CHAPTER 1: THE SLEEPING DRAGON
The sun rose slowly over the dusty plains of Rio Seco, Texas, bleeding red across the horizon like a fresh wound. To most people, the Rio Grande Detention Facility was just a warehouse for misery, a concrete block sitting twelve miles from the Mexican border where the Rio Grande cuts through the earth like a dull knife. To me, it was purgatory.
I stood on the porch of my modest ranch-style home, coffee blacker than a moonless night in my hand. 1,000 days. That’s how long it had been since I last felt the recoil of a rifle against my shoulder in Kandahar. 1,000 days of trying to forget the smell of cordite and the sound of a mother screaming.
I never counted the days to retirement. 27 years in Delta Force teaches you that counting only matters when you’re waiting for an extraction chopper or a bomb to detonate. But I was counting now. Robert Chandler wasn’t waiting for anything anymore. Or so I thought.
My phone buzzed against the weathered wood of the porch railing. I didn’t need to look at the caller ID to know trouble was calling. The air felt heavy, charged with static.
“Chandler,” I answered, my voice scraping like gravel.
“Morning, Captain. Long time,” came a familiar voice that made my spine snap straight.
“Colonel Harris. I didn’t expect to hear from you. The world end yet?”
“Not yet, Bob. But circumstances change. You still playing security guard at that detention facility?”
“Consultant,” I corrected, watching a hawk circle a dead rabbit in the distance. “I just advise on fences and cameras. Easy money.”
“Not anymore,” Harris said, his tone dropping an octave. “You’re the new Head of Security. Paperwork processed five minutes ago.”
I frowned, gripping the phone tighter. “I didn’t apply for a promotion, Colonel.”
“You didn’t need to. This comes from upstairs. Way upstairs.”
I set my coffee down. The hawk in the distance dove. “What’s going on, Harris?”
“Intel suggests the Santa Rosa cartel is planning a kinetic event. A big one. Target is your facility.”
Santa Rosa.
The name hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. The world tilted on its axis. The heat of the Texas morning suddenly felt cold. A phantom pain shot through my chest—the memory of a day twelve years ago.
“Why?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. “Why hit a detention center? That’s suicide.”
“That’s what you need to find out. And fast. We’ve authorized a ghost unit for you. Former operators. All Tier One. They’re en route. ETA 1800 hours.”
My mind was already racing, dusting off the cobwebs of a thousand combat missions. “Who am I really protecting, Colonel? You don’t send a Delta kill team to guard a perimeter fence.”
“Everyone, Bob. That’s all you need to know. Your team’s files are encrypted in your secure email. I suggest you start reading.”
The line went dead.
I stood there for a long moment, the ghost of my past standing right next to me. I walked inside to my small office, opened my laptop, and clicked the file.
Robert Chandler had left war behind. Or so I believed. But war… war is a jealous lover. It always finds you.
CHAPTER 2: THE WOLVES GATHER
The files downloaded slowly, pixelating into faces that told stories of violence and survival. I scanned them, my eyes narrowing. This wasn’t a security detail. This was a hit squad.
First up: Michael Torres. Navy SEAL, Team Six. The photo showed a man made of granite, Hispanic, with eyes that had seen the bottom of the ocean and the worst of humanity. Specialist in Weapons Systems and Close Quarters Combat. Four tours in Iraq, two in Afghanistan.
Sarah Wilson. Army Intelligence. She looked like a librarian, but her file read like a spy novel. Electronic surveillance, signals intelligence, fluent in Arabic and Spanish. She found needles in haystacks before the hay was even grown.
James “Doc” Peterson. Special Forces Medic. Three Silver Stars. A man who could stitch you up while returning fire with a smile. His weathered face spoke of a man who had cheated the Reaper more times than he could count.
Derek Johnson. Green Beret. Demolitions expert. Counter-infiltration tactics. The kind of guy who looked at a brick wall and saw a door.
And then, the last one. Elena Vasquez. DEA. Undercover. Her file was redacted to hell and back, but one note stood out: Personal connection to Santa Rosa cartel.
“What the hell are you expecting, Colonel?” I muttered to the empty room.
I clicked on the final attachment. Facility Intelligence Update: CLASSIFIED.
It was a single photo of a woman. Gabriella Reyes.
