Chapter 21: Blood in the Desert
The private jet touched down in the dead of night, its tires kicking up dust on the remote airstrip in Sonora, Mexico. Jesse, Mike, Victor, and a small team of trusted enforcers disembarked quickly, their movements sharp and precise. There was no room for mistakes.
Jesse had never done something like this before—leading a surgical strike on foreign soil—but he wasn't the same man he had been a year ago. NZT-48 had sharpened him, given him an edge that no one else had. Every detail had been analyzed, every possibility accounted for. This wasn't a wild gamble. It was a calculated execution.
Mike approached him as they walked toward their vehicles, his expression unreadable. "You sure about this, kid?"
Jesse nodded. "Rivera dies tonight."
The Trap
Rivera was holed up in a luxurious villa outside Hermosillo, surrounded by a private security force of nearly twenty men. According to Jesse's intel, he was meeting with potential suppliers—an opportunity to hit him when he was distracted.
The plan was simple.
A decoy attack at the front gates to draw security away.
A silent entry from the back using suppressed weapons.
Eliminate Rivera and any key lieutenants.
Get out before reinforcements arrived.
As they approached the villa, Jesse's mind was in overdrive. NZT painted the battlefield in his mind like a chessboard. He saw the angles, the movements, the likely reactions of Rivera's men. His heartbeat was steady. Controlled.
Victor, leading the front assault team, checked in through the earpiece. "We're in position."
Jesse exhaled. "Go."
The first explosion rocked the front gate. The sound of automatic gunfire echoed into the night as Rivera's guards scrambled to respond.
Jesse, Mike, and their three-man strike team slipped through the back entrance.
Inside, the villa was chaos. Rivera's men were rushing toward the front, leaving only a handful to guard their boss. Jesse moved like a ghost, his silenced pistol taking down two guards in rapid succession.
The team pushed forward, sweeping through hallways until they reached the main lounge.
And there he was.
Santiago Rivera stood frozen, a glass of whiskey in hand, his eyes wide with disbelief as Jesse Pinkman—of all people—walked through the door.
"You—"
Two shots rang out before he could finish.
Rivera collapsed, his body hitting the marble floor with a dull thud.
Jesse didn't even blink.
"We're done. Move out."
Fallout
The return to Albuquerque was quiet. The mission had been clean. Fast. Efficient.
Rivera was dead. His cartel remnants would collapse without his leadership.
But Jesse knew it wasn't over.
With every move he made, he climbed higher up the ladder. And the higher he climbed, the harder the fall would be if he slipped.
He sat in his penthouse that night, staring out over the city. The weight of everything pressed down on him.
Rachel was gone.
The war was over—for now.
And he had built an empire that no one could challenge.
But for the first time, Jesse wondered if he was truly in control…
Or if he had just built himself a new kind of prison.