As Jason and Jack climbed to the rooftop, Jason accepted a cup from Ray Perry and downed it in one go. His expression immediately twisted into a grimace.
"Damn it. I think I'll stick to Jack's cigars," he muttered.
The highland night carried a surprising chill, and the team had lit a fire in a large metal barrel for warmth and light. Sitting in a circle around it, they relaxed, though the tension of the day's mission still lingered.
Jason passed out the rest of the cigars to the group and poured himself a small amount of watered-down vodka into a disposable cup. Raising it, he addressed his team.
"Today's mission didn't go as planned, but we should still celebrate. I'm glad everyone made it back safe."
"Well said, boss!" the team cheered in agreement, grimacing as they downed the harsh liquor.
"Gentlemen," came a voice from behind, interrupting the moment. It was Colonel Martínez, walking over with Lieutenant López in tow. "If you insist on breaking my rules, at least don't insult my country with this donkey piss."
The group turned to see Martínez holding a bottle of tequila, which he shook playfully before them.
"Now this is proper!"
"Woohoo!"
The group erupted in cheers as Martínez poured the tequila into their cups.
"This was our first time fighting side by side, our first skirmish with Mendoza and his lackeys. It deserves a drink," Martínez declared, raising his glass.
López followed with a bag of limes and a small pouch of sea salt. Using his combat knife, he demonstrated the traditional method of drinking tequila: sprinkle salt on the back of the hand, lick it, take a shot, and bite into a lime wedge. The soldiers eagerly followed suit, the unfamiliar ritual lightening the mood.
"Jason, your men are some of the finest soldiers I've ever seen. And you, Agent Tavore—sorry, Jack—you left quite the impression for my first encounter with the FBI," Martínez said, raising his glass toward Jack.
Jack returned the toast with a smile. "Thank you, Colonel. You and Lieutenant López are exceptional soldiers as well."
"May the Force be with you, right, López?" Sonny quipped, recalling the Spanish phrase Jack had jokingly taught him earlier. He winked at the lieutenant, clearly proud of his memory.
López, barely holding back laughter, glanced at Jack, unsure whether to spill the truth.
"You do know that's from Star Wars, right?" Clay Spencer asked Sonny, barely containing his amusement. When Sonny remained confused, Clay repeated the phrase in English, sending the team into fits of laughter.
"Ah, you sly FBI kid," Sonny chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, you got me this time, but I'll get you back, partner."
Even with decent liquor, the initial joviality faded as the team grew silent, staring pensively into the fire. The day's events weighed heavily on them.
"Not much of a celebration, huh? Still hung up on the mission?" Martínez asked, his sharp eyes picking up on their mood.
"You may not realize it, but you saved six lives today. Thanks to you, six families are celebrating survival instead of mourning their dead. That, to me, is a victory," Martínez said, his voice warm and sincere.
Jason managed a small smile. "Put that way, it does feel better. Family is everything."
Privately, though, Jason knew he'd had no good options. Leaving the civilians to die or splitting the team to chase González would have been equally unthinkable.
Sensing the lingering unease, Jack spoke up. "You've been curious about my time in Mexico, right? I can't share classified details, but maybe I can tell you a story."
Jack recounted an operation involving a ruthless South American drug lord. He kept names and locations vague, spinning it like an anecdote rather than a classified mission. The story drew in not only Bravo Team but also the support staff, including Major Eric Blackburn and Mandy Ellis, who had joined them on the rooftop.
Martínez had arranged for a few cases of beer, and the group huddled around the fire, sipping drinks and listening intently.
"Wait—you're serious?" Clay Spencer asked, stunned. "The Mexican marines actually face guys that crazy?"
Jack nodded. "It's not just cartels. It's like fighting entire private armies led by madmen."
"God Almighty," Clay muttered. Though he'd seen his share of brutal enemies, this was his first encounter with the depravity of cartel warfare.
Jason, seemingly moved by López's story, raised his glass toward the lieutenant. "I shouldn't have pushed you earlier. That was wrong of me."
"It's not your fault," López replied, shaking his head. "I grew up in Depro, watching my friends and family either join the cartels or fall victim to them. I tried to escape—married, had two sons—but there's no running from it. I joined the fight because I had no other choice."
The team fell silent again as López's words hung in the air.
Jason turned to Martínez. "What about you, Colonel? Aren't you worried about your family?"
Martínez sighed, a weary smile on his face. "Not anymore. Two years ago, when I decided to take on Mendoza, I sent my wife and daughters to Spain. They're safe there—far beyond Mendoza's reach."
"Must be hard, being so far apart," Jason said softly.
"It is—9,000 kilometers. But at least they're alive," Martínez replied.
Jason murmured agreement, his thoughts clearly turning to his own family.
"What about you, Jack? Married?" Martínez asked, shifting attention to Jack.
"Does a girlfriend count?" Jack replied, managing a polite yet awkward smile.
Martínez chuckled. "A man like you? Must be more than one."
Before he could continue, a deafening explosion interrupted the rooftop gathering.
"What was that?"
"Where did it come from?"
The group jumped to their feet, scanning the direction of the blast. Jack was as startled as the rest. Though the city was not as chaotic as Juárez, explosions were unheard of in this area.
"Sir, over there! A car—" a Mexican soldier reported, running toward them and pointing down the street.
From the rooftop, they saw flames and smoke billowing from a car parked near their base. Moments later, another explosion followed, likely the fuel tank igniting. The fire illuminated the nearby walls, revealing a chilling sight.
Posters of López, showing his face alongside a family photo of his wife and two sons, had been plastered on the walls. Above them, a single word was scrawled: "Muerta"—"Dead."
López paled, frozen as he stared at the scene. "González recognized me. They've found my family."
------------------
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