The text was sparse. “High-value witness. Santa Rosa Cartel financial manager. Mistress to Alejandro Cortez.”
My heart stopped. Alejandro Cortez. The head of the snake. The butcher of Juarez.
I opened the bottom drawer of my desk. My hand trembled, just once, before I steadied it. I pulled out a faded photograph. A younger me, smiling, with my arm around Maria. Little Sophia sitting on my shoulders, laughing at the camera.
Twelve years ago. Juarez. A “wrong place, wrong time” incident, the officials said. Crossfire. Collateral damage.
Maria bled out in my arms while I screamed for a medic who never came. Sophia was gone before she hit the ground. The Santa Rosa cartel had denied involvement, and the politicians had buried the case.
They had taken my life. They had buried my heart in the desert. And now, fate—or Colonel Harris—had served them up on a silver platter right in my backyard.
I stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. I wasn’t just a security chief anymore. I was a weapon that had been sitting in storage for too long.
I drove to the facility, my truck kicking up dust that tasted like vengeance.
The guard at the gate, a kid named Mike, saluted sloppily. “Morning, Mr. Chandler. Or… Chief Chandler now?”
“Just Robert, Mike.” I looked at him. He had a girlfriend in town. A life. “Stay sharp today, son.”
Inside, the air conditioning hummed, oblivious to the storm coming. I met Linda Walsh, the facility director. She was nervous, wringing her hands like she was washing off invisible dirt.
“Mr. Chandler, I was told to give you full authority, but I don’t understand why security is being… militarized.”
“Precaution, Director,” I lied smoothly. “Just upgrading protocols.”
“We have a Congressional delegation visiting tomorrow,” she snapped. “Media, politicians. We cannot have men with assault rifles roaming the halls. It looks bad.”
“They won’t see us,” I said, looking at the digital map of the facility on the wall. “But if they do, they’ll be glad we’re here.”
At 1300 hours, a delivery truck backed into Loading Dock B. The driver, a woman with eyes that scanned three exits at once, handed me a biometric scanner.
“Delivery for Chief Chandler.”
I pressed my thumb. The back opened.
Six large metal cases. No logos. No serial numbers.
I cracked the first one open. Heavy body armor. Night vision. Suppressors. The second case held enough C4 to level the administration building. The third was medical supplies—not Band-Aids, but tourniquets, blood clotting agents, and surgical kits.
This wasn’t gear for a riot. This was gear for a war.
As I loaded the last magazine, checking the spring tension, I looked at the surveillance feed of the women’s wing. Somewhere in there was Gabriella Reyes. The key to destroying the cartel.
The cartel was coming for her. They were bringing an army.
But they forgot one thing.
Some men aren’t just trained to fight. We’re trained to win. And tonight, I wasn’t just fighting for the government. I was fighting for Maria. I was fighting for Sophia.
Let them come. I racked the slide of my pistol.
Let them all come.
CHAPTER 3: THE GHOST SQUAD
At precisely 1800 hours, a black government-issue SUV rolled up to the main gate. It looked like any other fed vehicle, but the way it moved—precise, aggressive—told a different story.
I watched from the security monitors as five individuals stepped out. Even in civilian clothes—jeans, t-shirts, light jackets—they moved with a predator’s grace. Perfect spacing. Constant scanning. Wolves entering a new territory.
I met them in the conference room I’d commandeered as our “War Room.” I’d covered the windows. Maps of the facility plastered one wall; live surveillance feeds flickered on the other.
“At ease,” I said as they filed in. “I’m Robert Chandler.”
Michael Torres, the Navy SEAL, stepped forward first. His handshake was like a vice grip. “Torres. Weaponry and CQC. Good to meet you, Chief.”
“Sarah Wilson,” the woman with the sharp eyes said, not bothering to smile. “Intel and comms. I’ve already scanned your network. It’s a mess, by the way.”
“James Peterson, but everyone calls me Doc,” the older man said. He had a face carved out of granite and eyes that had seen too many friends bleed out. “If it bleeds, I can stop it. If it doesn’t, I can make it start.”
“Derek Johnson,” the tall Green Beret nodded. “Demolitions. If you need a door where there isn’t one, I’m your guy.”
Then the last woman stepped forward. Elena Vasquez. She had an intensity that burned the air around her.
“Elena. DEA,” she said. “I know this enemy, Chandler. Better than anyone.”
