ends tonight.”

“So do I.”

She hesitated, then her voice softened. “Wish you luck, then.”

“I’ll take it.”

“And Axel?”

“Yeah?”

“The drinks,” she said. “They’re still on you.”

I let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Good.” A pause. “Don’t forget.”

The way she said it sent a whole different kind of charge through me, but now wasn’t the time to follow that thought.

“Then I guess I better make it out of this alive.”

“See that you do.”

The call ended. And for a few seconds, I let myself think about what might be waiting after this. But then I shook it off. That was later. Now, there was only Salazar. No distractions.

There were no guarantees in this line of work, no promises except the ones we made to ourselves. And mine was simple—Salazar wasn’t walking away this time.

CHAPTER 40

The sun had started dipping below the tree line, throwing streaks of orange and red across the sky. The Gulfstream jet idled on the tarmac, all gleaming metal and quiet menace, purring like a predator waiting to strike. A far cry from the rattling, bone-bruising metal coffins we usually flew into combat, it was the kind of ride only politicians, CEOs, and warlords got to enjoy. But for once, we were flying in style.

I barely had my seatbelt on before Raptor leaned back in the luxurious leather seats, stretching his legs like a man who just won the jackpot.

“Now, this is how you travel,” he said, grinning.

Hawkeye shook his head. “Don’t get used to it. Next ride will be on a C-17, probably wedged between a Humvee and a pallet of ammo.”

Ninja smirked. “I dunno, man. Maybe JSOC’s finally realizing we deserve a little comfort.”

The only reason we were flying in this kind of luxury was because Flynn had pulled every string he had. Time was the enemy, and a military transport would have taken too long to arrange. Not to mention, a C-17 would attract too much attention and require a military airstrip.

A Gulfstream, on the other hand, was quiet, fast, and could land at civilian airports without raising eyebrows. It wasn’t technically on the books, but it wasn’t the first time this particular jet had been used for missions that “didn’t exist”.

JSOC had it prepped and ready within twenty minutes. We boarded fast, loaded our gear, and got settled. Before takeoff, my phone buzzed. Echo.

“I got a location on Carlos’s phone,” Echo said. “Laurinburg-Maxton Airport.”

“Good. That means he still hasn’t flown out.”

“Yup. Private charter. Flight records show he’s booked on a Learjet 60, taking off in thirty. Want to snatch him up before he gets airborne?”

“Negative. I don’t have time to be sure I can grab him clean, and I don’t want local law getting mixed up in this. We need Carlos to lead us to Salazar, not to end up in county lockup.”

“Fair enough,” Echo said. “The flight plan lists ‘San Diego area’ as the destination, but no exact airport. That’s a big area. Lots of big and small airports.”

“Yeah, that’s a problem. They keeping it vague on purpose?”

“Looks like it. Private charters file flight plans, but cartel-linked flights like to play it loose. They probably listed a general region so they can reroute last-minute if they smell something off.”

I stared out the window, watching the airfield crew move around the Gulfstream. “Can you track it in real-time?”

Echo snorted. “Oh boy, don’t tell me that was a serious question. I’ve got ADS-B data on my screen. Most private jets transmit it, and I can follow their transponder feed. If they try to ghost me, I’ve got secondary methods.”

I smirked. “I bet you do.”

“Once they hit SoCal airspace, I’ll intercept tower comms. The moment they lock in an approach, I’ll have their exact runway.”

“Perfect.”

Echo’s voice turned smug. “Also, you’ll be there first. Your Gulfstream’s cruising at Mach 0.9. The Learjet tops out at 0.8. That plus your earlier takeoff means you’ll touch down almost an hour before they do.”

That was the kind of advantage I liked. “I got a helo waiting at Brown Field Municipal in San Diego. As soon as you confirm the landing site, we’ll be airborne.”

Echo chuckled. “Might sound a little touch-and-go, but you’ve pulled off ops with less leeway.”

“I’m not worried,” I said. “Not with you on the case. Stay sharp, Echo. We close this tonight.”

I ended the call, and the Gulfstream’s engines whined louder as the pilot got clearance. A moment later, we were rolling. Takeoff was real smooth, nothing like a C-130 kicking you in the back like a pissed-off mule.

The first half-hour was all business. We went over the plan, checked our gear, ran contingencies. After that, it was just waiting.

Echo kept feeding me periodic updates. “Still tracking. Learjet’s beelining straight for San Diego, no deviations.”

Good. That meant Smokey’s intel was solid.

