El Skinny was trembling, tied to the metal chair. Sweat ran down his forehead and his breath came in ragged gasps, like a wounded dog. Baz, sleeves rolled up, watched him like a predator that already knew the prey had no way out.
—Told you already, cabrón… —growled Baz in perfect Spanish, adjusting the hunting knife in his right hand—. Give me the combination, or I'll turn you into a strainer.
El Skinny clenched his teeth, shaking his head. He tried to hold on to some dignity, but the fear showed in every tremor of his legs. Too stubborn to speak.
—Fuck you, asshole… I'll kill you and then I'll fuck your whore of a mother before I cut her into little pieces.
Baz didn't wait. Without warning, he drove the knife blade between the man's knuckles, twisting just enough to tear a scream from his throat. Skinny tried to move, but the ropes held him tight to the chair.
—Hey, Ethan… how many fingers do you think this idiot will lose before he gives me the combination? —Baz asked with unsettling calm, as if discussing a bar bet, while he began counting the fingers—. One… two… three… So, tell me, are we doing this the easy way or the hard way?—
Baz stood in front of him, calm, knife in hand. The blade gleamed under the yellowish light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Without a word, he pinned Skinny's left hand against the wood. Skinny struggled, thrashing like a trapped beast.
—Don't move —growled Baz, placing the blade on his fingers.
With a swift motion, the knife came down. A scream split the room as two fingers dropped to the floor, leaving a crimson trail on the surface. Skinny tried to resist, gritting his teeth, but the pain shook him to his core.
—Stop! Stop! That's enough! —he screamed, his voice raw, almost a howl. Blood dripped between his knuckles, staining the floor.
—You gonna start talking now, cabrón? —Baz said, leaning toward him, the blade still wet with blood.
Skinny panted, his face twisted, his eyes wavering between hatred and terror. Finally, he lowered his head, his voice cracked in surrender.
—Alright… alright… I give up.
—The combination, you son of a bitch. Now!
Skinny, sobbing, gasped out the series of numbers.
Baz straightened up with a smile.
—See? Wasn't that hard, we didn't have to go this far.
Baz walked over to the safe and spun the dial according to the code Skinny had given. The metallic click echoed in the room.
As he turned the handle and opened it, a cold metallic breath rushed out. Inside, the shelves were packed:
The bills were wrapped in transparent plastic, stacks of cash piled up into small green walls, neatly arranged as if someone had spent hours placing them perfectly.
In the lower compartment, several gold bars lay stacked. About twenty roughly cast bars, but each clearly weighed at least a kilo, small enough to fit in the palm of a hand.
At the sight, Baz couldn't help but whistle in awe. This was far better than they had imagined.
Ethan released Skinny, letting Craig keep him under guard as he hurried over to Baz. The air in the room seemed denser, charged with tension and money.
Baz dropped the duffel bag from his back and gave it a hard shake. The fabric rustled before opening wide. Quickly, he grabbed the stacks of plastic-wrapped bills and the gold bars, carefully placing them inside. Ethan did the same with his own bag, and together they filled them to the brim.
—Shit, yeah… this is what I'm talking about, damn —muttered Craig, his voice rough with pure excitement.
—Alright, all set! —shouted Baz, turning around.
Then Ethan noticed a small drawer with a metal handle, hidden just under the safe. He slipped his fingers into the grooves and pulled with all his strength.
A massive gold ingot emerged before him, the size of a brick, gleaming with an almost hypnotic glow. Nothing like the smaller bars he'd seen before; this one alone was worth close to a million dollars.
Sweat trickled down his forehead as he glanced at Baz's already overflowing bag.
—Come on, hurry up! —Craig shouted from the hallway, stealing a nervous glance.
They had prepared the gear in advance; whatever it was, they'd find a way to haul it out. Ethan could lift a hundred kilos of gold, but it wasn't easy. His fingers whitened with the force needed to push the ingot into the backpack.
