OUTSKIRTS OF LAGUNA
The house in Laguna stood at the end of a dirt road, hidden behind overgrown foliage. The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked earth, and the only sounds were the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.
Torres tightened his grip on his coat as he stepped toward the front door. Ms. Holiday walked ahead of him, her heels clicking against the cracked stone path. She didn't hesitate, didn't pause to check for threats-because she already knew what was inside.
That bothered him.
"How do you know this man?" Torres asked.
Ms. Holiday glanced at him, a smirk curling at her lips. "You're asking the wrong question."
"Then what's the right one?"
"Why does this "Cruz" want to meet you?"
She pushed open the door without knocking.
Inside, the house was stripped bare. No furniture, no decorations-just dust-covered floors and walls that had seen better days. A single candle flickered on a wooden crate in the center of the room, casting long shadows.
A man sat beside it, hunched slightly, his fingers steepled together. His clothes were plain-worn slacks, a loose button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows but his posture spoke of someone who once carried power.
His salt-and-pepper hair was combed back, a habit from his past life, but the graying stubble on his face suggested he no longer cared about appearances.
There was no arrogance in his expression. Just weariness.
A man carrying too many sins on his back.
"You're late," Cruz said, his voice even but tired. His sharp eyes flicked between Torres and Holiday, studying them the way a man who doesn't trust anyone would.
"But I suppose you had your reasons."
Torres didn't sit.
"That depends, what exactly are we here for?"
Cruz reached into his coat and pulled out a thick folder, setting it on the crate.
He tapped a single finger against it.
"The Velasco case. What I know. What I couldn't stop."
Torres felt his stomach tighten. He stepped forward, but Holiday's voice cut through the moment.
"Why now, Cruz?" she asked, her tone light, almost playful. "Why reach out after all this time?"
Cruz exhaled sharply. "Because I should've acted when Velasco did. Because I watched a good man disappear while I sat behind a desk, pretending it wasn't my problem."
Torres could hear the bitterness in his voice-the weight of regret.
Cruz's gaze settled on him.
"The people we worked for, detective... they don't make mistakes. If Velasco vanished, it wasn't by accident. And if you're still breathing, it means they don't see you as a threat yet."
Torres felt the cold truth of that statement settle in his bones.
He flipped open the folder. Inside were photographs, reports-documents stamped with official seals that should've never left a government office. Evidence.
But before he could make sense of any of it, Cruz spoke again.
"You need to decide what side you're on, Detective."
Something about the way he said it made Torres glance at Ms. Holiday.
She was watching Cruz not with suspicion, not with concern, but with something else.
Calculation.
That was when Torres realized: She already knew what was in the folder.
And she had brought him here anyway.
The question was why?
The house stood in eerie silence. Outside, the wind had picked up, rustling through the trees like whispers in the dark. Inside, the candle on the crate flickered weakly, barely illuminating the three figures standing in the hollowed-out home.
Torres skimmed through the folder, eyes darting over classified reports, surveillance photos, and official memos stamped with the seal of a government that didn't tolerate mistakes.
It was proof that Velasco had uncovered something big.
Something worth killing for.
Cruz watched him, his expression unreadable.
The man knew too much, but he had survived this long.
That alone made Torres uneasy.
Then-
Click.
The sound was faint, almost imperceptible, but Torres heard it. A metallic shift, like a safety being flicked off.
His instincts screamed.
"DOWN!"
The first bullet shattered the candle, plunging the room into chaos.
Gunfire ripped through the wooden walls, splinters flying as Torres hit the ground. A burst of 5.56mm rounds from outside tore through the air, M16 fire-standard issue for government enforcers.
Government Soldiers.
They had found them.
Cruz barely had time to react before a round clipped his shoulder, sending him sprawling. He groaned, clutching the wound, blood already seeping through his shirt.
Ms. Holiday moved first.
In the darkness, the distinct clack-clack of her Mauser C96 rang out as she chambered a round. Her silhouette barely visible in the strobing flashes of gunfire.