“I’ve read your files,” I said, locking the door. “Impressive. But resumes don’t stop bullets. You know the situation?”
“Cartel hit,” Torres said, leaning against the table. “Smash and grab. Target is the facility.”
“Not just the facility,” I corrected. I tapped a key on my laptop, bringing Gabriella Reyes’s face onto the main screen. “Her. Gabriella Reyes. Currently housed in the women’s wing as ‘Maria Diaz.’”
Elena’s breath hitched, just slightly. “She’s here?”
“You know her?” I asked.
“I worked undercover in the Santa Rosa organization for two years,” Elena said, her voice dropping. “Gabriella isn’t just a mistress. She’s the vault. She knows where every dollar is buried. If she testifies, Cortez loses everything.”
“That’s why they’re coming,” I said. “Intel says they want to kill the witness.”
Elena shook her head slowly. “No. You don’t understand Alejandro Cortez. He doesn’t just want her dead. He wants her back. He wants to make an example of her. A slow, public example.”
She looked me dead in the eye. “And there’s something else, Chief. Cortez doesn’t delegate something this personal. If he’s sending a team, he’s coming with them.”
The room went silent. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
“Alejandro Cortez,” I whispered. “Here. On American soil.”
“That’s the rumor,” Elena said. “And if he’s here, he’s brought his second-in-command, Diego Fuentes. Former Mexican Special Forces. A psychopath with a badge.”
“Great,” I muttered, feeling the old rage bubbling up in my gut. “A professional. The worst kind.”
“We secure the facility,” I ordered, pushing the emotions down. “Identify any insiders. Locate and isolate Gabriella. Wilson, fix the cameras. Johnson, Torres, walk the perimeter. I want to know every mouse hole in this building. Move.”
As the team dispersed, moving with silent efficiency, I felt a vibration in my pocket.
It was Carlos Sanchez, my old contact at Border Patrol Intelligence.
Cisco’s Diner. 1400 hours. Come alone.
If Sanchez was scared enough to use a burner phone, the situation wasn’t just bad. It was catastrophic.
CHAPTER 4: THE RAT IN THE WALLS
Cisco’s Diner sat on the edge of town, a place where the coffee was strong enough to strip paint and the clientele knew how to keep their heads down. I took a booth in the back, facing the door. Old habits die hard.
Sanchez slid in opposite me five minutes later. He looked terrible. Dark circles under his eyes, sweat on his brow despite the AC.
“You look like hell, Carlos,” I said.
“And you look like a man walking into a grave,” Sanchez shot back, keeping his voice low. “I shouldn’t be here, Robert.”
“What do you know?”
“We’ve seen movement,” he whispered, leaning in over the Formica table. “Strange movement. Not the usual mules carrying drugs. Small groups. Military-age males. Crossing in remote sectors where we don’t have sensors.”
“How many?”
“Maybe thirty. Traveling light. Combat gear. No drugs. Just weapons.”
I nodded slowly. “A strike team.”
“It gets worse,” Sanchez said, glancing nervously at a trucker walking in. “We intercepted a scout vehicle three days ago. Two guys. They had detailed maps of the power grid and water supply for Rio Seco. Specifically, the lines feeding the detention center.”
“They’re planning to cut the power,” I realized. “Force a reboot of the security systems.”
“There’s chatter about a ‘High Value Extraction,'” Sanchez continued. “But Robert… the chatter isn’t coming from the usual cartel channels. It’s encrypted. Military grade. And there’s one more thing.”
He slid a folded napkin across the table. On it was an address.
L-78 Old Canyon Road.
“The old Hernandez Ranch,” I read. “That place has been abandoned for years.”
“Not anymore,” Sanchez said. “Thermal imaging picked up heat signatures there last night. Vehicles coming and going at 0300. Heavily guarded. If Cortez is in the country, that’s where he is.”
I crumpled the napkin and shoved it into my pocket. “Thanks, Carlos. You need to mobilize your team.”
“I can’t,” he hissed. “I tried to push it up the chain. They told me to stand down. Said it was a ‘controlled operation.’ Someone high up is paid off, Robert. You’re on your own.”
I drove back to the facility with a lead foot and a heavy heart. The corruption ran deep. We were isolated.
Back at the War Room, the team was waiting.