Alongside the gold, he found several watches and a small black satin pouch. He recognized immediately what it meant. With a swift motion, he opened it: half a bag filled with diamonds sparkled before his eyes, shining as if alive.
—Guys, ninety seconds, hurry! —Job's voice came, tense. Unable to see what was happening inside, he only had his watch as reference.
—On it —Ethan replied, tightening his grip on the pouch and stuffing the diamonds into his beach shorts. He also pocketed the three exquisite watches.
Ethan slung the gold-filled backpack over his shoulder, the weight nearly tearing it off. The massive safe was empty now; they had taken everything.
—Deran, get in here and help! —shouted Baz into the earpiece, never taking his eyes off Skinny. He stepped closer, aiming straight at his face—. I give you my word… you're not walking out of here alive.
—Alright, all set! —he added, flashing Ethan a crooked grin.
Skinny watched his world collapse before his eyes. The lost stash, his dead men, the money slipping away like water through his fingers. Sweat ran in heavy drops down his forehead, his breathing was ragged, his lips trembled as he struggled to hold his rage. He spat on the floor with contempt.
—You sons of bitches… —he muttered with a broken voice, forcing a façade of courage—. Kill me already! When the cartel finds you, they'll tear you to pieces.
Baz let out a low, dark chuckle, a sound that chilled more than Skinny's own threats.
—That's what I wanted to hear —he murmured, tilting his head like a predator that had already chosen its prey.
Skinny writhed, his fear turning into blind fury. He raised his hands, shaking them in the air like a suicidal challenge, eyes bulging, pupils glassy from cocaine.
—Come on, cabrón! —he shouted, his voice laced with hate—. Pull the trigger if you've got the balls!
He leaned forward, spitting at them again, as if begging for the bullet that would finally send him to hell.
—Do it! Shoot me, bastards!
Bang!
The bullet blew off half his skull. A thick red jet splattered across the wall and even the carpet. The body collapsed with a dull thud, convulsing for a few seconds before going limp, blood spreading beneath him like a grotesque stain.
Ethan, carrying the gold, didn't stop. He stepped into the pool of blood with his boots and brushed aside the carpet remains with indifference. His eyes dropped to the lifeless body, eyes wide open, jaw slack, and he saw the golden pistol that had rolled away from his hand.
He crouched and picked it up. The gold-plated Colt M1911 gleamed under the light, heavy and oily to the touch. The ivory-inlaid grip was stained with fresh blood, yet it still felt like a trophy.
Ethan loaded it without hesitation and tucked it into his belt.
Baz took the chance to stuff several boxes of Cuban cigars into the bag of bills. Meanwhile, Deran appeared, panting. The corpses he had seen left him shaken. Spotting Craig sweating in the chair, he helped him up.
Leaving the wrecked office behind, they rushed down the stairs. Seeing them, Job triggered the virus he had pre-installed in the system. All surveillance records from the week were erased without a trace.
Smurf, waiting in the car, spotted seven or eight figures rushing down the street.
—Job! —he shouted, throwing the door open and raising his submachine gun. He opened fire on the gang rushing in their direction.
In an instant, Smurf cut down two Mexican gangsters sprinting toward the back exit. The others scattered, ducking behind cars and firing back. The dark street lit up with the flash of gunfire.
—Hurry up! —Job yelled, slamming his laptop shut.
Bang, bang, bang!
Job grabbed his Glock and jumped out of the car through the side door, firing nonstop to cover Smurf.
At that same moment, several men burst through the back exit, weapons drawn.
—Die, you bastards! —roared Deran, raising his shotgun. The blast thundered, spraying shrapnel that ripped through the air and forced the attackers to dive for cover.
With Deran covering them, the crew stormed down the stairs in a rush.
Bursts of gunfire rattled the parked cars around them. Alarms screamed in a deafening chorus while flashing lights painted the street in red and orange. The windows of nearby buildings went dark all at once, and a few curious neighbors peeked out for a second before hiding again. Even in Mexico, it wasn't common to see a firefight like this.
