Chapter 156: Three Idiots Go South - Part 2
Ethan, Dmitri, and Clef walked along a sun-baked road lined with dusty trees and scattered crop fields. The heat shimmered on the horizon like a mirage.
"Doktor," Dmitri asked, wiping sweat from his forehead, "how long until we reach next town?"
Clef checked the cracked GPS strapped to his wrist. "Two more hours on foot," he said flatly.
Ethan followed a few steps behind, glaring daggers at Clef's back. He still hadn't forgiven him for the no-parachute stunt. They had landed in the middle of nowhere, deep in Tamaulipas, one of the most dangerous states in Mexico. Even if violence had calmed a bit over the past five years, Ethan kept scanning the tree line, every nerve on edge.
They dragged their suitcases and backpacks through the thick summer heat, shirts sticking to their skin. Then, in the distance, the low rumble of engines broke the monotony. Several 4x4 trucks were speeding down the road toward them, dust clouds trailing behind.
Clef's eyes narrowed. "Stay calm," he muttered. "They could just be Mexican military patrols."
The vehicles slowed, circling around the trio. Armed men jumped out, rifles raised, tactical vests patched with faded symbols that definitely weren't military issued. They fanned out quickly, forming a half-circle around Clef, Dmitri, and Ethan.
The man who looked like their leader, short beard, mirrored sunglasses, gold chain, stepped forward. His English was thick with accent but easy enough to understand.
"Well, well, look at this. Three gringos walking through our territory. What the hell are you doing here?"
Clef smiled innocently and lifted a hand in a lazy wave.
"Holà, amigo," he said cheerfully. "We're just three lost travelers."
The gunmen didn't look convinced. Several rifles clicked as safeties came off.
The leader smiled: "Let us accompany you."
Clef smiled back: "No need, we're almost there."
The leader drew his rifle and aimed it right at Clef's forehead. "I insist."
Clef sighed and raised his hands. "Well, I guess I have no choice but to accept your invitation."
The leader turned his head and whistled, signaling his men to grab them.
Suddenly, Clef grabbed the rifle's barrel and pushed it aside, spinning the leader around before snatching his pistol and pointing it straight at his forehead.
All the armed men immediately aimed their weapons at the trio.
The leader shouted at Clef: "¡Hijo de puta! I'll have your head!"
Clef replied calmly: "Listen to me, chicano. Tell your men to drop their weapons, or I swear I'll drag you down to hell with us."
The leader sneered, spitting at the dirt.
"Lies," he said through gritted teeth. "You don't have the balls."
Clef's smile faded. His expression hardened into something cold, the kind of silence that belongs to men who have seen too much. He tilted the man's chin upward, forcing their eyes to meet.
Clef murmured. "Tell me, chico… are you ready to give your life to your cartel?"
The air grew still.
The cicadas in the trees, the hum of the hot wind, all seemed to vanish.
For a moment, the leader tried to hold Clef's gaze, but he broke first. His voice cracked under the weight of that calm stare.
"Sicarios!" he shouted. "Drop your weapons!"
The men hesitated. Uncertainty flickered in their eyes.
"I said drop them!" he roared, veins rising in his neck. "Or I swear you'll be the next ones packed into organ crates for Africa!"
That did it. The rifles hit the dirt one by one, the clatter echoing across the empty road.
Ethan's pulse pounded in his ears. Dmitri moved like a machine, collecting weapons, his face unreadable. Clef's tone was sharp and controlled:
"Tie them."
Ethan found a bundle of zip-ties in one of the trucks and worked methodically, wrists bound, heads lowered. Dmitri secured ropes between the captives and the rear bumper of a 4x4, a grim assembly line of surrender. Sweat dripped from their faces as the sun bore down mercilessly.
When it was over, Clef released the leader, who fell to his knees. The doctor raised his pistol and spoke quietly, almost politely.
"What cartel are you with?"
The man spat blood. "The Gulf Cartel, cabrón. Pray we don't find you first."
Clef cocked his head. "And your relationship with Sin Nombre?"
The man laughed bitterly. "Those dogs think they can take Mexico. As long as we breathe, we're kings."
That smile returned, not joy, not madness, just pure calculation.
Ethan felt the air shift, heavy and electric.
"So," Clef said, his voice smooth, "one spark could start a new cartel war."
The leader's eyes widened. "Wait, you wouldn't-"
CRACK
The gunshot cracked the silence like thunder.
The leader collapsed into the dust. The others froze, every breath caught in their throats. Dmitri and Ethan didn't flinch.
Clef didn't look away from the fallen man. His voice, when it came, was disturbingly calm.