“We have a problem,” Wilson said the moment I walked in. She pointed to a monitor. “The security system has a backdoor. Someone inside has been looping footage for the past week.”
“An insider,” I said. “Do we have a name?”
“Better,” Elena said. She stepped forward. “I spoke to Gabriella. We did it quietly, disguised as a medical checkup. She’s terrified, but she gave us a lead. She recognized one of the guards.”
“Who?”
“Ramon Vega,” Elena said, throwing a personnel file on the table. “He works D-Block, night shift. Tall guy, scar on his neck. She says he used to work security at Cortez’s compound in Sinaloa.”
I picked up the file. Ramon Vega. Hired eight months ago. Clean background check. Which meant the background check was fake.
“He’s on duty right now,” Torres said, checking his watch. “Patrolling the maintenance corridor behind D-Block.”
“Is he alone?” I asked.
“Yes. But he’s checking his phone every thirty seconds,” Wilson noted from her laptop. “He’s waiting for the signal.”
I looked at Torres and Johnson. A silent communication passed between us—the language of violence.
“Let’s go have a chat with Mr. Vega,” I said calmly. “Before he opens the front door for the devil.”
CHAPTER 5: TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES
The maintenance corridor smelled of bleach and damp concrete. It was a blind spot in the camera network—one Wilson had intentionally left dark to lure him in.
Torres leaned against the far wall, casually inspecting his fingernails. I stood at the other end, hidden in the shadows of a recessed doorway.
We heard the footsteps first. Heavy boots on concrete. Then the whistling. Vega was confident. Too confident.
He rounded the corner, phone in hand, thumb typing a message. He looked up, saw Torres, and froze.
“Hey, Vega,” Torres grinned, a wolfish expression. “Got a light?”
Vega reached for his belt, not for a lighter, but for his radio. “Who are you? This is a restricted area.”
“Wrong answer,” I said, stepping out behind him.
Vega spun around, hand going for his taser. He was fast, but I was motivated.
I stepped into his guard, blocked his arm, and drove a knee into his stomach. The air left his lungs in a wet whoosh. Before he could double over, Torres was there. He wrapped a muscular arm around Vega’s throat in a sleeper hold.
Vega thrashed for three seconds. Then he went limp.
“Bag him,” I ordered.
We dragged him into a soundproof storage room Johnson had prepped. We zip-tied him to a heavy steel chair.
I nodded to Torres. He pulled a syringe from a small metal case.
“Wakey wakey,” Torres whispered, slapping Vega’s cheek.
Vega’s eyes fluttered open. Confusion turned to panic as he tested the restraints. Then he saw Elena standing in the corner.
“You…” he whispered, his eyes widening. “The Gringa spy.”
“Hola, Ramon,” Elena said coldly. “Long time.”
“You can’t do this,” Vega spat, trying to sound tough. “I’m a federal employee!”
“You’re a cartel rat,” I said, leaning in close so he could see the lack of mercy in my eyes. “And tonight, federal laws don’t apply in this room.”
I nodded to Torres. He tapped the syringe.
“What is that?” Vega stammered, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Truth serum,” Torres lied smoothly. “Well, mostly. It’s a sedative mixed with a hallucinogen. Makes you feel like your skin is on fire unless you talk. Nasty stuff. Not FDA approved.”
It was actually just a heavy dose of sodium pentothal and a paralytic, but fear is the best force multiplier.
“I… I don’t know anything!”
“Do it,” I said.
Torres brought the needle closer.
“Wait! Wait!” Vega screamed, straining against the zip ties. “Okay! Okay! I’ll talk! Just don’t!”
“Start talking,” I said. “When are they coming?”
Vega slumped, defeated. “Tonight.”
The word hung in the air like a guillotine blade.
“What time?” I barked.
“0200 hours,” Vega gasped. “Three teams. Team One cuts the power at the substation. Team Two breaches the South Fence by the generator. Team Three… Team Three walks through the front gate.”
“How?”
“I was supposed to open it,” Vega admitted, staring at the floor. “And disable the mag-locks on the women’s wing.”
“How many men?” Elena asked.
“Thirty. Maybe forty. Special Forces background. Heavy weapons. They have orders to kill everyone who gets in the way.”
“And the target?” I asked, though I knew.
“The girl. Gabriella. And the servers.”
“The servers?” Wilson interrupted. “Why the servers?”