Craig, bleeding, struggled to climb into the vehicle. Ethan grabbed his arm and dragged him to the van, shoving him inside.
Bang!
Ethan leapt onto the threshold, clung tightly to the frame, and fired on the move. The Glock roared in his hand, and a bullet shredded the chest of a man trying to flank them. The body spun in the air and hit the pavement hard.
—Smurf, get us the hell out of here! —shouted Baz, tossing the money bag into the car.
The gunfight didn't let up. Sparks flew as bullets struck the bodywork, the metallic echo filling the air. With cover fire from Ethan and Baz, the rest stumbled their way in and scrambled into the vehicle.
The black van roared to life, screeched hard, and shot down the street, devouring the asphalt as gunfire bounced off its sides.
Inside, everyone ducked instinctively as bullets clattered against the armor. The noise was deafening, like traveling inside a giant iron bell.
And the long escape was just beginning.
—Shit!
The Iveco jolted, tossing everyone side to side. Deran slammed into Craig, crushing him against the wall and sparking a stream of curses.
—Hold on tight! —growled Smurf, wrenching the wheel. The vehicle steadied abruptly, but the tires screeched as they tore through the curve.
The interior was chaos. The middle seats had been removed, leaving only two makeshift rows along the sides. Ethan pulled himself up through the swaying and grabbed Job, sitting him down beside him.
—Hahaha… is this what you pictured? —Ethan said, flashing a crooked grin.
Job, gasping for breath, settled himself as best he could. In front of him lay a swollen bag nearly half a meter wide. His eyes went wide. He scratched his bald head in disbelief.
—Yeah… just like this.
Ethan ripped off the sweat-soaked rubber mask and wiped his face with his sleeve. He took a deep breath, catching his air, and pulled a small packet of diamonds from his pocket. With a quick motion, he tossed it to Job.
—And this too.
Job caught the bag with both hands and clutched it frantically. He felt the rough texture of the stones, like sparkling gravel. His eyes gleamed with a mix of greed and relief.
—Is this what I think it is? —he asked, almost trembling.
Ethan nodded. Then, without hesitation, he slipped off the small backpack from his shoulders and threw it against the van's metal side. The sound was so dry and heavy that Job and Deran instantly flinched.
Smurf, behind the wheel, glanced back out of the corner of his eye. That metallic noise didn't sit well with him.
Job, restless, couldn't take his eyes off the backpack. Ethan looked him straight in the eyes and confirmed with a firm nod.
Ethan leaned toward Job, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He gave Job's bald head a shake, like a gesture between comrades.
—Relax —he said in a deep, almost paternal voice—. All this work was worth it. With what we got, you won't have to worry for a good while… at least when it comes to money.
Deran burst out laughing and bumped fists with Job, carried away by the euphoria. The haul had been far better than expected.
—And what? Nobody remembers me? —Craig growled from the floor, coughing. He slowly pulled himself up, rubbing the side where Deran had slammed into him—. I'm bleeding out here and you guys are celebrating like you hit the lottery.
The van roared as it sped up, devouring the dark road while the echoes of sirens faded into the bustle of Tijuana's night streets.
The vehicle zigzagged through narrow avenues and damp alleys. Smurf, knuckles white on the steering wheel, took sharp turns and changed course several times, erasing any trail. At one point, he screeched to a stop under a bridge and quickly got out to swap the plates.
Half an hour later, the Iveco emerged silently onto the coastal zone. The salty breeze hit their faces when, at last, they reached their seaside residence.
Craig spat out the towel he had been using to plug his mouth and collapsed against the backrest. Sweat ran down his forehead and cheeks, soaking his shirt. He turned his head toward Smurf, his expression tired but defiant.
—Bastard… you almost got us killed out there.
Smurf washed his hands in the nearby sink and reluctantly pulled a joint from his pocket. He tossed it to Craig, who snatched it up and lit it with an eager grin.