Flight time was just over four hours, but shifting time zones cut three hours off the clock. At 1920 hours Pacific Time, the Gulfstream touched down at Brown Field Municipal Airport in San Diego.

We disembarked straight onto the tarmac, the cool San Diego evening a stark contrast to the sticky heat we had left behind. Our gear came with us—rifle cases, duffel bags packed with breaching tools, comms, and enough firepower to handle whatever Salazar’s people brought to the party. We moved fast, efficient, no wasted motion.

Waiting for us was a guy who had a pilot’s stance—feet planted, eyes constantly scanning. Early 40s, built like a man who still put in the work. His short-cropped hair was starting to go silver at the temples, but the eyes were sharp. The kind of presence that said he had seen his share of bad nights.

He wore a tan flight suit, sleeves pushed up to reveal a tattoo on the back of his right hand—a winged dagger, Night Stalker insignia. On his wrist, a well-worn Breitling Aerospace watch, same model 160th SOAR pilots swore by.

I stuck out my hand. “Night Stalker?”

That got a grin out of him. “Damn right.” He shook my hand, grip firm. “Joshua McKenzie. Most folks just call me Josh.”

I nodded. “Blaze.”

Josh cocked his head. “Flynn told me about you.”

I blinked. “You know Flynn?”

“Of course. Flew him on a few missions back in the day. That’s why I’m here to escort you guys.”

I let out a short laugh. “Well, hell. Flynn never told me. If you survived that, you’re officially a badass. I had my doubts, but you just sealed it.”

Josh chuckled. “Been in regular touch with him. Can guess what you and your three friends are here for.”

Ninja grinned. “What, we don’t look like casual tourists?”

Josh smirked. “Sure. If ‘tourism’ involves body armor and suppressed weapons.” He gave a nostalgic shake of the head. “Man, I miss the good old days.”

Raptor sized him up. “Do that long? Raising hell flying with the 160th?”

Josh smirked. “Yup. Spent a decade doing that. After that, decided to fly for people who don’t want to get shot at.”

Hawkeye smirked. “And yet, here you are.”

Josh shrugged. “Bad habits.”

I glanced at the Bell 407. “Bird ready to go?”

Josh nodded. “You bet. This bird’s dependable. Keeps it quiet, keeps it fast, gets you where you need to be. A Black Hawk’s great, but it sticks out in this civilian airspace. Bell’s common here—no one blinks twice at one flying low at night.”

“Good. Let’s get loaded up.”

We got to work, loading duffels into the cargo compartment, strapping rifle cases into place. Then we buckled in, and waited for Echo’s call. Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang.

“The cartel flight’s landing at Gillespie Field,” Echo said. “El Cajon, CA.”

I turned to Josh.

“That’s about twenty miles north,” he informed me, flipping switches. “We’ll be on the ground in under fifteen minutes.”

The rotor spun up, and soon we were lifting off, heading north over the San Diego sprawl. Touchdown was smooth, the Bell settling onto a quiet corner of the airfield. No lights, no noise, just another local bird coming in for the night.

We hopped out fast, grabbing our gear. Josh made a call—probably to one of his contacts. Five minutes later, an SUV rolled up, headlights off. The driver stepped out, handed Josh the keys without a word, and walked off toward the terminal.

Josh glanced at me. “You’re set to roll.”

I met his gaze. “You sticking around?”

He nodded. “I’ll hang back till you’re gone. You never know.”

We stepped back in the shadows and began scanning every corner of the airfield. The nighttime darkness was laid bare by our night vision goggles. Gillespie Field stretched out in front of us, bathed in that eerie green glow. A handful of Cessnas and Pipers sat parked near the hangars, their wings casting long, angular shadows under the dim runway lights.

The main terminal wasn’t exactly bustling—just a couple of people moving around near the glass doors, one of them leaning against the counter inside. A fuel truck sat idling near the building, the low hum of its engine blending into the stillness of the night.

But my attention was locked on two dark SUVs sitting near the edge of the runway, parked in the shadows where the tarmac met a thin tree line. Blacked-out windows. Noses pointed toward the strip. Like they were waiting for something—or someone. They surely weren’t there for a sightseeing tour.

Hawkeye was the first to confirm it. “Three bodies per SUV,” he murmured, shifting his binos.

“See Salazar?” I asked, shifting angles, trying to pierce the tinted glass.

“Can’t say with certainty, but I don’t think he’s one of the six,” Hawkeye replied.