Torres yanked out his 1911, rolling behind the crate as bullets chewed through the house. Dust and wood rained down from the ceiling.
"We're trapped!" he barked.
Ms. Holiday didn't answer-she was already moving. Fluid, precise, deadly. She leaned out of cover and fired, the sharp crack of the C96 echoing through the house. A silhouette in the doorway staggered, clutching his throat before crumpling.
A second soldier rushed in, rifle raised, she shot him twice in the head before he could pull the trigger.
Torres kicked over the crate, flipping it into cover as he fired back. His .45 ACP rounds punched through the thin wooden walls, forcing their attackers to scatter.
Cruz, still clutching his bleeding shoulder, gritted his teeth.
"They're not here to kill me. They want me alive."
Torres reloaded. "Then they're about to be fucking disappointed then."
More boots stormed the porch. Three, maybe four.
Holiday's voice was cool, steady. "We need a way out."
Torres' eyes flicked to the back of the house. The kitchen window. Small, but just wide enough.
"That way!" He gestured toward Cruz, but the old bureaucrat was losing too much blood.
A grenade clattered through the doorway.
Torres barely had time to react, he lunged, grabbed Cruz, and dragged him toward the kitchen as the explosion rocked the house. The shockwave threw them off their feet, smoke and debris swallowing the room behind them.
Ms. Holiday was already at the window, shoving it open.
Torres hoisted Cruz up, pushing him through as bullets slammed into the walls just inches away.
"Move, move!"
Holiday went next, twisting in midair to fire one last shot at the advancing Cleaners. The Mauser's barrel flashed-a round snapped through the leader's skull before she disappeared into the night.
Torres was last. He vaulted through the window just as another burst of M16 fire tore through the frame.
They hit the ground outside, breathless, covered in dust and blood.
The house behind them was burning.
The soldiers weren't far behind.
The air stank of gunpowder and blood. Bullet holes marred its wooden walls, its windows were nothing but shattered glass, and the bodies of three dead soldiers lay sprawled across the ground, their rifles still clutched in their hands.
Cruz was barely upright. His face was pale, his breathing shallow as blood seeped from his side, soaking through his wrinkled button-down.
Torres could see it in his stance, the man was on the verge of collapse.
Ms. Holiday stood next to him, calm but coiled like a spring, her gloved hands gripping her C96 Mauser. She wasn't breathing hard like Torres was, but her eyes-sharp, assessing-told him she was already thinking ten steps ahead.
Torres rolled his aching shoulder, his whole body sore from the fight. They had barely survived the first wave.
And then came the voice.
"Well, well, well."
Monzon.
That cocky, bastard voice the detective would recognize anywhere.
He turned his head, jaw tightening. And there he was.
Monzon strolled out from behind the trees, the moonlight glinting off his cufflinks, his suit pristine despite the carnage around him. His slicked-back hair, his ever-present smirk, he looked like he had just stepped out of a meeting, not walked onto a battlefield.
Behind him, more soldiers emerged from the treeline, rifles raised, fanned out like a pack of wolves.
No more running. No more hiding.
Monzon adjusted his sleeves like he had all the time in the world. That smug bastard smile never left his face.
"You look like ass, Detective."
Torres didn't answer. He kept his gun up. Hands steady. Finger on the trigger.
Monzon sighed, almost disappointed, before turning his attention to Cruz, barely standing, barely breathing.
"I'm gonna make this real simple." His voice was smooth, almost casual, like he was closing a deal.
"Hand him over... or die with him."
Silence.
Torres could hear the wind shifting through the trees, the distant hum of cicadas, the slow drip of blood hitting the ground.
Then
Ms. Holiday clicked her tongue.
"You motherfucker."
Monzon arched a brow, feigning amusement.
"Oh, come on now, babydoll. No need for the hostility."
His eyes flicked over her, slow, deliberate, a businessman appraising a fine product.
"You know, you and I, we could've done great things together," he said. "Still could, if you'd-"
"I'd rather put a bullet in your fucking skull."
Monzon laughed. Like she had just told the funniest joke he'd ever heard.
Then he looked back at Torres, and the amusement vanished.