"Dmitri," he said, "Plan B."
Dmitri nodded and went to search the vehicles. Clef crouched, rifling through the leader's pockets, and found a phone. He turned it over in his hands, smudged with dust and blood, and in less than a minute, forced the passcode. His fingers moved with surgeon's precision.
"Doktor," Dmitri called. "Found something you'll like."
Ethan turned and froze. Dmitri stood holding an anti-vehicle launcher, resting it casually against his shoulder as if it were a walking stick.
"Perfect," Clef said.
He lifted the phone, switched it to video mode, and pointed the lens toward the terrified men still bound to the truck. His voice dropped into a darker register, fluent Spanish rolling out like venom.
"Look at these proud sicarios of the Gulf Cartel. So loud, so brave. But today, the Sin Nombre will remind you who rules this land."
He lowered the phone slightly and snapped his fingers. "Fire."
The thump of the launcher was deafening.
A trail of smoke arced across the air, and then BOOM, a flash of light brighter than the sun. The shockwave rolled over them, heat slamming into their faces, echoing through the empty fields. The truck was no longer a truck, just a collapsing fireball, a storm of flame and debris that roared into the sky.
Ethan stumbled back, covering his face from the blast. Dmitri didn't move, watching the plume rise with quiet satisfaction. Clef simply stared into the inferno, his eyes reflecting orange firelight.
He ended the recording with a click.
"This," he said softly, "is a message."
Within seconds, he was uploading the video to dozens of encrypted networks, then hundreds of social feeds, anonymous accounts and dark web channels. The phone buzzed with notifications as it spread, a wildfire of propaganda.
When it was done, Clef tossed the device into the burning wreck.
Dmitri followed suit with the empty launcher. Only the crackle of fire filled the silence.
Ethan stood frozen, watching what remained of the men, what remained of the choice they'd made. His stomach twisted. He didn't say a word. He couldn't.
Clef brushed ash from his shirt and turned back toward the road. "Good," he said, his tone light again, almost casual. "Now we move."
He climbed into a 4x4. Dmitri took the passenger seat, calm as always.
Ethan stayed there for a long moment, staring at the smoldering scene. The wind carried the smell of dust and burnt rubber.
"Rookie!" Clef shouted from the driver's seat. "Get your ass in the car!"
Ethan blinked, like waking from a dream. He grabbed a rifle and a pistol from the pile, slung the bag over his shoulder, and climbed in. The door slammed shut behind him. Clef pressed the pedal, and the tires bit into the dirt.
The vehicle roared forward, leaving behind only smoke, fire, and silence and somewhere far above, the vultures already beginning to circle.
Ethan hesitated, voice small in the roar of the engine. "Doctor… did we really have to kill them all? And then, post the video online?"
Clef's mouth curved into a lazy, almost predatory smile. He didn't answer at once. Dmitri, impassive as ever, finally spoke, voice flat and practical.
"Rookie," Dmitri said, "you see only human side. Think strategically."
Ethan blinked. The words slid into him like cold water. He chewed on them, turning the idea over. Then his eyes widened, understanding snapping into place.
"Now I see," he said, too quickly. "You wanted to provoke them. Force a conflict."
He spoke faster, the realization spilling out. "If we trigger a war between the Gulf Cartel and Sin Nombre, Sin Nombre's forces get stretched. They'll fight their own battles, exhaust men and resources. We can't smash them head-on, our numbers are limited and a direct confrontation risks heavy losses. But if we engineer a war, they weaken themselves. And because the video went public, the Gulf Cartel can't sit on its hands; their reputation demands a response. They'll retaliate, take the bait. That fight happens in the open, and we get the chance to move in, clean up, gather intel, hit the infrastructure of Sin Nombre while they're distracted. And we get 'volunteers' to fight them head on while also having a credible cover to fight Sin Nombre."
Silence fell in the 4x4. The only sound was the low growl of the engine and the thin hiss of road dust hitting the windows. For a moment Ethan could hear his own heartbeat loud in his ears.
Clef let the silence stretch, then laughed softly, no warmth in it, only approval. "Not bad, rookie. I'm starting to like you."
Dmitri inclined his head. "Good logic. Effective and… economical."
---
Within hours, the video exploded across the internet. What Clef had uploaded as a grainy, handheld clip, half chaos, half carnage, was everywhere. It flooded dark web channels first, then leaked into public networks, social media, and news platforms. Within a single night, it racked up tens of millions of views.