Being “almost sure” wasn’t good enough. If Salazar was inside one of those vehicles, this whole game could get over right there and then. If not, we would have to hold back and tail them.

Behind the SUVs, a thin row of scrubby trees and chain-link fencing marked the airport’s perimeter. Not perfect cover, but good enough for an operator to approach unseen.

I looked at Ninja. “You’re up. Grab a couple of trackers and start making your way along the perimeter. Plant them on the undercarriage.”

“Finally, something fun,” Ninja said, before he peeled off into the darkness, silent as a ghost.

I kept my eyes on the SUVs, shifting position to try for a better look inside. But the angles sucked, and the tint was too heavy. We needed another option.

Josh had one. “I’ve got a plan,” he said, looking over at the fuel truck. “I can hitch a ride with them. Get close, see if I can get the driver to make a sweep around the area, maybe get a look inside the SUVs.”

I wasn’t sure about it at first. Josh was solid, but this wasn’t the kind of move I usually trusted to outsiders. Still, Josh was a pilot, and not just any pilot.

“Think you can pull that off?” I asked, not wanting to sound doubtful but unsure all the same.

Josh just grinned. “Let’s find out.”

We walked toward the idling truck, keeping our pace casual. The driver was a beefy guy in his forties, wearing a reflective vest over a grease-stained hoodie. He glanced up as Josh approached and broke into a wide grin.

“Well, I’ll be damned! If it ain’t the best damn chopper pilot in SoCal!” The driver chuckled, clearly recognizing Josh’s name and reputation.

Josh clapped him on the shoulder. “Good to see you, brother. Hey, listen—there are a couple of sketchy types hanging around in an SUV near the strip. Don’t wanna make a scene by calling security. How about we take a quick drive?”

The way the guy lit up, I knew we were in business. He didn’t hesitate. “Hop in.”

Josh leaned in toward me as we climbed into the cab. “Guess I’m a little more famous than I thought,” he said with a sly grin.

I chuckled. “Hell, sounds like you’re a legend around here. If I’d known, I’d have asked for your autograph.”

The truck lumbered to life, and we started making our way toward the edge of the field. The driver made a broad sweep of the area, keeping the headlights angled in just the right direction. Long enough for me to get a good look, but short enough so it wouldn’t raise any suspicions. As the headlights swept across the SUVs, I leaned forward. The guys inside squinted, shielding their faces from the glare—but that was all I needed.

No Salazar.

CHAPTER 41

By the time we hopped out of the truck, Ninja’s voice crackled over comms. “Trackers are live.”

“Nice work,” I said.

“Yeah, no thanks to the dumbass in the truck that just swept the field,” Ninja muttered. “I’m creeping up like a ninja and suddenly, the fuel truck hits me with the full high beams.”

I chuckled, not wanting to tell him it was me he was cursing. “You freeze like a deer?”

“You bet. But that distraction worked for me—guys in the SUV were too busy blinking like raccoons to notice me.”

“Good work. Get back to position.”

Minutes later, we saw the distant glow of an aircraft’s landing lights.

Josh whistled low. “That’s them.”

The plane, a small twin-engine turboprop, made a low, smooth descent, its wings banking slightly before it touched down with a puff of smoke from the tires. It taxied toward the far end of the strip—right where the SUVs were waiting. The moment the aircraft came to a stop, the two SUVs lurched forward.

Hawkeye shifted his binos. “They’re unloading.”

I watched as four men moved quickly, pulling out bundles of plastic-wrapped bricks of C-4 explosive. The way they handled them told me they knew what they were doing. No careless movements. No tossing or dropping. The bricks were stacked neatly into the backs of both SUVs.

Raptor muttered. “They’re splitting the load.”

“Shit,” I cursed as I realized something. “They’re planning to split up.”

We needed two vehicles to tail them. I turned to Josh. “Can you get another ride?”

“I can. But this place is way out. I made sure I had a vehicle on call around all the smaller airports in this area. That’s why your SUV was here within minutes. Another vehicle will take time. I don’t think we have that flexibility.”

He was right. The men had finished loading and were getting back inside the SUVs.

But Josh had a plan. “I’ve got my car in that lot,” he said, pointing to a lot beside the terminal building. “I’ll get it. Won’t take more than a couple of minutes,” he said as he started walking briskly toward the parking lot without waiting for a response.

I looked at him. “You sure? These guys don’t play around. They’re packing, and they won’t hesitate to start shooting.”

Josh looked back, his eyes steely. “I wasn’t exactly flying commercial planes in the 160th. And believe me, the Taliban didn’t play nice either. Pulling hot extractions under RPG fire, not exactly a joyride.”