“Cortez wants the list,” Vega whispered. “The list of every informant processed through this facility in the last five years. He wants to clean house.”
My blood ran cold. This wasn’t just a hit. It was a massacre of intelligence assets.
“Where is Cortez?” I demanded.
“The ranch. Old Canyon Road. He’s running the op from there.”
“Is Diego Fuentes leading the assault?” Elena asked.
Vega nodded. “Yes. And he brought the Sicarios.”
I stood up. “Lock him down. Gag him. He doesn’t see the light of day until this is over.”
As we walked back to the War Room, the reality settled on us.
It was 2100 hours.
We had five hours until an army of forty elite killers hit the facility. We were six people against forty. We had civilians to protect, a massive perimeter to defend, and a traitor’s promise that the power would be cut.
“Change of plans,” I announced to the team. “They’re coming tonight. We can’t evacuate Gabriella without tipping them off and getting hit on the road. We have to fight them here.”
“On our turf,” Johnson said, cracking his knuckles. “I like that.”
“We turn this facility into a fortress,” I ordered. “Johnson, rig the South Fence with surprises. Wilson, lock out the remote access to the mag-locks. Torres, you and Doc prep the Administrative Wing for a last stand. Elena and I will move Gabriella.”
“Move her where?” Elena asked.
“The one place they won’t look immediately,” I said. “And the one place we can defend.”
I checked my watch. 2115.
“Get gear up,” I said, grabbing my rifle. “Tonight, we earn our pay.”
The waiting was over. The dragon was awake.
CHAPTER 6: THE NIGHT THE LIGHTS WENT OUT
The waiting is always the hardest part. It gives your mind time to wander to places it shouldn’t go. But at 0158 hours, the wandering stopped.
“Heat signatures,” Johnson whispered over the comms. “South perimeter. I count twelve. Moving fast.”
“North side too,” Torres reported, his voice steady as a heartbeat. “Another ten. They’re cutting the fence.”
I stood in the center of the Administrative Wing, checking the chamber of my rifle for the tenth time. “Hold fire,” I ordered. “Let them commit.”
At precisely 0200, the world went black.
The facility’s main power grid died instantly, just as Vega had predicted. The hum of the AC cut out, replaced by a suffocating silence. A second later, the emergency red floodlights kicked on, bathing the concrete hallways in the color of blood.
“Showtime,” I whispered.
BOOM.
The first of Johnson’s surprises—a series of flashbangs and directional charges rigged along the south fence—detonated. The ground shook. Even through the thick walls, I heard the chaotic shouting.
“South team engaged,” Johnson reported, the sound of his suppressed carbine spitting rhythmically in the background. “They’re disoriented. I’m falling back to secondary position.”
“Main gate breached!” Wilson shouted from the secure server room. “They just drove a truck through the barrier!”
“Torres, take the main corridor!” I commanded. “Don’t let them reach the admin block.”
I moved Gabriella into the Director’s office. It was the most fortified room we had—bulletproof glass, reinforced door. Doc was with her, weapon raised, looking like an angry guardian angel.
“Stay down,” I told her. “No matter what you hear, do not open this door unless you hear my voice or Elena’s.”
“Robert,” she grabbed my arm, her eyes wide with terror. “He’s here. I can feel him.”
I didn’t have time to comfort her. “Then he made a mistake.”
I stepped back into the hallway just as the first wave hit the Administrative Wing.
They weren’t street thugs holding sideways pistols. These were operators. They moved in stacks, checking corners, wearing night vision. They flowed like water.
But we were the rocks.
Torres opened up from behind a vending machine, his fire precise and devastating. Two cartel soldiers dropped immediately. The others scattered, returning fire with military discipline. Bullets chewed up the drywall, filling the air with white dust and the sharp tang of ozone.
“I’m pinned!” Torres yelled. “Flanking left!”
“I got you!” Elena slid across the floor, firing under a desk, catching a flanker in the leg.
The firefight was deafening in the confined space. It was a chaotic symphony of violence. We were holding them, but just barely.
Then, the radio crackled. It was Wilson.
“Chief! We have a problem. A helicopter just touched down in the exercise yard.”
My stomach dropped. “Identification?”
“Bell 407. Black. No markings. Heavy security detail deploying now. And Robert… I have eyes on the passenger.”
She didn’t need to say it.