He took a long drag, filling his lungs with thick smoke. He coughed just once, then relaxed, as if the pain had vanished. His thigh was already firmly bandaged; the bullet had gone straight through without hitting anything vital. He'd been lucky, though he wouldn't be able to move normally for ten days, maybe a couple of weeks.
But he didn't care. Avenging his brother, himself, and getting the money back made up for everything.
Craig took another deep drag from the joint, closed his eyes, and exhaled with relief, releasing a dense cloud that hung heavily in the air.
In the living room, Smurf, Ethan, Job, Baz, and Deran were busy sorting the loot. Rest was impossible; the excitement was too much. Ethan grabbed a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet, took a long swig, and set it down by the table.
It wasn't past three in the morning when Job and Smurf finished counting the loot. The cash was the easiest: by weight and denomination, the amount was clear. That was how traffickers counted money, since it was too much to tally bill by bill.
On the table, laid over a black cloth, rested a large gold bar, a small pile of diamonds sparkling under the light, and several luxury watches. The cash totaled nearly five million dollars, while the gold bar was worth about 2.5 million at current gold prices (2015–2016).
Job, with his expertise, also appraised the watches and diamonds. The three Patek Philippe watches, sold through his channels, would fetch about $250,000. The diamonds, by his estimate, were worth around eight million; however, on the black market their price would drop considerably. In Mexico they could barely get 25% of their value —about two million— while through Smurf and Job's U.S. networks, they could raise it to 30%. But that carried risks: they could be ambushed on the way or even detained by immigration officers at the border.
The diamonds were valued based on Mexico's export price. Smurf and Job were old partners, and Ethan had proven his intimidating strength during this operation, gaining allies for revenge.
That's why Smurf's numbers were real. The cash and gold were the easiest to move; in Mexico they could be used directly.
As thanks to Job and the others, Smurf didn't apply any cuts. The market value of the watches and diamonds differed from the real price, but Ethan and Job knew the calculation was fair. They exchanged glances and nodded at Smurf's figure.
Estimated total: $9.75 million. A massive haul.
According to the deal, Ethan and Job would receive one third: $3.25 million.
After deducting the $200,000 Smurf had advanced to Job, there were still a little over three million to split between them. Job and Smurf did the math quickly, and everyone confirmed the figure. Better to make it clear; each had their own interests.
The golden pistol Ethan carried at his waist went unnoticed; nobody mentioned it. It was more of a trophy than anything else, and the gold plating wasn't worth much. The truly valuable thing was having someone like Ethan as an ally: his performance in the operation proved it. Having him would be a useful asset in the future.
Baz opened the boxes of Cohiba cigars and tossed one to each. Ethan took Job's knife and cut his on the table before lighting it with a lighter. The aroma filled the air, and the taste was exceptional.
—Job, Ethan —Smurf said with a smile, exhaling a puff of smoke—. Without you, I don't think we would've made it out of this so well. You can take your cut however you want.
They looked at each other, and Job reached for a nearby stack. For him, cash was the only real thing. Taking diamonds would be a hassle, and selling them would take too long. He couldn't afford to wait in Mexico.
Money, on the other hand, was easy to move. Worst case, he could launder it through a shell company. Besides, they needed to move it across the country, which would be tough.
Ethan said nothing, letting Job handle it. Job had the most experience moving money, so Ethan left the decision to him.
Job approached calmly, carefully choosing what to take without raising suspicion or overloading himself. With steady hands, he set aside several stacks of bills, counting them quickly until he reached the sum that completed part of their three-million share.
Then his attention shifted to the diamonds. He picked them up carefully and stored them in a black velvet pouch he kept at his side. One million in cash and two in diamonds: the perfect balance. The cash would give him immediate relief, while the gemstones, easy to move, secured the rest of the deal.
While Job was separating the money and diamonds, Ethan's attention drifted to the luxury watches neatly displayed. Among them, one immediately caught his eye: a Patek Philippe Nautilus.