He had a point. The SUVs had begun to move.

I barked orders. “Raptor, Hawkeye—you’re on one. Raptor drives, Hawkeye tracks the beacon.”

A couple of minutes later, Josh’s car appeared out of the shadows like a beast on the prowl. A 1970 Chevy Chevelle SS. Sleek. Classic. Fast.

“Nice ride,” Ninja remarked, glancing over at the car’s sleek curves as he slid into the back seat while I rode shotgun.

Josh grinned, revving the engine. “I’ve still got the coolest car in town.”

The cartel’s SUV had almost a three-minute head start on us. “Buckle up, boys,” Josh said, stepping on the gas.

My phone rang just as we pulled out. Unknown number. Turned out to be Smokey. I surely wasn’t expecting a call from him.

“Blaze,” Smokey’s voice was low, urgent. “Listen up. I’ve got some news. Rico’s gonna get shivved tonight.”

“What?!” I gripped the phone tighter.

“I don’ t know how they’re pulling it off, but it’s gonna happen. What I also know is that he’ll survive, but it’ll be bad enough that the prison’s medical unit won’t handle it. They’ll have to transport him to UC San Diego Medical Center in Hillcrest. And you know who’s going to be waiting on the way?”

“Shit,” I cursed. “You sure?”

“Dead sure. It might even be happening as we speak,” Smokey’s tone darkened. “Salazar wants to light up San Diego like the Fourth of July. Then he’s disappearing with Rico through a tunnel into Mexico.”

“You did good,” I said with genuine emotion.

Smokey chuckled darkly. “Yeah, well. If you screw this up, I’m a dead man.”

I glanced at Josh. He was focused on the road, hands steady on the wheel.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I got this covered.”

The urgency hit me as I got off the call. Salazar was playing chess, and we were still stuck on the first move. I scrambled to get my thoughts together and work out a plan.

Raptor’s voice crackling through my earpiece gave me more to think about. “We’re southbound on CA-125, Cowboy. Looks like these guys are going back to the place we landed in—Brown Field Airport.”

I tapped my tablet screen, pulling up the San Diego grid. Brown Field sat in Otay Mesa, right up against the border. But more importantly, Otay Mesa was also home to the DEA secure warehouse—the same one housing Rico Salazar’s seized cocaine. That was where they must be headed.

“These guys aren’t headed for Brown Field just for a nightcap,” I said. “They’re gonna hit that DEA warehouse and turn it into a fireball. Wipe out the evidence against Rico.”

“Copy that. It surely looked like they were packing enough to level the place.”

“Exactly. This is a full-blown demolition job.”

“Shit,” Raptor muttered. “What’s our play? Do we engage?”

“No. We stay in the shadows and watch. Stay on them, and if they make a stop near the warehouse, we set up for an ambush. But stay sharp—these guys will be heavy.”

“Roger that, Cowboy.”

The SUV we were tailing was still cruising east along Interstate 8, heading straight for Hillcrest Medical Center. I glanced at the map again, my mind slotting pieces together.

Just three miles south of Hillcrest sat Metropolitan Correctional Center (MCC) San Diego—Rico Salazar’s current accommodations. I looked down south again at Otay Mesa. The conversation with Ortiz came back to me. Otay Mesa was also the location of Salazar’s tunnel. The same tunnel Smokey had just mentioned.

Suddenly, the whole picture snapped into focus. They weren’t just splitting up to cover ground. They had two clear objectives. The main one was to break out Rico. The secondary one was to destroy all evidence against him while also creating a hell of a distraction as they dived into the tunnel.

Smokey was right. Rico was about to get himself shanked. Non-lethal, but deep enough to need surgery. Once that ambulance rolled out of MCC, Salazar would be waiting.

They would either snatch him en route or at the hospital itself, and then make a run for the tunnel. Then they would light up multiple locations along the way, forcing law enforcement into a state of pure chaos. By the time anyone realized what was happening, Salazar would be across the border, gone for good. The second I put it together, I knew we had minutes—maybe seconds—before Salazar’s plan went hot.

I keyed my mic. “Echo, make a high-priority call to MCC San Diego. Check Rico Salazar’s status.”

“On it,” Echo replied, voice sharp.

I kept my eyes on the tablet, tracking the SUV that had been rolling south toward the prison. It was a mile ahead of us, until suddenly—it stopped.

Not at a light. Not in traffic. Just stopped. Something was off.

