We advanced.
The second layer opened into a dimly lit corridor lined with storage crates—ammo boxes, old equipment, sealed containers marked with faded Spanish warnings. The lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows that crawled along the floor.
Five guards rounded the corner at once.
They shouted in Spanish—confused, alarmed—rifles snapping up as they registered us.
No time for subtlety.
I squeezed the Glock 18’s trigger—full auto.
The weapon bucked in my hand, controlled bursts ripping through the confined space. Two guards were stitched center mass before they could fire. They dropped hard, rifles clattering across concrete.
Amy’s Glock barked twice—pop, pop—clean, precise headshots. The third and fourth guards folded instantly, expressions frozen in surprise.
Elena didn’t rush.
Her HK416 coughed a tight three-round burst into the final guard’s chest. He slammed backward into the crates, slid down them, and went still.
Five of Al Chapo’s men went down in seconds. Clean. Silent. There was no return fire—only the quiet aftermath, a testament to our training and the years that had sharpened us into something lethal.
Smoke drifted lazily through the corridor.
My ears rang faintly beneath my comms, heartbeat loud enough to drown out everything else.
We stacked on the final door.
Heavy oak. Reinforced. Iron bands bolted across the grain.
This was no maintenance room. This was power made physical.
Intel swore this led directly to Chapo’s personal chamber.
Amy was grinning now—wide and triumphant.
We had never been this close to our target. One last door stood between us and the end of it. Break it down, and we’d finally get that piece of shit.
Amy’s eyes gleamed with something close to victory. She leaned toward me, voice barely above a whisper.
“We’re going to get that son of a bitch, Rus. Finally.”
I raised a fist.
“Wait.”
Her grin faltered. “What?”
I ignored her and pressed my ear to the door. The wood was cool against my skin. Training demanded it—listen for breathing, movement, the faint shift of weight. Anything.
But I heard nothing.
No sound. No shuffling. No whisper of fabric.
Dead quiet.
Too quiet.
“Let’s go in,” Amy urged, impatience creeping into her voice. “Before reinforcements figure out what’s happening.”