Comment sections burned. The footage was dissected, slowed down, analyzed frame by frame. Some claimed it was a government operation. Others swore it was the beginning of a new cartel war. But one fact was undeniable: the men slaughtered in that video were soldiers of the Gulf Cartel. And the world had just seen them fall.
By dawn, a new video surfaced. It bore the seal of the Gulf Cartel, raw, furious, and unmistakably real. Masked men stood before burning vehicles, their rifles raised as a spokesman shouted into the camera, voice trembling with rage.
"To the dogs of Sin Nombre! You think you can butcher our men and post it for the world to see? You want war, then you'll have it! We will hunt every one of you down. From Monterrey to Sinaloa, we'll burn your empire to the ground!"
The declaration spread just as fast as the massacre itself. Within hours, the drug underworld fractured. Smaller gangs, cornered and terrified, began to take sides. Some swore allegiance to Sin Nombre, lured by fear or promise of profit. Others joined the Gulf Cartel, hoping to survive under the protection of a old power.
By nightfall, convoys were already rolling through border towns. Checkpoints turned into ambushes. Explosions thundered across the northern states. Entire neighborhoods turned into battlegrounds as the balance of power crumbled.
Mexico was on fire.
The President, awakened before dawn by her intelligence chief, issued a statement just hours later. Her voice was calm, but the weight behind it was unmistakable:
"Effective immediately, the Mexican Armed Forces are authorized to intervene. All major highways, border crossings, and urban centers are under federal control. This is not a police action, it is a state of emergency."
Across the country, the army deployed. Armored vehicles rolled into cities. Helicopters thundered over the skyline. In the chaos of it all, Clef's little video, the spark that started it, was still circulating, endlessly replayed by millions who had no idea that behind the lens, the real architects of the war were already moving on to their next operation.
---
In a secret Mexican military base near Mexico City, several officers from all branches of the Mexican Armed Forces were gathered around a long steel table. The atmosphere was tense, the air heavy with silence and the hum of distant equipment.
At the head of the table stood a young general, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the holographic map showing multiple red zones spreading across the country.
He finally turned toward a female officer in the uniform of the Air Force.
"How is the investigation progressing?"
The officer stood, tablet in hand.
"General, all cartels have mobilized their forces and are already engaging in combat. As expected, Michoacán has become the main center of conflict. Although Sin Nombre's forces are superior in numbers and firepower, the alliance between several major cartels supporting the Gulf Cartel has made the battles evenly matched."
The general frowned.
"Why would Sin Nombre start something like this?"
The officer hesitated before replying.
"I don't think it was Sin Nombre."
The room fell silent. Every pair of eyes turned toward her.
"Explain," the general demanded.
The officer tapped her tablet, projecting a new video. It showed an airplane surrounded by emergency vehicles on a runway.
"You all remember the hijacking incident less than twenty-four hours ago?"
The general nodded.
"Yes. The one where we suspect the presence of three agents from an anomalous organization."
"Exactly," the officer replied. "After recalculating the flight's path and comparing it with the location of the first cartel incident, I realized something, both trajectories intersect in the same region."
Another officer from the National Guard spoke up.
"You're suggesting that this entire situation could have been initiated by those agents?"
The Air Force officer nodded slowly.
"It's a strong possibility, sir."
A cold silence filled the room. No one spoke. The only sound was the faint static of the projectors and the distant hum of military machinery, as the realization settled over them.
someone maybe had deliberately set Mexico on fire.
Suddenly, someone knocked on the door.
"Enter!" the general ordered.
An officer in a Navy uniform stepped inside, saluted, and said, "Sir, we have new information about the hijacking that may interest you."
"Go on," the general replied.
The officer hurried to the main screen, pulled out his tablet and a cable. "Permission to connect the device?"
The general nodded, and the officer plugged it in.
The screen flickered to life, a shaky video appeared, clearly taken from a witness's phone.
It showed a man in a black T-shirt plunging a knife into one of the hijackers' throats, while another subdued an armed assailant with a brutal chokehold.
The third hijacker, who was holding a grenade, took a devastating knee strike to the face that sent him collapsing to the floor.
Before the grenade could drop, a third man caught it midair and the footage cut out.
The Navy officer turned to the room.
"This was captured by a passenger who witnessed the fight. Unfortunately, we couldn't identify Agents A or B. However…", he paused, "we managed to catch a partial glimpse of Agent C's face, but… there's a problem."
He replayed the clip, freezing the frame right as the man delivered the knee strike. Zooming in, the officer pointed at the figure's head.
"Here. Where the eyes should be, look closely."
Half of the man's face was shrouded in an unnatural shadow, one that swallowed the surrounding light. Only his nose and a faint, sharp grin were visible.