I studied the map again. Why stop there? There wasn’t an intersection. No on-ramps or exits. I tapped the screen, pulling up a zoomed-in satellite view. The SUV was sitting in a confined stretch of road beneath a freeway overpass. The kind of place where sightlines sucked. A perfect choke point.

The prison was three miles north from there. The hospital was one mile south. The most direct route between them ran right through that underpass. A well-placed charge could bring the whole damn structure down. That was the play. They weren’t just stopping—they were planting charges. Setting up distraction points.

A minute later, the SUV began moving again. I turned to Josh. “Time to close the gap.”

Josh stepped on the gas, the Chevy surging forward, engine snarling. He slowed as we approached the overpass. I scanned the area—dark concrete, flickering streetlights, no obvious movement. It was too damn quiet. Just an empty, silent killbox.

“Pull over,” I told Josh.

He eased the Chevy to the curb. I glanced at my screen—the SUV had stopped again. Another choke point. Another likely ambush zone.

I turned to Ninja. “Check the underpass.”

“Copy,” Ninja replied. “Rules of engagement?”

“Lethal,” I replied.

No hesitation. No half-measures. These guys weren’t playing games. And we weren’t taking prisoners.

My earpiece crackled just as Ninja slipped out of the rear door, vanishing into the dark.

“Blaze,” Echo’s voice was tight. “Rico Salazar just got stabbed in MCC. He’s in an ambulance en route to Hillcrest Medical Center. Escort vehicle’s rolling with them.”

Everything snapped into place. Salazar’s plan was already happening.

CHAPTER 42

Ninja slipped back into the car, carrying a radio he had taken off the guy he had just put down. “Target’s neutralized. He was setting up C-4 to blow the underpass. Enough to bring it down on the road.”

One part of Salazar’s plan just failed. The part about cutting off pursuit.

“Let’s move,” I said.

Josh didn’t hesitate, punching the gas. I kept my eyes on the tablet. The SUV we were chasing was taking an off-ramp. Looping back. Hitting an on-ramp. Switching directions. Heading back south, straight toward the hospital.

They were moving in. Rico was already in play. Josh floored it, closing the distance.

Then—a fireball up ahead.

A vehicle erupted in flames, a column of fire and black smoke curling into the night. That was the ambulance’s escort vehicle. Gone.

Gunfire ripped through the air—full-auto bursts, fast and controlled. Not some gangbanger spray-and-pray. Cartel precision. Civilians panicked—cars screeched to a halt, some swerving onto the shoulder. Josh wove through them, gunning for the burning wreck.

Then—silence.

For a second, everything froze.

Then—boom.

An explosion roared behind us, shaking the ground. The second choke point. Smoke and fire lit up the rearview. That bomb just took out the road. All traffic blocked.

No cops. No pursuit. They had a clean exit.

Josh skidded to a stop next to the ambulance. The doors were open.

Front cabin—driver and guard shot dead.

In the back—two paramedics. One with his throat slit ear to ear. The other—stab wounds, deep and precise. Rico’s handiwork. He didn’t hesitate to brutally kill two men who had come out on call to save his worthless life. I wasn’t about to let him get away with that.

Two SUVs peeled away up ahead, tearing down the now-empty road. The one we had been tracking—and another one.

The radio in Ninja’s hand crackled. Someone spoke in rapid Spanish. Too fast for me to catch. But not for Josh. The guy was fluent.

Josh translated in real time. “They’ve got Rico. Heading to the rendezvous.”

That confirmed it. Salazar and Rico were in the second SUV. Stealth was over. It was time to go in hard.

Another command in Spanish on the radio, the voice urgent: “Blow the bridge.”

But the guy who was supposed to do that? Well, Ninja had taken him out minutes ago. Or else, our pursuit would have been blocked as well.

The voice repeated the order. No response. Then—cursing on the radio. Salazar was running for the tunnel. And we were running to get him.

I called Ortiz. “Salazar’s in play. I’m in pursuit. Get to the tunnel exit in Tijuana. If he makes it through, I want you there waiting.”

Ortiz didn’t hesitate. “Copy that. Moving now.”

I turned my focus back to the SUVs on my tablet. They were cutting south fast, dead-on for the Otay Mesa border crossing.

But it wasn’t like they were going to go through Customs. That tunnel was their golden ticket. No checkpoints, no heat signatures, no CBP officers watching them. They would vanish into Mexico before local cops even realized what had happened.

