I stare at my whiskey.
Call it in. That's protocol. Guardian HRS has an emergency line, 24/7 response capability, and established protocols for situations exactly like this. I pull out my phone. CJ will mobilize assets, coordinate with local contractors, and run proper intel before going in.
That's therightthing to do.
Theprofessionalthing.
The thing I'msupposedto do.
My phone is in my pocket. Two taps away from CJ's direct line.
I don't reach for it.
Because I'm doing the math, and the math isbrutal.
Call comes in at—I check my watch—21:47. CJ needs authorization before mobilizing Guardian HRS assets for a non-contracted rescue. That's thirty minutes minimum, probably longer. Then team spins up: operators recalled, gear loaded, tactical plan drafted.
Optimistic timeline? Six hours from my call to boots on the ground.
She has three hours before transport.
Maybe.
And that's assuming everything goes perfectly. Assuming CJ can get authorization immediately. Assuming the team mobilizes without delays. Assuming I even have cell service to make the call from wherever these assholes are headed. Because I’m definitely following them.
Too many assumptions.
Too many variables.
Too much like Caracas, where we waited for authorization that came too late.
The second man pulls out his phone and checks something."Ramirez dice que está llorando. Preguntando por su hermano." Ramirez says she's crying. Asking for her brother.
Asking for her brother.
Fuck.
My hand moves before my brain catches up—pulling cash frommy wallet, dropping it on the bar. Forty dollars for a twenty-dollar tab. I slide off the stool, moving casually and unhurried like a man who's just tired of drinking alone.
The two cartel members don't even glance my way.
Outside, the desert air hits warm and dry. Stars scatter across the sky, sharp and bright. The parking lot is gravel and dust, and three vehicles: my F-250, their white panel van, and a rusted sedan that probably belongs to the bartender.
I stand there for five full seconds.
This is the moment. This is where I make the call. Where I do therightthing, thesmartthing, the thing that keeps me employed and alive and not violating every protocol Guardian HRS has.
This is where I learn from Caracas instead of repeating the same mistake.
My phone is in my hand. Screen lit. CJ's contact right there.
One tap. That's all it takes.
Sofia's dog tags are warm against my chest, metal heated by body temperature and guilt. I've worn them every day for five years. Every single day, a reminder of what happens when you follow orders instead of your gut.
She died because you didn't choose her.
Her brother's words. The last thing he said to me before walking away from Sofia's funeral.