"No matter the angle," the officer continued, "the shadow remains. It's as if… his eyes are absorbing the light itself."
For a moment, no one spoke. Then, the general suddenly stood from his chair, slamming his palms on the table.
"Repeat that!" he barked.
The officer froze. "That… his eyes absorb the light?"
The general's expression twisted, a mix of realization and dread.
"Eyes that swallow light… a prominent nose… and that mocking smile," he muttered. "Add to that, close-quarters skills beyond human level…"
He clenched his fists, then said with grave certainty:
"There's only one man who fits that description…"
He took a deep breath.
"Doctor Alto Clef, a living legend of the SCP Foundation."
The entire room went silent. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees.
Even those who didn't know this name personally knew the organization behind him.
The SCP Foundation, one of the four great anomalous powers of the world.
An entity capable of killing incomprehensible beings, containing gods, and wielding technology that defied every known law of science.
A shadow organization so powerful it had once wiped the collective memory of the entire world after an event in Paris, something the anomalous community would never have known, had the GOC not issued international alerts afterward.
An organization rumored to be composed of hundreds of reality-benders, demigods, divine entities, and incarnations of pure concepts.
The general stared at the frozen frame of the smiling man on the screen.
If the rumors were true, if Clef was here, then Mexico was standing on the edge of something far worse than a cartel war.
The silence in the command room was heavy. No one dared to speak until the general finally broke it.
"So… what do you propose we do?" he asked, his tone flat, eyes shifting between the officers seated around the table.
After a tense pause, the Air Force officer leaned forward. "I propose we… invite these agents," she said carefully. "We could try to extract information from them, discreetly."
There was an uneasy murmur around the table. Someone from intelligence cleared his throat. "Invite them? With what pretext?"
Her expression hardened. "If they refuse, we proceed differently. We'll claim we thought they were members of a hostile anomalous group operating against Mexico. We can justify the capture under Article 5 of anomalous emergency national defense protocols."
Another officer added coldly, "We could deploy two GAFEA units. Bring them in quietly, interrogate them inside a secure military base. That way, if something goes wrong, we can control the situation."
The general's jaw tightened. The others exchanged glances; they all knew this was crossing a line.
"Señor general…" one of them murmured. "You realize what this means. If they really belong to one of the big organizations…"
"I know," he cut him off sharply. "But this isn't just about pride. They caused the death of hundreds on our soil. We need answers."
A long silence followed. The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the room. Finally, the general sighed, rubbing his temples.
"…Proceed. But no public trace, no reports, no witnesses. If this fails, no one here ever spoke of it. We risk clashing with the SCP Foundation. No matter what, be ready for the worst."
A few heads nodded, some reluctantly. The officers knew exactly what they were agreeing to, an operation that could set the SCP Foundation against Mexico.
Outside, the wind howled through the base, rattling the windows like a warning.
---
A few days later, the trio's dusty 4x4 rolled through the narrow, crowded streets of Morelia, the capital of Michoacán. The night had swallowed the city whole, streetlights flickered weakly, neon signs buzzed above shuttered stores, and somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed and faded into the humid dark.
Ethan sat in the back seat, jaw tense. His eyes flicked from one side of the street to the other, tracking every passing shadow, every police cruiser that rumbled by. The heightened patrols made him sweat, not from fear of the cops, but from what they carried under the seat.
Several military-grade rifles, stolen from cartel fighters a few days earlier, clattered faintly each time they hit a pothole. One traffic stop, one random inspection, and they'd be done.
At the wheel, Dr. Clef hummed a lazy tune, something old, maybe military, maybe insane, his sunglasses still on despite the hour. Beside him, Dmitri had his arms crossed and his head tilted back, snoring faintly, the rhythmic sound oddly steady against the chaos outside.
Ethan muttered, "You sure this is a good idea, Doc?"
Clef didn't answer. He turned the wheel, taking a sharp corner that led them into a better-lit district, too well-lit, Ethan thought. The roads widened, polished buildings lined the avenue, and ahead stood a bright, crowded establishment. A glowing sign flickered in red and gold:
"El Dorado, Bar & Restaurante."
Clef slowed down, grinning faintly. "See? Civilization. I told you this city wasn't all doom and gloom."
They pulled into the parking lot, filled with high-end cars, SUVs, sedans, even a few motorcycles gleaming under the street lamps. Expensive, well-kept, not the kind of vehicles owned by struggling locals.
Ethan's instincts flared immediately. Too many nice cars. Too quiet beyond the laughter. Too many men standing outside pretending to smoke.
