Seeing his friends show up one by one, a smile spread across Owen's face. At a moment like this, words would just be sentimental fluff. This loyalty—this bond—was something he would remember for life.
"Thank you, all of you."
Just as Owen was about to shut the door, someone pushed it back open. He turned around—standing outside was Ela.
"Sorry, boss. Ela found me through her father. I couldn't say no…" Ferred mumbled from behind, sounding sheepish.
Ela's father had once been the first commander of GROM—and also Ferred's former superior. Ela was his youngest daughter. When that old commander personally reached out, Ferred really had no choice but to help.
Owen shrugged and looked at Ela. She was dressed the same as always, wearing a baseball cap pulled low.
"Patrick was my only friend in Mexico. And… I've already resigned from the DEA."
Ela had been made the scapegoat after everything went down and had taken a beating from the agency. She'd had enough and decided to leave.
Owen looked at her. She looked back. He stepped aside.
"Welcome to the Avengers."
In the living room, the group sat or leaned around casually. Owen cleared his throat.
"Alright, listen up. I need to make this clear—if we do this, the White House won't be happy. There's a real chance Omega gets disbanded…"
"Screw the White House."
Before he could finish, the group erupted in voices of agreement. They'd had it. The White House's recent attitude had left a bad taste in everyone's mouth. If Omega hadn't technically still existed, some of them might've already left. It wasn't like they'd have trouble finding work—with their skills, countless departments would kill to recruit them.
Over the next few days, they stayed holed up in the house, drafting plans and prepping for the mission. Silly Sweet didn't come in person—she remained at Omega HQ, where she had access to more resources. Streams of intel were relayed to them.
Since their departure, Mexico had descended further into chaos. Thanks to the intel Lofta had previously provided to the DEA, the Sánchez Group had taken some serious hits. Now, tensions between Sánchez and Lofta were escalating, skirmishes breaking out more and more frequently. If not for fears of drawing in the other major groups and being picked off while weak, the two cartels would've likely gone to full-blown war already.
But for Owen and the team, that instability was exactly what they wanted. The more chaos, the better. Their objective wasn't to dismantle the entire Sánchez Group—that wasn't realistic. Their goal was revenge: take out the Sánchez family leadership. After that, things would unfold just like they had in Colombia. The Sánchez Group would splinter, the other cartels would pounce, and as long as the Sánchez bloodline was gone, retaliation wouldn't be a problem.
At this point, the DEA was effectively defunct. After Patrick's death, the surviving DEA agents were all in grave danger. Guzmán had launched a campaign of brutal retaliation—several agents and their families had been murdered, their bodies dumped outside DEA headquarters.
Some of this information had come from Silly Sweet; some from Shepherd, who had passed it to Ela. Owen hadn't intended to involve Shepherd's team this time. They still had military status—getting them wrapped up in this would have far-reaching consequences.
It didn't take long to identify the key targets for revenge. Guzmán was first on the list—his recent actions alone earned him a bullet. The others were Mario Sánchez, Laita Sánchez, and Dorok Sánchez—the family's power core.
"Boss, we want zhajiangmian again…"
Before it was even mealtime, Ferred was already whining at Owen's door, looking pitiful. A few days earlier, Owen had made a big batch of zhajiang sauce for convenience—just enough for himself to stretch out for a week. But after these guys tried it once, they were hooked.
Getting decent Chinese food in the U.S. was expensive—and even then, it didn't taste as authentic as Owen's cooking. That first batch of sauce had been wiped out in one meal.
"Fine. You guys wait here. I'll go buy ingredients…"
Owen rolled his eyes and headed out. Regular American supermarkets wouldn't carry the right stuff—only Asian groceries had what he needed. Fortunately, there was one nearby, walking distance.
With nothing else to do on the way, Owen took out his phone and dialed Sam.
Sam answered immediately, chuckling. "Hey, buddy. My dear little Steve. It's been a while…"
Sounded like he was in a good mood today.
"Yeah, man. It has. How've you been?"
"Eh… not great. The place I'm at now isn't exactly peaceful. Gotta carry a gun just to buy a burger…"
"Haha."
Owen laughed. It made sense. Wherever PMCs were posted, peace was in short supply. And where it was peaceful, you didn't need mercenaries.
But Owen hadn't called to catch up. He got straight to the point.
"Listen, man. I need a favor."
"Name it."
"My team and I… we need to get into Mexico. No official records."
No records meant one thing: smuggling. Sam got it immediately. PMCs were used to crossing borders with weapons and gear, often covertly. Getting a few people across the border was easy. In fact, Sam had helped smuggle them into Colombia when they rescued Monica.
"Mexico? What's in Mexico? You don't have to say if you don't want to. Just curious. Getting you over there is easy. But things are bad right now—Sánchez and Lofta are about to blow."
"We're going to kill a few people. I know what's happening down there."
Owen didn't name names, but didn't hide his intent either.
"Damn… someone really pissed you off. Alright, I'll take care of the arrangements. I'll be in touch. Maybe we'll even get to have a drink."
"What—you're in Mexico?"
"Yup. We'll be seeing each other soon. Oh—hold on, I've got another call coming in. Talk later."
Owen hung up, grinning to himself. What luck—Sam was already in Mexico. No idea what he was doing there, but with him around, things just got a whole lot easier. Transport, weapons—whether they smuggled it from the U.S. or procured it locally, Sam could handle it. PMC contacts had that kind of pull.
At noon, another batch of zhajiangmian sent the whole crew into bliss. Even Ela—who had never used chopsticks before—had somehow mastered seven ways of using them in one meal.
That evening, Sam called back. His efficiency was off the charts—everything was already arranged. The next day, they would head to a nearby military airstrip. A plane would take them to a U.S. base near the Gulf of Mexico. From there, they would enter Mexico.
The mission was on.
______
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