Which meant they needed a distraction. Something big. The DEA warehouse. It was right off their route. If they took it out, law enforcement would scramble toward the blast, clearing the way for Salazar to slip into the tunnel.

Ten minutes max. That’s how long we had before it all went up in smoke.

I keyed my mic. “Raptor, I need a sitrep.”

Raptor’s voice crackled in. “Three guys in the SUV outside the warehouse. They’re prepped for war. We’ve got C-4 charges on the back and side of the building, but they couldn’t hit the front—too many security cameras.”

Exactly what I expected.

Hawkeye’s voice cut in. “They’re posted close to the entrance, waiting on something. We’ve got clean shots. We can drop them the second they move.”

I nodded to myself. “They’re waiting for Salazar’s word. The moment they start moving, put them down.”

“Roger.”

Before I could key off, the radio Ninja had taken crackled to life. A voice, sharp, Spanish.

Josh listened, face tight. “They’re giving the go order. Kill all guards at the gate, then blow the warehouse.”

Showtime. I keyed my mic. “Hawkeye, take them out. Now.”

“Roger.” No wasted words. No hesitation. Just the quiet professionalism of a man who had done this before.

I switched back to my tablet. The SUVs were still gunning south, barely half a mile ahead now. Josh was hammering the gas, cutting the distance. We crested a rise in the road, and the DEA warehouse came into view on the left, tucked a little off the main road.

Before I even had to ask, Hawkeye’s voice hit my ear. “Three targets down. Clean shots.”

I exhaled slowly. No alarms. No explosions. Just three cartel gunmen lying dead in the dark.

I tapped my tablet, sending Raptor the tunnel coordinates. “Get there now. Both of you. If Salazar gets past us, we need eyes inside before he disappears.”

“Roger that.”

I wasn’t sure if they could get there before Salazar, but I needed them in place. If this turned into a fight at the tunnel entrance, we couldn’t afford to be the only team in play.

Josh was locked in, hands steady on the wheel. The engine roared as our vehicle surged forward, closing the gap between us and the two SUVs.

Two hundred yards.

While Josh closed the distance, I ripped open my kit and pulled out my HK-416. The rifle felt like an extension of my arm as I racked the charging handle, seating a round in the chamber. I pulled my vest on, cinching it tight, the plates pressing into my chest. Next to me, Ninja did the same, checking his optics and giving his rifle a quick function check before slapping a fresh mag in.

“Hundred yards,” Josh muttered.

The lead SUV’s occupants finally figured out they were being hunted. The rear window slid down, and a cartel gunner leaned out, an AK-47 in his hands.

He let loose, dumping his mag in our direction. The rounds were wild—7.62x39mm tracers zipped through the air, some sparking against the asphalt, others disappearing into the darkness.

Josh swerved hard right, dodging it before correcting back onto course.

The passenger-side rear window of the SUV rolled down. Another shooter leaned out, this one steadier. His rifle was braced against the doorframe, a clear attempt at a controlled burst.

I didn’t give him the chance. I leaned out my window, rifle up, my red dot snapping onto center mass. One three-round burst and his body jerked violently. He slumped, dead weight, his rifle tumbling to the pavement.

I rode the recoil, adjusted, and sent another burst into the driver, the bullets shattering the rear windshield. The SUV lurched hard left, tires screeching as the dead man’s foot pinned the accelerator. The vehicle spun, flipped once as it veered off the road, then crashed into the ditch, slamming down in a shower of dust, sparks, and metal debris.

I didn’t need to check. Nobody was walking away from that. If Salazar was in that one, he was dead for sure. But I couldn’t take the chance of stopping to check, because if he was in the other SUV, he would slip out of reach.

“Stay on the other one,” I told Josh, shifting back inside.

The remaining SUV had gained distance during the gunfight, using the chaos to push ahead. The warehouse loomed ahead—a massive structure of corrugated steel, surrounded by chain-link fencing topped with razor wire.

The SUV barreled through an open loading bay, disappearing into the warehouse. Josh braked hard, but before he could stop completely, gunmen poured out of the entrance, weapons up.

Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness. Glass shattered. Bullets ricocheted off the hood.

I yanked the door handle and rolled out, my rifle up, firing before I hit the ground. I put two down instantly—one took a chest shot and crumpled, the other caught a round through the throat, his weapon tumbling from his hands. Ninja was already out on the other side, returning fire, his rifle kicking with each controlled burst.

Then, out of nowhere, two more guns began spewing bullets at those men from the other side of the warehouse. Raptor’s SUV had come in from that direction, sliding in almost silently. Hawkeye and Raptor had spilled out, guns blazing.