He whispered, "You're kidding me… this is a cartel front."
Clef shut off the engine, leaned back in his seat, and stretched with a sigh. "Exactly."
That single word made Ethan's blood run cold.
Dmitri stirred awake, rubbing his eyes. "We are here already?"
"Yep," Clef replied cheerfully, reaching into the glove compartment to pull out a small pistol, compact. He checked the chamber, then slipped it under his shirt. "This place should belongs to Sin Nombre. Their local officers drink here, celebrate here, and occasionally shoot each other here. Which makes it the perfect place to listen in."
Ethan frowned. "And if they recognize we're not locals?"
Clef opened his door, the sound of music and conversation spilling out faintly from the restaurant. He gave Ethan a grin that was too calm, too confident, the grin of someone who'd long made peace with chaos.
"Then," Clef said, stepping out of the car, "we'll just improvise."
Dmitri chuckled, stretching his massive arms before grabbing a duffel bag from under the seat. "Is always improvise with you, Doktor. One day, this improvisation will get us all killed."
"Maybe," Clef replied. "But not tonight."
They closed the doors, the click of the locks lost in the hum of the city. Together, the three men walked toward El Dorado, the neon lights painting their faces in red and gold, three shadows stepping willingly into the lion's den.
The inside of El Dorado was a storm of color, heat, and noise.
Latin beats pounded from a live band in the corner, red lights rippled across a crowd of dancing bodies, and the smell of tequila, grilled meat, and cigarette smoke mixed into a dizzying haze.
Ethan followed Clef and Dmitri through the crowd, tension curling through his gut. He scanned the room automatically, armed men at two tables near the back, cartel tattoos on display, gold watches glinting under the lights. Women in sequined dresses laughed too loudly beside them. On the upper balcony, another pair of guards watched the floor like vultures, assault rifles resting lazily against the railing.
It was clear this wasn't just a bar. This was Sin Nombre's playground.
Clef moved like he owned the place, weaving through dancers with that infuriating calm swagger of his. Dmitri followed behind, towering over the crowd, looking more like a mercenary than a tourist in his faded cargo pants and unamused expression. Ethan kept his head down and his eyes sharp, his hand instinctively hovering near the hidden holster beneath his shirt.
They reached the bar, where a young bartender, dark hair slicked back, sleeves rolled up, froze for half a second when he saw them.
Three foreigners. One Hawaiian shirt, one mountain of muscle, and one guy who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Definitely not locals.
Still, business was business. The bartender approached with a forced smile.
"Buenas noches, señores," he said cautiously. "¿Qué desean?"
Clef returned the smile, charming and fluent. "Three plates and something cold to drink, amigo. Surprise us."
The bartender blinked, hesitated, then nodded. "Sí, claro." He grabbed three menus anyway, sliding them over.
Ethan watched the man retreat, still uneasy. The music felt too loud, the laughter too sharp, every shout and clink of glass scratching at his nerves. He leaned closer to Clef.
"Doc," he muttered, "are you sure about this? Half the people here are probably armed."
"Exactly why we blend in," Clef said with a lazy grin. "People don't shoot the ones who buy drinks."
Dmitri chuckled, already pulling a cigar from his pocket. "Unless is bad drink."
Moments later, the bartender returned with their orders, tacos al pastor, enchiladas rojas, and pozole, each steaming and fragrant. Three cold beers followed, dripping with condensation.
Ethan blinked. "You actually ordered real food?"
Clef picked up a taco, bit into it, and sighed contentedly. "What did you expect? A bar fight already? Patience, rookie. First, we eat. Then, we make trouble."
Dmitri raised his bottle. "To not dying tonight."
Clef clinked his beer against Dmitri's with a crooked grin. "Always a good toast."
Ethan sighed, grabbed his glass, and joined them, his eyes never leaving the crowd of cartel men behind them. He had no idea what Clef was planning… but if experience had taught him anything, trouble was never far behind when Dr. Clef was smiling.
A man swaggered through the haze of music and laughter, slick hair, white suit, gold chains clinking with each heavy step. Two women clung to his arms, their perfume cutting through the smoke. A gold-plated pistol gleamed in the holster at his hip, catching the light like a warning.
He spotted Clef, Dmitri, and Ethan at the bar and grinned, teeth white and sharp beneath the flashing neon.
"Bueno, bueno… los gringos," he drawled, voice smooth and soaked in tequila. "You look a little far from home, amigos."
Without waiting for an invitation, he slid onto the barstool beside Clef, waving the bartender off. The two women giggled as he draped an arm over one of their shoulders and eyed the trio up and down.