At first glance it looked modest, but those who knew watches knew it was worth a fortune. Ethan, however, only thought it looked good… and that it would make a fine gift for Brock, now that he'd been promoted to Sheriff.
—You don't mind, right? —he said, slipping the watch onto his wrist and looking at the Codys—. Fifty grand isn't much.
Smurf gave a faint smile, tilting his head in complicity.
—Of course not, thanks to you the whole mission went well… besides, it suits you, darling.
He said no more; he wasn't about to argue over something so small compared to what they'd gained. They could easily move the smaller items little by little toward Oceanside, so doing it in several trips wasn't hard.
—And tell me, how do you plan to get them across the border? —Job asked, turning to Ethan.
—You won't pass inspection —Smurf shook his head—. Even if they're small items, they're not that easy to hide.
Ethan simply smiled.
—Don't worry, I've got my own ways. I'll cross changing borders. Nothing to worry about.
Baz, not quite catching the idea, exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and asked incredulously:—You're crossing the desert? Isn't that too dangerous?
Ethan shook his head gently, bringing the cigar to his lips before calmly replying:—No, nothing like that. I've got my own means.
He sank into the armchair, enjoying the taste of tobacco with the same calmness he spoke with.
Once the pending matters were settled, Ethan and Job took care of gathering the stacks of cash on the counter. They packed them into duffel bags, making sure nothing was left loose. As for Marco and his crew's expenses, Smurf would handle that; Job and the others had no intention of getting involved in that detail.
Smurf looked at the black duffel bags neatly lined up on the floor and let out a relieved breath. This time, the job had been perfect. Not only had she eliminated her enemy and avenged what they'd done to her son, but she'd also made a fortune, and nothing pleased her more.
With joy, she went to the bar cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and several glasses.
They filled them, and everyone raised their glasses.
—To life, to friends! —Smurf led the toast.
—To friends! —they all cheered in unison, and Craig, sitting nearby, raised his arm too.
After sipping his whiskey, Smurf looked at Job.
—I plan to head back tomorrow. You?
—Tomorrow as well, with you —Job replied without hesitation. They had just killed a lot of people, so why would he stay there? The longer they lingered, the more trouble could come.
Back in his room, Ethan showered and jumped into bed. An idea struck him, and the system panel appeared before him. The taskbar blinked, signaling the task had finished.
Skill Name:Tactical Radar
Description:Awakens a primal radar-like sense within the user, projecting a mental map of their surroundings. Allies appear as white signals while enemies glow red, allowing the user to track movement and position in real time.
With a light tap on the screen, the bar vanished. A radar skill quietly appeared on the panel. Ethan took a deep breath, closed the system panel, and activated the skill.
The moment it activated, a translucent circular screen appeared in the upper left corner of his field of vision. It glowed light green, with several dots of light.
At the center of the screen, a small yellow dot shone. Ethan blinked a few times, adjusting to the scene. Wrapped in a towel, he rose from the bed.
He tried it several times, confirming that the yellow dot represented himself.
Simultaneously, five other white dots appeared on the screen: some stayed still, others moved erratically. As he changed position, the dots moved closer or farther on the radar. The information flowed straight into his mind: white for allies, red for enemies.
Heart racing with excitement, Ethan stepped barefoot out of bed and kept testing the functions. He walked around the room, watching how the white dots matched the people within scan range. Arrows indicated whether they were on an upper or lower floor, like in a video game.
He could even mark targets with Arabic numerals.
Thrilled, he went outside for a nighttime walk. When Baz asked, he simply replied he wanted some fresh air.
After several tries, he confirmed the radar's range was about twenty-five meters from his position. Not much, but inside a building it was practically cheating: every enemy movement was exposed. With that skill, his combat effectiveness had leapt forward dramatically.
When he finally decided to switch it off, the glowing screen faded from his vision, leaving him with a strange sense of emptiness. He knew he'd have to use it frequently until it became second nature. In combat, a few seconds could make all the difference. Having the skill was just the beginning; mastering it was what really counted.