Caught in a crossfire from both sides, the cartel gunmen never stood a chance. One by one, they dropped, until the last man tried to flee and Hawkeye put him down with a single shot to the back of the head.

I tossed a vest and a rifle to Josh. “Stay on rear security. Make sure no one flanks us.”

The chase was over. It was time to move in for the kill.

CHAPTER 43

The interior of the warehouse was a maze of steel beams, cargo containers, and industrial equipment. Dim overhead lights cast long shadows, the kind of place where a man could disappear in an instant.

The cartel still had numbers, but we had training, firepower, and superior positioning. They opened up from behind crates and machinery, but we returned fire with brutal efficiency.

I saw Ninja flank right, taking out two men before rolling behind a steel support beam. Raptor moved left, clearing his sector, while Hawkeye provided precision fire, dropping shooters the moment they exposed themselves.

Then, across the warehouse, I spotted him. Salazar.

He was dug in, positioned behind a massive steel storage tank—an old chemical container, its thick metal walls making it damn near impenetrable to gunfire. Salazar’s rifle barked. A burst of fire pinged off a steel beam near my head. I ducked, shifting for cover.

Salazar’s voice carried across the warehouse. “I’m giving you one last chance to back off. Walk away, or you and your men die here.”

I leaned out just enough to get a visual. “That’s funny. I was about to say the same thing. Surrender now, and you might live.”

Salazar laughed, loud and mocking. “Salazar doesn’t get caught, pendejo.”

He fired another burst, then suddenly—silence. No movement, no more gunshots, no mocking laughter.

I gave the hand signal to advance.

Ninja took point, sliding left, while Raptor flanked right. Hawkeye and I moved in, weapons up, eyes scanning. Josh held position near the entrance, keeping our escape route secure. We advanced, weapons up, moving past fallen bodies, broken crates, and spent shell casings.

I closed in on where Salazar had been hiding—but he was gone.

Something else caught my eye.

Near the tunnel entrance, a set of hastily laid-out charges. Not a carefully pre-planned demolition—this was messy, rushed. Wires were haphazardly looped, the blocks of C-4 slapped onto key structural points, clearly done in a hurry.

“Out! Everybody out! Now!”

I didn’t have to say it twice. We had worked together long enough to know that when one of us shouts “Out”, the rest of the team hauls ass. Everyone bolted for the exit.

I took a last glance before running—the detonator wire trailing into the tunnel like a fuse leading straight to hell. Salazar was sealing off his escape route the hard way, making sure no one would follow him into the tunnel.

We hit the exit at a dead sprint. Then the world behind us exploded. The rear of the warehouse vanished in fire and steel. The explosion ripped through the tunnel entrance, collapsing half the building in on itself.

The blast wave slammed into us, heat licking at my back as debris rained down, sending up a thick cloud of smoke and dust.

I turned, coughing, eyes watering. The entire back half of the warehouse was gone—twisted metal beams jutted like broken ribs, the tunnel entrance buried under tons of concrete and wreckage.

Josh rubbed dirt out of his face and looked at me. “Does that mean Salazar’s buried in the tunnel?”

I shook my head. “No.”

Ninja glanced at me in shock. “We lost him again?”

“Not this time. He’s making his way to Mexico through the tunnel. The blast was to seal off the tunnel entrance and take us all out of the picture. But what he doesn’t know is that Ortiz and his Marines are waiting on the other side. And I didn’t get the impression that Ortiz was in the mood for taking prisoners.”

Ninja chuckled. “Well, ain’t that something. I’d love to see his face when he gets out the other side. And I remember—some of Ortiz’s dudes really know how to hold a grudge.”

We backed away, piling into our vehicles, and moved to an elevated position overlooking the border.

From our vantage point, Mexico stretched out before us—a mix of city lights and dark, empty desert. The border fence snaked along like a scar, separating the two worlds. Beyond it, Tijuana was alive—traffic moving, distant sirens wailing, neon signs glowing in the night.

We waited. Then, my phone buzzed. It was Ortiz.

“It’s done,” he simply said. The satisfaction in his voice told me all I needed to know.

I exhaled. But I still wanted confirmation. “Dealt with permanently?”

Ortiz’s voice held a grin. “Yes. Just as he and Rico were stepping out of the tunnel—boom. Mysterious explosion. It’s gonna take a long time digging them out.”

Some men die with a bullet. Others get swallowed by the ground itself. Either way, dead was dead.