"So," he said, switching to English, his accent thick but his tone confident. "Where are you from, my friends?"
Clef didn't flinch. He met the man's stare with that same lazy grin, taking a sip of his beer before answering.
"Businessmen," he said. "Mercenaries, technically. We came here for work. You could say… opportunities brought us south."
The man's grin widened, but his eyes didn't smile.
He let out a sharp whistle through his teeth.
Instantly, movement rippled across the room.
Several men, guards with AK's slung over their shoulders, shifted subtly through the crowd, taking up quiet positions near the bar. They didn't aim their weapons, but their intent was unmistakable.
The music thumped on, but the air had changed, heavier, tighter, electric.
The man leaned in slightly, the gold pistol glinting between them. "Opportunities, huh? Interesting."
He tilted his head. "Tell me, mercenaries… whose side do you work for?"
Silence fell between the three men.
---
Five minutes later, Clef and the man were roaring with laughter, half-drunk and leaning over the bar like old war buddies. Empty bottles littered the counter in front of them, and Clef was in the middle of one of his infamous stories.
"So there I was," Clef slurred slightly, waving his hands for dramatic effect, "naked, covered in pig's blood, and holding nothing but a plunger, and this bastard still thought he had the upper hand!"
The man howled with laughter, slapping Clef on the back so hard the drinks trembled. "¡Dios mío! You are loco, gringo! You humiliated him like that?"
"Humiliated?" Clef grinned, raising his glass. "Oh no, my friend. I educated him."
Both burst into another round of laughter, joined by the two women beside them, their hands tracing Clef's arm and the man's gold chains as they whispered and giggled between the jokes.
A few seats down, Dmitri sat like a mountain of ice in the middle of chaos. His expression didn't change; he simply lifted his vodka glass, downed it, and gestured for another. Two women had attached themselves to him, one stroking the solid wall of his arm, the other resting her head on his shoulder. They laughed softly, whispering things in his ear. Dmitri didn't respond. He just drank, silent and unmoved, as if this was a mission briefing instead of a bar.
At the far end, Ethan sat alone, elbows on the counter, staring into the pale amber of his tequila.
No women. No laughter. Just him and the quiet hum of alcohol.
He sighed, watching Clef and Dmitri surrounded by people like magnets. We're supposed to be on a mission, he thought. Information gathering. Staying low profile.
Then he looked at his glass again. Looked at Clef, red-faced and laughing with a cartel lieutenant. Looked back at the tequila.
"…fuck that," he muttered.
He tipped the glass back and drained it in one go, slamming it down on the counter.
"Another one," he said to the bartender, voice steady but eyes already starting to burn.
---
Half an hour later, Ethan blinked awake, his skull pounding like someone had set off a flashbang inside it. The world spun, and his mouth tasted like regret and cheap tequila.
A massive hand gripped his shoulder and shook him roughly.
"Wake up, rookie," Dmitri's voice rumbled, flat and unimpressed.
Ethan groaned. "What the hell, five more minutes…"
Without a word, Dmitri hoisted him up like a sack of potatoes and dragged him toward the restroom. Ethan barely managed a protest before Dmitri shoved his head under the faucet and turned on the cold water.
The icy shock hit him like a bullet.
"GAH, WHAT THE FUCK!" Ethan sputtered, gasping and shaking his head like a wet dog. "Where the hell are we?!"
"Still at bar," Dmitri replied, calm as ever. "You pass out. Like little child."
Ethan rubbed his face, water dripping down his chin. "And the Doctor?"
Dmitri shrugged. "Gone."
That was not reassuring.
The two men stumbled back into the main hall. The music had changed, louder, faster, the crowd more animated. They spotted the bartender wiping glasses and approached.
"Hey," Ethan said, still half-soaked, "you seen our friend? Short guy, loud, talks too much?"
The bartender hesitated, then pointed toward a large double door at the back.
"Patio. He went that way."
They exchanged a look, Ethan exasperated, Dmitri expressionless, and pushed through the door.
Outside, the night air hit them like a furnace. The courtyard behind the bar had been transformed into a makeshift arena. Hundreds of people were gathered around, cheering and shouting. The ground was packed dirt, the lights harsh and yellow.
At first, Ethan thought it was a street fight. Then he saw the bulls.
Three of them, massive, snorting and bucking inside metal pens while handlers prepared ropes and gates.
Ethan blinked. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Dmitri scanned the crowd, his brows furrowing. "Where is Doktor?"
Before Ethan could answer, a loudspeaker crackled to life.
