Chapter 7 - THE CARTEL'S CONFESSIONI zip-tied the two surviving mercenaries to the heavy oak chairs in the dining room. The wounded man was groaning softly on the floor, bleeding from a non-fatal flesh wound in his shoulder.
I stood over them, twirling my sidearm carelessly in my right hand.
“Let’s talk,” I said smoothly. “Who sent you? And don’t tell me it was Ricardo, because that idiot couldn't organize a birthday party, let alone a black-ops hit squad.”
The leader—a scarred brute with a Russian tattoo on his neck—spat on the floor. “You’re dead, lady. You think you beat the system by kicking out your husband? The syndicate owns half of Mexico City. You took our money, and you have our ledger. El Alacrán will skin you alive.”
El Alacrán.
The name sent a chill down my spine. Mateo "El Alacrán" Silva was one of the most ruthless cartel bosses in northern Mexico, a ghost wanted by Interpol for a decade. And my idiot ex-husband had been laundering his blood money through Muñoz & Associates.
“So Ricardo wasn't just a cheater,” I murmured, putting the pieces together. “He was Alacrán’s financial mule. When I disappeared, the cartel used him, manipulated him, and bought his soul.”
“And now you’re sitting on the decryption keys to our offshore vaults,” the mercenary sneer-laughed. “Alacrán knows you’re here. Even if we don’t make it back, a clean-up crew is already en route. You can’t fight an army, Señora.”
I smiled—a cold, terrifying smile that made the mercenary’s confidence falter.
“Who said I was fighting alone?”
I pulled my satellite phone from my pocket and pressed a single pre-programmed emergency broadcast button: Code Zero—Federal Intervention.
Within ninety seconds, the sky above Coyoacán erupted into a deafening roar.
Two tactical military helicopters swept down out of the fog, hovering directly over the house. Searchlights cut through the windows, blindingly bright. The sound of boots hitting the roof echoed like thunder, followed by federal tactical units kicking down the front and back doors simultaneously.
General Morales walked through the front door, flanked by heavily armed federal police and counter-terrorism agents.
He looked at the two tied-up mercenaries, then at me, standing calmly over them with a cup of coffee in my hand.
“Looks like you had company, Mariana,” Morales said, raising an eyebrow.
“They let themselves in, General,” I replied, taking a sip of my coffee. “And they brought a message from El Alacrán.”
May you like
Morales’s face hardened. “Good. Because our strike teams just raided Alacrán’s primary compound in Monterrey. The syndicate is falling apart. These two are just rats fleeing a sinking ship.”
The mercenaries’ faces turned pale. The bravado vanished instantly. They realized they weren't dealing with a grieving housewife—they were ground zero of a federal annihilation.