I smirked. “Hell of a coincidence.”

“We get lucky sometimes,” Ortiz replied.

“We all do. Well done, Ortiz.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, Blaze.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “Likewise. Take care.”

“You too. Stay dangerous.”

The line went dead.

I turned to my team. “Mission complete, boys. Time to wrap it up.”

Then I gave Josh a nod. “Hell of a job tonight. We wouldn’t have made that pursuit without you.”

Josh let out a slow breath. “Damn, it felt good to be back in the game. Didn’t realize how much I missed that rush.”

Ninja snorted. “That’s the adrenaline talking. Wait till tomorrow when your knees remind you why you retired.”

Josh smirked. “Yeah, well, I’ll be nursing them with a double whiskey while you boys are still getting shot at.”

I chuckled. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Raptor glanced at me. “So what’s next?”

I looked out over the border, where the last remnants of Salazar’s empire burned. “Debriefs. Paperwork. Then the next fight.”

Ninja exhaled. “Another classified op we’re not supposed to be on. Never ends, huh?”

I gave him a grim smile. “Not for men like us.”

I took a last look at the border, the smoke still rising in the distance. Salazar thought he could cheat death, that he could outmaneuver men like us. But no one runs forever. The desert takes its debt one way or another. Tonight, it had collected.

And just like that, we climbed back into our vehicles and disappeared into the night—ghosts of a war no one would ever hear about.

EPILOGUE

The rooftop bar had a perfect view of the Pacific, the sunset turning the water to molten gold. San Diego was alive below us, but up there, everything was quieter. Slower.

Not that I was paying attention to the view.

Sofia sat across from me, legs crossed, one elbow resting on the table. Stunning in the way that made men reckless, she was the kind of woman who turned heads without trying. Dark hair catching the last light of the day, sharp brown eyes that saw more than they let on. A dangerous woman. A beautiful one.

And right now, she was looking at me the same way I was looking at her.

I had spent the day with the DEA, tying off loose ends, walking them through the wreckage we left behind. They still couldn’t believe it. Salazar was gone. His empire was burning. And for the first time in years, they had breathing room. So did Sofia.

I could have been on a flight back by then. Probably should have. But then I got a message. Just a reminder. “You owe me a drink, Axel.”

And just like that, Sofia had slipped away from Tijuana—not as a mayor, not as a politician. Just a woman who had fought her war, won, and wanted to have a drink with a man who understood what that meant.

She lifted her glass, a slow smirk playing on her lips. “You look like you didn’t expect me to show up.”

I clinked my glass against hers. “Didn’t expect you to run from the job so soon.”

She leaned in slightly. “Neither did I. But then I remembered—life’s too short to wait around for what you want.”

I watched her, taking my time. “And what do you want?”

She smiled. “A nice drink. With someone special. And for once, no politics, no wars. Just us.”

I took a sip, letting the whiskey burn slow. “Sounds reasonable.”

She held my gaze. “Reasonable wasn’t really what I had in mind.”

The way she said it, the way she looked at me—I knew exactly where this night was heading.

And for once, I had no plans to stop it.

– THE END –

ABOUT REVIEWS AND NEWSLETTERS

I hope you enjoyed the book. If you could take a moment to leave a review, even just a sentence or two, it would be very helpful. Your reviews play a vital role in helping other readers discover my work.

As a token of appreciation to my readers, I’m offering a limited-time discounted pre-order price for Warpath and Crossfire, the tenth and eleventh books in the Axel Blaze series. Warpath will be published on April 10, 2025 and Crossfire on July 31, 2025 at the full price of US$5.99.

Should you wish to share any thoughts or feedback, I would love to hear from you. Feel free to reach out to me directly at billrunnerauthor@gmail.com.

Lastly, I invite you to join my mailing list through the link below. By signing up, you will receive updates on new releases, special offers, and the occasional free audiobook voucher.

bill-runner.com

Thank you for reading my book.

BOOKS IN THE AXEL BLAZE SERIES

BLAZE RETURNS

(Book 1)

LETHAL FORCE

(Book 2)

HARD TARGET

(Book 3)

MEAN STREETS

(Book 4)

UNCHAINED FURY

(Book 5)

NO ESCAPE

(Book 6)

FEAR CITY

(Book 7)

DEAD CALM

(Book 8)

NO MERCY

(Book 9)

WARPATH

(Book 10)

CROSSFIRE

(Book 11 releasing on July 31)

NEMESIS

(Book 12 releasing on Nov 30)