"What's going on?"
Patrick rushed up, his body covered in wounds and bloodstains splattered across his tactical gear. He had taken advantage of the brief lull to find Owen and discuss next steps, but the looks on everyone's faces immediately told him something was wrong.
Owen glanced at Ela, then ultimately spoke up himself. "I'm sorry, Patrick. We just received new orders from the President. I'm afraid… we have to leave."
"Leave? Go where?"
Patrick didn't immediately grasp the meaning, but within seconds his eyes widened in shock.
"Goddammit, how can you—? You…"
He didn't finish. The whirring of rotor blades drowned him out. Through the shattered remains of walls and windows, several Apache helicopters appeared in the sky. Their design and markings unmistakably identified them as U.S. military.
The Apaches didn't land but circled above, while down below, armored vehicles and Humvees approached from the distance, rumbling to a halt outside the compound.
"Damn it. Unreliable Americans…"
"Owen, they're here."
Silly Sweet's voice came through the earpiece as Patrick continued cursing.
"All personnel, prepare to withdraw."
Owen gave the command. Although Omega and Phantom Team members were clearly displeased, they followed orders without hesitation.
"We're really just going to leave? What about them?"
Ela stared into Owen's eyes as she passed him, her voice filled with frustration. Owen didn't answer. Ela eventually stomped downstairs with the others. Emotionally, she wanted to stay and fight beside the Mexican DEA agents—but that would only mean dying with them, without changing the outcome.
Outside, the cartel gunmen kept a wary distance from the U.S. convoy. No shots were fired, but the standoff was tense. The Sánchez family's forces had encircled the Americans, but the U.S. troops used loudspeakers in Spanish to announce their position and intentions—likely explaining why the cartel hadn't attacked yet.
"Let those cowards leave…"
"I'm ashamed to have fought alongside them…"
"Americans can never be trusted…"
"We should've known better than to believe them…"
The U.S. military's neutral stance made everything painfully clear. The DEA agents quickly realized what was happening, and mocking jeers followed.
Omega and Phantom Team suddenly felt like pariahs—like rats scurrying through the streets. None of them had ever felt so humiliated.
As Owen's people boarded the military vehicles, Patrick stood off to the side, pale and hollow-eyed. Ghost and Shepherd brought out Mario and Guzmán. Ghost's face was hidden behind goggles, but Shepherd's expression was grim. He said nothing.
"Follow me."
Owen didn't hand the hostages over to Patrick but instead escorted them outside.
The moment the two captives appeared, the cartel forces erupted in commotion. Some looked ready to charge—until Owen pressed a pistol to Mario's temple. His eyes were cold and firm as he swept his gaze across the crowd. The potential attackers froze. If Mario was killed because of their recklessness, they knew their cartel would retaliate against them and their families.
"Let him go—but tell them, Mario doesn't get released until we reach the border. If they attack the DEA before then, I'll kill him. And I mean that."
The first part was directed at Ghost; the second, at Shepherd—because Shepherd spoke Spanish.
Shepherd nodded and translated Owen's words loudly. The cartel side immediately reacted.
"No deal."
A man stepped forward, raising his hand. All the cartel guns pointed toward the U.S. convoy, fingers on triggers.
Owen recognized him—Dorok Sánchez, brother of Laita Sánchez, uncle to Mario. He was undoubtedly the ranking commander among the armed cartel forces on site.
Owen suppressed his urge to shoot him on the spot, but his posture was unyielding. He signaled to Ghost to release Guzmán and began pulling Mario backward toward the Humvees.
Just then, a pained scream rang out.
Ghost had yanked a combat knife from Guzmán's thigh and wiped the blade clean on the man's shirt.
"I said I wouldn't let you off. Our boss might be letting you go, but you're going to pay something for it."
Ghost finished and kicked Guzmán toward Dorok. The cartel leader caught the wounded man and looked at Ghost in disbelief. Was this guy insane? Doing something like that now—did he want to start a war?
But Ghost casually walked back to the convoy, and Dorok, rattled, didn't give the order to fire. He couldn't figure out what kind of people these Americans were, but he was now certain: they were lunatics.
"We can't…"
"Drive, or I'll kill him right now!"
The lead U.S. officer tried to speak up but was cut off by Owen's icy command. The soldier met Owen's dead-cold stare, then glanced at Ghost. He fell silent. He couldn't risk betting that Owen was bluffing—if he really pulled the trigger, it would trigger a war.
The convoy started moving.
Apaches continued circling overhead. Dorok hesitated but ultimately did not give the command to fire. His vehicles followed behind the U.S. convoy closely. He had made up his mind—once Mario was returned at the border, he'd let them go. But if they broke that promise, even the U.S. military would pay a heavy price.
In moments, the combined convoy and cartel escort left the devastated DEA compound behind. Patrick and the surviving agents watched them go, silent and numb. Words failed them.
Only when Owen confirmed that Dorok's vehicles were following did he finally exhale. Insisting on releasing Mario at the border had been a calculated move—for the DEA's sake. It wouldn't solve the problem, but at least it might buy them a little breathing room. That was all Owen could do now.
At the border, waiting civilian vehicles had already been ordered aside. The U.S. convoy passed first, followed by the heavily armed cartel force—just thirty meters between them, tension thick in the air.
The closer they got, the tighter the atmosphere. Dorok feared the Americans would renege; the Americans feared Dorok would try to snatch Mario.
Finally, the convoy halted. A Humvee door opened, and Mario was kicked out onto the pavement.
He scrambled to his feet, relief etched across his face. Injured and still handcuffed, he staggered back toward his own people, overwhelmed with the joy of having escaped death.
______
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