"Owen, what's going on?"
Patrick and Shepherd both asked through the radio almost simultaneously.
"Mario is most likely inside that restaurant."
Silence followed on the comms. No one asked Owen how he knew.
A group of fully armed American soldiers stormed into the restaurant with weapons raised. The place wasn't large—one could see all the way to the back. Owen remained alert, his right eye aligned with his sight, ready to fire at any moment, while his left eye scanned the room.
They swept through the space quickly. No sign of Mario. From the kitchen, Shepherd appeared with his team, shaking his head at Owen. From the beginning, Omega had been tasked with the front while Phantom Squad had gone straight to the kitchen. They'd left no one unchecked, yet there was no sign of Mario.
"Boss, look over there…"
Ghost gestured with a nod toward the round window of the back door. Owen moved over and saw a strip club tucked behind the Italian restaurant. Neon lights painted the place in a sleazy, colorful glow. A bald bouncer stood at the entrance, smoking.
Thankfully, people in Mexico were used to this kind of chaos. When Owen and his heavily armed team barged in, no one screamed. Some women covered their mouths, while others stared like curious spectators watching a show.
Since there had been no commotion, the bouncer out back hadn't noticed a thing. He continued puffing away.
Owen and the others exchanged glances. Maybe they had made a mistake. Leaving the restaurant to the DEA units arriving behind them, Omega and Phantom Squad slipped outside and crept along the wall toward the bouncer.
The bald man was in mid-drag when he felt something hard press into the back of his skull. Being raised in Mexico, he immediately knew what it was.
Ghost held a gun to his head while Heartbeat frisked him—no weapons. Only then did they spin him around.
"Is Mario Sánchez inside?"
It was Shepherd who asked. None of the Omega team spoke Spanish.
The bouncer glanced at the group, gulped in fear, then nodded.
"How many are with him?"
"Three—no, four. They're in the west booth…"
He stammered. Owen didn't bother asking if they were armed. In Mexico, even ordinary people often carried weapons—let alone cartel leaders.
Owen gave a small nod. Ghost struck the man with a rifle butt, knocking him out. The guy was probably just local club security, not part of Mario's personal detail.
Quickly assigning roles, the two squads pushed into the strip club.
Inside, under dim lights, scantily clad dancers moved seductively on stage. Everyone's attention was focused forward, which helped them enter unnoticed.
Per the plan, Omega headed toward the west. Shepherd stayed near the entrance to keep escape routes open and maintain 360-degree security.
Owen spotted Mario the moment he stepped inside—exact match to the photos. The bouncer hadn't lied. Mario sat in a western booth, accompanied by one man at the table and two standing bodyguards.
As soon as Omega advanced, the two bodyguards noticed them and reached for their weapons.
Thwip, thwip!
Two muffled shots—both chest hits. Blood bloomed, and they dropped instantly.
The gunshots set off a panic. Chaos erupted inside the club.
Through the noise, Owen never removed Mario from his sights. Mario, knowing he was marked, didn't move a muscle. He sat quietly on the sofa, watching them approach.
The man next to him, however, reacted late. Turning to look, he locked eyes with Ghost, who gestured calmly and whispered, "Easy, easy... just relax…"
Whether the man didn't understand or decided to make a move, he suddenly reached toward his back.
Bang!
Ghost fired without hesitation. The young man collapsed onto the coffee table, spilling blood and beer in a grim cocktail across the floor.
By now, Owen had reached Mario. The cartel lieutenant hadn't moved a muscle, too cowardly to risk his life.
Owen handcuffed him and pulled a black hood over his head, then dragged him outside.
The operation had gone remarkably smoothly. Omega had taken out three. Phantom Squad hadn't even fired a shot.
Outside, they ran into Patrick and his team just arriving.
Patrick caught sight of the black hood and turned a questioning look to Owen, who leaned in and whispered, "Mario Sánchez."
Even through his mask, Patrick's excitement was clear. They reloaded into their vehicles just as a young boy burst from the club—he'd been selling coke inside and had witnessed everything. Watching the convoy disappear down the street, he took out his phone and made a call.
"Well done…"
Ela gave a rare compliment, then stomped the gas pedal. The convoy was moving again.
Owen sat with Guzmán in one vehicle while Mario was held by Shepherd's team. This capture had been pure luck. Their planned raid had been a bust, but on the way back, they'd stumbled on Mario by accident. And they owed it all to Guzmán—if he hadn't reacted to seeing Mario's signature yellow sports car, Owen never would've noticed.
The convoy pressed forward, heading toward the border. Mario was the Sánchez Group's second-in-command. There was no way he could remain in Mexico—it was far too dangerous.
In the vehicle, Owen kept his eyes fixed on the view behind them. A dark feeling gnawed at him. Everything looked normal outside, but it felt like the calm before a storm.
The deeper they drove, the stronger the dread grew.
Grabbing the radio, Owen asked, "Patrick, how much longer to the border?"
"Fastest route—about twenty minutes."
There was a pause. Then Owen said, "No. We're not taking that route. Are there any alternatives?"
"There's one—but we'd have to cross into the Papato Family's territory. They're one of the six major cartels too…"
Patrick sounded hesitant.
"Yes. That's the one. Take that route."
Owen made the decision firmly.
Patrick hesitated only a moment before nodding. The convoy veered off the original course.
The six major Mexican cartels didn't cooperate—they competed. That's why Owen changed the plan so decisively. By heading into Papato territory, the Sánchez Group would hesitate to follow. Unless they wanted a full-on war, they'd have to think twice.
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