Listening to Patrick's account, Owen couldn't help but feel a deep sense of admiration. The environment for drug enforcement in Mexico was extremely hostile—from government officials to average citizens, nearly everyone seemed entangled with the cartels.
Every year, large numbers of DEA officers died on the front lines of the drug war. In this country, cartel power could even influence government decisions.
The major Mexican drug cartels had their hands deep in the business and political sectors. Many government officials were essentially under cartel control. Anyone who came to power vowing to fight the drug trade wouldn't last long—you'd soon hear news of them being gunned down. These outlaws no longer cared about laws or governments. Public assassinations were common occurrences, and it wasn't hard to imagine what fate awaited those DEA agents who dared to stand against them.
Owen looked at the pictures in the memorial room, then at Patrick, whose hair was now graying. These were people with ideals. They understood the damage drugs could do. They wanted to see a better Mexico—and they were gambling their own lives and those of their families for that vision.
People like that, naive as they might seem, earned Owen's respect.
"Captain, bad news!"
Suddenly, a young DEA officer ran into the memorial room, his expression anxious.
"What's going on?" Patrick's recounting was interrupted. He turned to the officer at the door.
The officer was young—only someone his age would still have the courage to go head-to-head with ruthless cartel members.
"We just received a report of a drug transaction taking place on the outskirts of town. Hector thought it was a routine deal and took two teams with him. Just now he called in requesting backup—but then the line went dead..."
"Damn it. Sound the alarm—get everyone ready. We're going to support them. Let's hope we're not too late."
Patrick rushed out of the memorial room. Moments later, he appeared in the main hall fully geared in a bulletproof vest and helmet. Ela looked to Owen. Owen turned to the others: "We're going with them."
The Mexican DEA moved quickly. Soon the hall was filled with fully equipped officers. At Patrick's command, everyone sprinted toward their vehicles.
"We'll go with you. Maybe we can help."
Owen patted the Humvee they'd come in. Its bulky, rugged frame exuded raw aggression. Patrick had intended to refuse, but upon seeing the Humvee, he hesitated—then nodded.
"I can't guarantee your safety. Watch yourselves out there."
Patrick gave one last warning before climbing into his truck. Police pickups and patrol cars roared out of the parking lot, with the Humvee trailing at a steady pace behind them. Compared to the Mexican units' vehicles, the Humvee was much better protected—it could withstand ordinary bullets and shrapnel.
Of course, the Humvee was also notoriously uncomfortable. Apart from being bulletproof, it had no other redeeming qualities. Once it got moving, the noise was deafening, and the dust poured in as if the vehicle had no roof at all. No wonder the company that made them went under—who besides the military would want this hunk of junk?
The convoy sped down the road, approaching the area they'd been told about. The vehicles slowed as they neared the location. Fully armed DEA agents kept sharp eyes on the surroundings. They had left the city now—no buildings, just open fields and grassy hills.
It was eerily quiet. Other than the convoy's engines, no other sounds could be heard. Up ahead, two destroyed SUVs lay by the roadside. Bodies were strewn around, blood splattered everywhere.
The DEA officers fell silent. They were too late.
The agents fanned out, checking the surroundings, but the attackers were long gone. Patrick stared at the corpses without a word. His eyes burned with fury.
Omega disembarked and approached. Most of the bodies were clustered around the vehicles. Two more lay separately—one past the guardrail, another in the middle of the road. Swagg examined the wounds and bullet patterns, then motioned for Fred to follow him up a nearby hillside.
The others spread out, each following their instincts to analyze the scene.
Moments later, they regrouped. Swagg glanced around and started his report: "This was a planned ambush. One sniper was hidden fifteen meters up the slope on the left. When the vehicles slowed to make the turn, he opened fire on the sides and tires. At least one officer was hit. But the vehicles didn't stop—they pushed forward while returning fire."
Swagg finished, and Fred pointed to a different area and continued: "That's when a second sniper on the outside of the curve took a shot. He was using an anti-materiel rifle—one shot went through the front vehicle's engine block, rendering it immobile. The car behind crashed into it, and both stopped there."
Ela, not wanting to be left out, picked up the narrative: "Normally, the lead vehicle's team would dismount, using the car as cover, then approach the rear vehicle. If they could get it started, they'd still have a chance to escape. But the ambushers didn't give them that opportunity. Gunmen hidden on both sides of the guardrail opened fire."
"All of them were using American-made M4s," Bayev added, pointing to spent shell casings near the roadside ambush sites. "Some officers made it to the vehicle, others died in the open. The rear vehicle began to reverse—but its tires were shot out. Their only ride destroyed, the agents had no choice but to take cover and return fire. That's probably when they made the call for backup."
"Yes. And the battle ended soon after," Ghost concluded. "Two snipers on overwatch, gunmen flanking both sides. They were surrounded—no blind spots. And with an anti-materiel rifle in play, even vehicle cover was useless. The agents were picked off one by one. One tried to jump the guardrail, another tried to climb the hill—both were gunned down."
"This was done by professionals," Owen summarized. "Two snipers, four riflemen, eleven fully equipped DEA agents wiped out. Not a single casualty on the ambushers' side."
Everyone pieced together what they had observed, reconstructing the entire ambush. Owen stroked his chin as he examined the layout. It was clearly a well-planned trap. The report of a drug deal had just been bait. The cartel had predicted the DEA's route with precision.
There was no doubt—this was revenge. Whether or not it was directly related to yesterday's events, it was undeniably retaliation.
Owen recalled a detail from Becky's intel: many cartel gunmen in Mexico were former military. Some had even been DEA officers. They knew law enforcement's procedures inside and out, which was why operations often failed—and the cartels' vengeance was swift and brutal.
Mexico also frequently bought heavy weapons from the U.S. In terms of personnel, tactics, firepower, and numbers, cartel militias weren't far behind the regular army. In a full-scale confrontation, it wasn't clear who would win.
Owen examined the corpses one by one, putting himself in the attackers' shoes, trying to think through their strategy. As he watched an officer move toward a body, a thought struck him.
"No! Stop! Don't touch him—"
But he was too late.
Just as the officer made contact, a loud boom exploded through the air. The man was instantly killed—becoming the twelfth body at the scene. Others nearby were knocked to the ground by the blast.
"Take cover! Get down!" Owen shouted.
But Omega didn't need the reminder—they had already sought shelter. If snipers had been lying in wait to follow up that booby trap with another ambush, casualties would've been severe.
Thankfully, the attackers really had pulled out.
The ambush Owen imagined never came.
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