"¡Señoras y señores!" the announcer shouted in Spanish. "Now, please welcome our special guest for tonight's challenge! Give him a big round of applause!"
The crowd erupted, whistling and clapping.
Then, with a screech of hinges, one of the arena gates swung open.
And there he was.
Dr. Alto Clef, shirt half-unbuttoned, wearing a cowboy hat he'd clearly stolen, sitting on the back of a furious bull.
The animal bellowed and kicked up dust as Clef grinned wildly, one hand gripping the rope, the other waving to the crowd like a rockstar.
Ethan's jaw dropped.
"HOLY SHIT, DOCTOR!!" he screamed over the roar of the crowd.
Dmitri just sighed and muttered, deadpan, "Of course."
The bull exploded out of the gate like a missile of flesh and fury, hooves hammering against the dirt as dust and sweat filled the air. The crowd roared with excitement, a chorus of cheers, whistles, and drunken laughter echoing through the night.
At the center of it all was Dr. Alto Clef, one hand gripping the coarse rope tied around the beast's torso, the other holding up a half-spilled beer, foam flying with every violent lurch of the bull.
"YEEEEEHAW!" he bellowed, his grin stretching from ear to ear as the animal bucked and twisted beneath him.
The bull spun, kicked, and leapt high enough that for a brief moment, Clef's feet left the beast's back, yet somehow, impossibly, he stayed on. Each time the bull slammed back into the ground, the shockwave rattled the stands, but Clef only laughed harder.
"COME ON, YOU BEAUTIFUL BASTARD!" he shouted, raising the bottle to his lips and taking a huge swig. "SHOW ME WHAT YOU'VE GOT!"
The crowd went insane.
"¡GRINGO! ¡GRINGO! ¡GRINGO!" they chanted, fists pumping into the air.
Ethan stood frozen by the gate, staring in disbelief.
"Mom, I just want to get this mission over as soon as possible…"
Beside him, Dmitri crossed his arms, expression neutral. "He rides like Russian man rides comrade bears. Reckless and drunk."
For over five full minutes, the bull twisted and thrashed like a creature possessed, but Clef clung to it like a demon, laughing and screaming the entire time. Sweat poured down his face; the dirt caked his shirt; and still, he refused to fall.
When the bull finally tired and stumbled to its knees, Clef stood upright on its back, arms wide open, head thrown back, victorious.
"AND THAT," he roared, voice booming over the cheers, "IS HOW WE DO IT IN-"
BANG
A gunshot cracked through the night.
The music stopped.
The crowd froze.
CRACK CRACK CRACK
Other gunshots followed, closer this time, sharp and panicked.
The crowd scattered instantly. People screamed, knocking over tables, spilling drinks, and bolting for the exits.
Through the chaos, a man with blood on his sleeve and a rifle slung over his shoulder stumbled into the courtyard, shouting at the top of his lungs:
"¡EL EJÉRCITO! ¡EL EJÉRCITO ESTÁ AQUÍ!"
The army is here.
Ethan's heart dropped. Dmitri's eyes narrowed.
Clef, still standing on the bull, sighed and muttered, almost disappointed,
"…well, shit. Guess the party's over."
Dmitri vaulted over the barrier first, landing hard on the packed dirt, followed immediately by Ethan. They grabbed Clef by the arms just as he was waving at the panicked crowd, still half-drunk and grinning like a lunatic.
"We have to move!" Ethan hissed.
Clef sighed, tipped the last of his beer down his throat, and hurled the empty bottle over his shoulder. It shattered somewhere behind them.
"Fine, fine… party's over anyway."
The three of them sprinted through the chaos, past overturned tables, fleeing patrons, and broken bottles. The air was thick with dust and the crack of automatic gunfire. Muzzle flashes flickered across the walls as soldiers stormed through the front, shouting in Spanish.
They pushed toward a back exit where dozens of civilians were trying to escape, the smell of cordite and alcohol heavy in the air. Then-
WHAM!
A blinding white spotlight exploded across the courtyard, freezing everyone in place.
Ahead of them, a line of Mexican Army 4x4s skidded to a stop, forming a wall of steel and headlights. The roar of engines mixed with the metallic click of weapons being readied.
"¡TODOS AL SUELO! MANOS EN LA CABEZA, AHORA!" a soldier bellowed through a microphone.
The crowd froze mid-step. Some dropped flat to the ground. Others raised trembling hands. The trio looked at each other, then slowly did the same.
"Shit," Ethan muttered under his breath as he knelt. His fingers clenched around the back of his head.