"Last chance, detective."
Torres didn't answer.
He just raised his gun.
And all hell broke loose.
Gunfire tore through the air, shattering the silence of the countryside. The old house had turned into a warzone, and Torres wasn't about to die here, not with Monzon smirking like he already won.
Torres ducked behind an overturned table, the scent of splintered wood and gunpowder thick in the air.
Ms. Holiday was crouched beside him, her C96 snapping off precise shots toward the Cleaners as they scrambled for cover.
Across the field, Monzon stood in the open, adjusting his cufflinks like he had all the time in the world. His accessories glinted under the night, his suit still immaculate despite the chaos around him.
"You're both putting up a fight," Monzon called out, voice rich with amusement. "I respect that. But let's be honest. you're just wasting your bullets."
Ms. Holiday reloaded her C96 with practiced ease, her expression cold.
"And you're wasting our time, you fuck."
Monzon laughed
Deep, genuine, unbothered. "Oh, sweetheart, you wound me."
Torres snapped up from cover, fired twice. Monzon sidestepped the first bullet, the second grazing his shoulder. He barely flinched.
Instead of panic, he grinned. "Good shot, detective. But not good enough."
Then he moved.
Monzon wasn't just some smug bastard in a suit
He was fast. He weaved through the firefight like he owned the battlefield, firing off short, calculated bursts from his M16. A Soldier was using a stone wall as cover suddenly Monzon grabbed him, shoved him forward, and let Torres shoot him before taking the position for himself.
"He's using his own men as bait," Torres muttered.
"He's a businessman," Ms. Holiday replied. "Everything's a transaction."
A Solider tried flanking them but Holiday pivoted, firing a single round through his throat. Blood sprayed as he collapsed, gurgling.
"Four left," Torres counted.
"Three," Holiday corrected, putting another round into a man peeking from the barn.
Monzon clapped his hands like he was watching a magic trick.
"Impressive. Really, I mean that." He leveled his M16 toward them.
"But let's see how you handle me."
Torres barely had time to react before Monzon moved again, firing on the run. Bullets shredded through the wooden crate Torres was using as cover, forcing him to roll out.
He returned fire, but Monzon was already gone flanking, pressing the attack.
Ms. Holiday spun, her coat whipping behind her as she fired at Monzon's legs. He dodged, slid into cover behind an abandoned truck.
For a moment, the gunfight paused.
Torres could hear his own heartbeat. Ms. Holiday exhaled through her nose. Cruz was somewhere behind them, clutching his wounded arm, staying out of the way.
Then
Monzon's voice, smooth as ever.
"You know, Detective... I really did like you," he called out. "You were professional. Efficient, ruthless, no nonsense." A pause. "Hell, I even respected you."
Torres wiped sweat from his brow, gritting his teeth.
"Then why'd you strap me to a chair and inject me with truth serum?"
Monzon chuckled. "Because I also like winning, I hate traitors, I hate losers, I hate those you stand in my opposition."
Ms. Holiday, crouched beside Torres, reloaded again. Her fingers were steady. "Can we kill this prick already?"
Torres didn't answer. He just moved.
He popped up from cover, firing at the truck, forcing Monzon to reposition.
At the same time, Ms. Holiday darted to the left, cutting off his angle. Monzon realized too late, he'd let himself get flanked.
Torres saw the moment Monzon knew he was in trouble.
For the first time, that smug grin faded.
He twisted to fire at Ms. Holiday, but she was faster.
She shot first—twice. One round slammed into Monzon's thigh, the second tearing through his side.
Monzon staggered, blood dripping down his tailored slacks. He pressed a hand to his wound, his breath coming heavier now.
Still, he smiled.
"Alright," he muttered. "That one hurt."
He raised his M16 again.
Torres didn't give him the chance.
One last shot. Center mass.
Monzon stumbled back, hitting the side of the truck, breath hitching. He looked down at his suit, now ruined with blood, and let out a small chuckle.
"Guess I was overdressed for the occasion," he muttered.
Then his legs gave out, and he collapsed against the dirt.