“Cortez,” I said.
“He’s on the ground,” Wilson confirmed. “And he’s not alone. Diego Fuentes is leading a team straight for the server room. They aren’t just here for Gabriella. They want the records.”
“Torres, Elena, hold the line here!” I ordered, reloading. “I’m going hunting.”
CHAPTER 7: INTO THE FIRE
I moved through the maintenance tunnels, a labyrinth of pipes and steam that ran beneath the facility. It was the only way to bypass the kill zone in the main hallway.
My target was the Central Hub—the intersection between the server room and the exercise yard.
I could hear Cortez’s voice echoing over the facility’s PA system. He had hacked the intercom.
“Robert Chandler,” his voice was smooth, cultured, terrified. “I know you can hear me. You are fighting a losing battle. Deliver the woman, and my men will withdraw. No one else needs to die.”
Psychological warfare. He was trying to break the staff’s morale.
“You have five minutes,” Cortez continued. “Or I release the gas.”
I froze. Gas.
“Wilson!” I hissed into my comms. “Check the ventilation system!”
“I’m seeing it,” she replied, panic edging into her voice. “They’ve hooked canisters to the main intake. It looks like CS gas. Maybe worse. If they trigger that, everyone inside suffocates.”
“Can you shut down the intake?”
“I’m trying, but they’re locking me out!”
I kicked open the maintenance grate and rolled into the hallway near the Central Hub. Smoke from the battle drifted in thick gray sheets.
Ahead of me, a squad of four men was setting up a breaching charge on the server room door. Standing behind them, barking orders, was a man with a jagged scar running down his face.
Diego Fuentes. The butcher’s right hand.
I didn’t hesitate. I raised my rifle and dropped the two men closest to the door.
Fuentes spun around, faster than any human should be. He didn’t dive for cover. He charged.
He fired his sidearm while sprinting, the bullets sparking off the wall inches from my head. I ditched my rifle—it was empty—and drew my pistol, firing until it clicked dry.
He was on me before I could reload.
Fuentes slammed into me like a freight train. We crashed through a set of double doors into the cafeteria. My gun skittered across the floor.
He pulled a knife—a curved Karambit blade that glistened in the emergency light.
“Legendary Delta Force,” Fuentes sneered, circling me. “You look old, abuelo.”
“Old enough to know better,” I grunted, pulling my own tactical knife. “Young enough to end you.”
He lunged. I sidestepped, slashing at his arm, but he was fast. His blade caught my tactical vest, shredding the Kevlar but missing the flesh. He followed with a spinning kick that caught me in the ribs. I tasted blood.
This wasn’t a movie fight. It was ugly. It was brutal. It was two killers trying to dismantle each other piece by piece.
He slashed again, aiming for my throat. I caught his wrist, twisting it violently. He grunted but didn’t drop the knife. He headbutted me—stars exploded in my vision.
I stumbled back, gasping. He grinned, sensing victory.
“Cortez sends his regards,” Fuentes snarled, raising the knife for the killing blow.
He lunged.
I didn’t block. I stepped into his guard. I took the slice across my forearm, ignoring the searing pain, and drove my own blade upward, under his ribs, aiming for the heart.
Fuentes froze. His eyes went wide. The knife fell from his hand.
I pushed him away. He collapsed onto a cafeteria table, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.
“Send them yourself,” I whispered.
“Chief!” Wilson’s voice screamed in my ear. “The gas! It’s deploying in 60 seconds! And Cortez… he’s moving to the roof. He’s abandoning the team. He’s going to blow the facility to cover his escape!”
I grabbed Fuentes’s radio from his belt. I checked my own injuries. Bleeding, but mobile.
“Not if I get there first.”
CHAPTER 8: THE HEAD OF THE SNAKE
I sprinted toward the roof access stairs. My lungs burned. My arm throbbed.
I burst onto the roof into the cool night air. The wind whipped across the flat gravel surface. The helicopter was there, rotors spinning, ready for lift-off.
Alejandro Cortez stood near the edge of the roof, holding a detonator in one hand and a phone in the other. Two bodyguards stood between us.
I didn’t stop running. I tackled the first bodyguard, using his momentum to throw him over the low wall. The second one raised his weapon, but a shot rang out from the doorway behind me.
Torres. Bloodied, limping, but holding his rifle steady. The bodyguard dropped.