Dozens of soldiers advanced in tight formation, rifles sweeping across the trembling civilians. Flashlights and lasers danced across the walls. An elite unit in darker armor moved among them, one of them holding up a phone, scanning faces one by one with a facial-recognition app.
The red beam slid past Dmitri, past Ethan, then landed squarely on Clef's face.
The phone chirped. The soldier froze.
Then he shouted, "¡Tómenlo! ¡Ése es!"
Two men from the special unit rushed forward, seizing Clef by both arms.
Ethan's stomach dropped. They've identified him.
Then-
THUD!
A heavy boot slammed into Ethan's ribs, Dmitri's boot. The Russian's eyes flashed with a silent message: Move now.
Ethan didn't hesitate. Both men sprang up at once. Before the nearest soldiers could react, Ethan drove his shoulder into one's chest, ripping the rifle from his hands, while Dmitri twisted another man's arm and flung him to the ground.
In seconds, they each had a soldier pinned and disarmed, rifles raised, using them as human shields.
The entire army unit reacted instantly.
Dozens of red dots and rifle barrels snapped toward them. Shouts in Spanish filled the night:
"¡ALTO! ¡NO SE MUEVAN!"
The air went still, no music, no crowd noise, just the deafening silence before everything was about to explode.
For a few seconds, the only sound had been distant gunfire from the bar, sporadic pops echoing through the night. Then-
FWOOOSH!
A streak of light cut across the darkness.
"¡ROQUETA!" a soldier screamed.
The explosion hit like thunder. A fireball erupted behind the military vehicles, the shockwave throwing men and debris through the air. The courtyard became chaos, screams, smoke, gunfire, all blending into one relentless roar.
From the rooftops above, silhouettes appeared, cartel gunmen, opening fire in every direction. Tracer rounds ripped through the air. Soldiers dove for cover, shouting orders. The once-organized line disintegrated into panic.
Clef moved first. With a violent twist, he slammed his elbow into one of the soldiers gripping him, grabbed the man's own rifle, and cracked it across his jaw. The other tried to restrain him, Clef spun, firing a burst into the ground just inches from the man's boots. He fled instantly.
Ethan and Dmitri took the opening, throwing their hostages to the dirt and tackling two more soldiers trying to flank them. The smell of cordite filled the air, flashes of light strobing across their faces.
They tried to bolt, but a shout came, then three of the black-clad special operators lunged out of the smoke and tackled Dmitri, dragging him down hard.
"Go!" Dmitri roared, driving a fist into one man's helmet.
Gunfire erupted again. The special unit fired in controlled bursts toward Clef and Ethan. The two dived behind a crumbling concrete wall, chunks of plaster exploding around them.
"Shit!" Ethan yelled, checking his rifle, his heart slamming in his chest. He peeked over the edge, trying to get a clean shot.
Across the lot, the special team was already pulling Dmitri backward, half-carrying, half-dragging him. The Russian fought like an animal, twisting, punching, knocking one soldier into another. They could barely keep hold of him.
Ethan sighted down his weapon, he had one chance.
But Dmitri was thrashing too wildly. One stray bullet, and…
He lowered the gun, teeth clenched.
Before he could act again, a deep rumble cut through the firefight, rotors.
A Blackhawk helicopter swung in overhead, its searchlight slicing through the smoke. "TAKA-TAKA-TAKA!" The mounted gun lit up, strafing the rooftops where cartel shooters had appeared. Bullets tore through brick and metal, showering the street in debris.
Clef hissed through his teeth, watching the chaos unfold. "We're out of time!"
Ethan's voice cracked. "What about Dmitri?!"
Clef ducked as a burst of gunfire chewed the wall above his head. "We'll get him back, but not here. Not now!"
The two began to crawl along the wall, bullets snapping inches above them. They slipped through a side alley, vaulting a low fence, then another.
Behind them, the roar of gunfire and engines faded as they reached a narrow, dimly lit street.
They sprinted for a parked sedan. Clef smashed the window with his elbow, reached in, and yanked the lock open. "Get in!"
The car's engine sputtered, then came to life.
They tore through the streets of Morelia, weaving past abandoned cars, smoke, and distant flashing lights. Neither spoke for several minutes, only the sound of the engine and Ethan's ragged breathing filled the silence.
Finally, outside the city, the lights of Morelia faded in the rearview mirror. Clef pulled over on the side of a dusty road, the night sky stretching endlessly above them.
Ethan turned to him, voice low and heavy. "Doctor… what do we do now?"
Clef leaned back in his seat, his grin returning slowly, a feral glint in his eye.
He looked at Ethan and said simply,
"Now, rookie… we go get Dmitri back."