Silence.
Torres kept his gun raised, stepping closer. He nudged Monzon's weapon away with his foot.
The man was still breathing.
Shallow, weak
but his hands were empty.
Ms. Holiday stood over him, blowing smoke from the barrel of her C96. She glanced at Torres.
"That better not have been a warning shot."
Torres shook his head. "No warnings."
Monzon let out a raspy laugh, blood pooling beneath him. His voice was barely above a whisper.
"Good."
Monzon wiped the blood from his mouth and exhaled sharply. His cufflinks were smeared with dirt, his suit torn and stained with red, but his smirk was still there.
Unshaken, unbothered.
Around him, the bodies of his soldiers lay still, their weapons scattered across the bloodstained earth.
And yet, despite being alone, Monzon stood tall.
Ms. Holiday reloaded her C96, eyes narrowing. "Still feel like talking, you smug bastard?"
Monzon chuckled, rolling his shoulder as he tightened his grip on the M16. "Oh, sweetheart, I haven't even started."
Then he moved.
Gunfire erupted as Monzon fired in controlled bursts, forcing Torres and Ms. Holiday into cover. His stance was different now
Sharp, calculated. The arrogance was still there, but it wasn't reckless anymore. He wasn't just some smooth-talking enforcer in a tailored suit.
He was a killer.
Torres ducked behind the overturned crate, sweat dripping down his brow. "This guy just doesn't quit."
"Because he thinks he'll win," Ms. Holiday muttered, snapping off a shot that barely missed Monzon's head.
Monzon was already repositioning, keeping pressure on them. "Oh, I know I'll win," he called out. "Two against one? That just makes it fun."
He slid behind the old truck, then popped out again, firing toward Cruz, who was struggling to stay low with his injured arm.
Torres swore under his breath and fired back, forcing Monzon into cover. The bastard wasn't just spraying, he was tactically moving, baiting them into bad positions.
Monzon grinned as he reloaded. "You know, Detective... I expected more from you. Thought you'd be smarter."
Torres clenched his jaw. He knew Monzon was playing mind games, trying to make him slip.
Ms. Holiday had no patience for it. "Why don't you shut up and die already?"
Monzon laughed. "You first, sweetheart."
Then he rushed them.
Torres barely had time to react as Monzon closed the distance, weaving through cover with surprising speed. He fired at Ms. Holiday first, forcing her to duck, then swung his aim toward Torres.
Torres dove out of the way as bullets ripped through his previous position. He hit the ground hard, rolling into a kneeling stance. His Colt barked twice—one shot clipping Monzon's arm, the other missing by an inch.
Monzon didn't slow down.
He twisted his body to absorb the impact, then countered with another burst from the M16. The bullets tore through the space where Torres had just been, forcing him to keep moving.
Cruz, still holding his wounded arm, fired a desperate shot. It went wide.
Monzon grinned and turned to him. "That's adorable."
He aimed—
Ms. Holiday's C96 cracked.
A bullet slammed into Monzon's shoulder, staggering him for the first time.
Torres took the opening. He surged forward, closing the gap, his Colt raised—
But Monzon wasn't done yet.
With a flick of his arm, he swung the M16 like a club, smashing it into Torres' wrist. The gun went flying, and pain shot up Torres' arm as Monzon followed up with a brutal punch to the gut.
Torres staggered back, coughing.
Monzon exhaled, rolling his injured shoulder. "Now this is what I'm talking about."
He turned to Ms. Holiday next, pointing at her with the barrel of his M16. "And you—I think I'm starting to like you."
Ms. Holiday's response was immediate. "Eat shit."
She fired again.
Monzon barely dodged, the bullet grazing his ribs. He hissed in pain but still grinned. "You really don't like me, huh?"
Torres forced himself to his feet, shaking off the pain. Monzon was still dangerous, but he was slowing down. Blood dripped from his wounds, his breathing heavier now.
They had to finish this.
Monzon must've sensed it too. He took a step back, raising his M16 one last time.
"Alright," he said. "Let's see who drops first."
TO BE CONTINUED.