It was just me and Cortez.
The helicopter pilot, seeing the chaos, panicked. The bird lifted off, abandoning its master. Cortez screamed, waving his arms, but the chopper banked away into the darkness.
He turned to me, his suit ruffled, his face a mask of hate. He held up the detonator.
“Stay back!” he screamed. “I’ll drop this whole building! Every guard, every migrant, every one of your friends!”
I stopped ten feet from him. I leveled my pistol at his head.
“It’s over, Alejandro.”
He laughed, a manic, broken sound. “It’s never over. You think arresting me stops the business? You think you win?”
“I don’t care about the business tonight,” I said, stepping closer. “I care about you.”
He squinted at me, the red emergency lights from below reflecting in his eyes. Recognition slowly dawned on his face.
“I know you,” he whispered. “Juarez. 2012. The marketplace.”
My finger tightened on the trigger. The rage was a physical weight, pressing against my chest.
“Maria,” he said, testing the name like a weapon. “And the little one… Sophia.”
“Shut up,” I growled.
“It was a mistake,” Cortez said, shrugging, though his hand shook on the detonator. “My men were aiming for a rival. Your family… they were just in the way. Collateral damage.”
Collateral damage.
Every fiber of my being wanted to pull the trigger. I wanted to paint the roof with his brains. I wanted him to feel the fear my daughter felt. The darkness inside me roared, demanding blood for blood.
“Do it,” Cortez taunted, seeing the struggle in my eyes. “Kill me. Be the monster you hunt. If you shoot me, I drop this detonator. The explosives on the structural columns go off. Everyone dies. Your new family… the DEA agent… the witness.”
I looked at the detonator. Dead man’s switch. If he fell, his thumb would slip.
I took a deep breath. I thought of Maria. She hated violence. She hated what the war did to men.
“No,” I said softly.
I holstered my pistol.
Cortez blinked, confused. “What?”
“I’m not going to kill you, Alejandro.”
I sprinted.
He panicked, his thumb pressing down on the button—but I was too fast. I wasn’t striking to kill; I was striking to disable.
I grabbed his wrist, twisting it with a bone-shattering snap. He screamed, dropping the detonator. I caught it mid-air, inches from the gravel.
I swept his legs, slamming him onto the roof. I pinned him, my knee on his throat.
“I’m not going to kill you,” I hissed into his ear. “I’m going to let you live. I’m going to let you sit in a concrete box for the rest of your life, watching your empire get dismantled piece by piece. I’m going to make you a nobody.”
Sirens wailed in the distance. Blue and red lights flooded the horizon. The Cavalry.
Cortez struggled, spitting blood. “You’re weak, Chandler! You should have killed me!”
“Maybe,” I said, looking up at the stars. “But I’m done burying people.”
The sun rose over Rio Seco again, just like it did every morning. But the air felt different. Cleaner.
The facility was a wreck. Bullet holes in the walls, scorch marks in the cafeteria. But it was standing.
Gabriella Reyes was safe, currently being escorted by a convoy of US Marshals to a black site where she would begin writing the testimony that would dismantle the Santa Rosa cartel.
My team—my ghost squad—sat on the tailgate of an ambulance. Johnson was getting his leg wrapped. Torres was smoking a cigar he found somewhere. Elena was talking to Doc, a rare smile on her face.
Colonel Harris walked up to me, handing me a fresh cup of coffee.
“Hell of a night, Bob,” he said.
“Hell of a night,” I agreed, watching the sunrise.
“Cortez is in custody. Fuentes is in the ICU. The intel from the server room… it’s a goldmine. You did it. You actually did it.”
“We did it,” I corrected, nodding at the team.
“So,” Harris said, taking a sip of his coffee. “The job is done. You can go back to retirement. Sit on that porch. Count the days.”
I looked at my hands. They were bruised, battered, and covered in dried blood. But they weren’t shaking anymore. The ghost of Maria seemed to smile at me from the sunrise.
I looked at the team. They were looking back at me. Waiting for orders.
“You know, Colonel,” I said, taking a sip of the coffee. “I think I’m done counting days.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” I smiled, the first genuine smile I’d felt in 1,000 days. “I think I’m just getting started.”
Some men are trained to fight. Some are trained to win.
But the lucky ones? The lucky ones find something worth fighting for.
[End of Story]
