The convoy sped along the highway—silent and low-profile when entering Mexico, now blasting sirens on the return trip. After receiving a few more punches from Bayev, Guzmán was fitted with noise-canceling headphones so he couldn't hear anything they said, and then a black hood was pulled over his head.
Eight DEU pickup trucks flanked the four Suburbans, racing down the road. Members of Omega and Phantom teams kept a vigilant eye on their surroundings. Until they crossed back into the U.S., they weren't truly safe.
"Becky, report status."
Owen spoke softly into his internal comms. The entire operation was under satellite surveillance, and the analysis department would give them early warnings of any threats.
"All clear—wait…"
Becky's voice crackled through.
"There's a vehicle on your left, parallel street. It's been matching your speed for a while now. Also, someone's on a rooftop a hundred meters ahead to your left. I can't determine intent…"
"Everyone be advised," Owen switched to the public channel. "Suspicious vehicle on the left—Omega, that's yours. Phantom, check the rooftop."
In this kind of urban environment—with two-story buildings everywhere—an RPG attack was a nightmare scenario. Owen was on full alert.
As they passed multiple intersections, they confirmed the vehicle tracking them on the parallel street to the left.
"Suspect on the rooftop… never mind, stand down. It's just an old lady hanging laundry. I almost shot her damn bedsheet, hahahaha…"
Phantom's Holt rambled over comms.
"You're lucky you didn't put a hole in that sheet, man. Mexican grandmas don't mess around—they'll brick you in the face."
"No joke, bro."
"Maintain channel discipline."
Owen sighed—Holt and Fred were two of a kind: both chatterboxes. Hearing Holt's banter, Fred had started chiming in, and the two seemed on the verge of striking up a full conversation mid-op. Owen had to shut it down quickly.
The comms fell silent again. Ghost rolled down his window and poked the barrel of his rifle out.
"Don't shoot without provocation. If they haven't fired, neither should we…"
Ela cut in quickly. Ghost hesitated and glanced at Owen, who shook his head.
"Deterrent fire," Owen said flatly.
Ghost nodded, and as they passed another alley, bang bang—two quick shots hit the hood of the trailing vehicle. The suspicious car immediately slammed on its brakes and stopped. Ghost retracted his weapon after confirming it wasn't pursuing them anymore.
"What the hell?! You can't just open fire like that! That could cause an international incident…"
Ela's voice was sharp, annoyed.
"That's the State Department's problem," Owen replied curtly and turned his attention elsewhere. This woman had combat skills, but her judgment was still seriously flawed.
"Becky, report again."
"All clear," she replied.
With that reassurance, everyone resumed their scanning of the surroundings.
The convoy tore down the road, approaching the border checkpoint. Soon, Patrick's voice came through the radio:
"You're almost at the border. We'll escort you up to this point. I've already contacted the checkpoint—they'll open a green lane for you. The rest of the way, Border Patrol will handle it. You're almost there."
"Much appreciated, Patrick," Ela responded.
They could see the DEU pickups peel off to the roadside while the Suburbans continued. Police waved them onward and pointed the way forward.
The convoy kept its pace. Without the heavy firepower of the DEU escorts, they now relied solely on their own readiness.
Fortunately, the remaining stretch was short—just a few kilometers—and soon, the border checkpoint came into view.
Lines of cars jammed all lanes waiting to cross from Mexico into the U.S. Just as Patrick promised, a dedicated lane had been cleared. The Suburbans didn't need to stop for inspection—they blew through the checkpoint at full speed.
Between the Mexican and American border stations was a one-kilometer neutral stretch. Once across, they'd be safe.
But right there, the convoy came to an abrupt halt.
"Becky, what's happening?" Owen asked, frowning, eyes scanning every inch around them. The surrounding lanes were packed with vehicles of all types. Many had dark-tinted windows, making it impossible to see inside.
"There's a stalled vehicle ahead…" Becky responded. The satellite feed zoomed in, revealing the problem clearly.
"Everyone stay sharp."
There was nothing they could do. The Americans had arranged for a fast track, but now a mechanical failure had blocked the lane, leaving them stuck. A motorcycle cop with flashing lights wove through traffic—probably headed to clear the obstruction.
With traffic at a crawl, the vehicles could only inch forward. Time dragged on. Owen held his rifle in both hands, alert to every movement. The four vehicles were arranged with Phantom up front and Omega in the rear. Owen, Ela, Ghost, and Guzmán were in the third Suburban, at the center.
"Suspicious vehicle on the left—one lane over. Red Chevy. Four males…"
Swag's voice came over the earpiece. Owen glanced over—sure enough, to their rear-left, one lane over, sat a red, older-model Chevy with all four windows down. The four men inside stood out immediately—nothing like the other civilians stuck in traffic.
"Right side, four o'clock—green Toyota," Shepherd added from the lead vehicle. Same setup: four males in a car, with the same suspicious vibe. With their looks and posture, it was obvious—they weren't tourists.
"What are the rules of engagement?" Shepherd asked over the radio.
"They don't fire, we don't fire," Ela answered quickly. DEA operations in Mexico adhered strictly to that policy to avoid diplomatic fallout.
"No," Owen cut in. "Protect ourselves first. If they show hostile intent, shoot."
He couldn't care less about DEA doctrine, international relations, or bilateral tension. His priority was keeping his team alive. If there were consequences, he'd explain it to President Palmer himself.
"What are you doing? If you do this, it could…" Ela started panicking. She remembered what Owen had done earlier—firing without knowing if the target was cartel or not. And now, here at the national border, surrounded by civilians, the risks were even greater.
"They're armed."
Bayev cut her off. Owen noticed it too. One of the men in the red Chevy had adjusted himself slightly, revealing what looked like a rifle stock.
"Move."
At Owen's command, all four Suburbans' doors flew open. Omega team headed straight for the red Chevy, while Phantom moved to intercept the green Toyota.
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