"A frontal assault is out of the question. They've got too many people. With our numbers, there's no way we can take them head-on..."
A corner of the living room had been transformed into a tactical planning room. Maps, notes, and photos of the Sánchez Group covered the boards. After dinner, everyone gathered around the display to discuss the upcoming operation.
"The Sánchez Group has been lying low for the past couple of days. Leita Sánchez's whereabouts remain a mystery—no one knows where he is. His son Mario never spends two nights in the same place, and since you guys captured him last time, Dorok has doubled his security. As for Dorok, we know where he is, but he's surrounded by even more men..." Bryan relayed the latest intel they had gathered.
Owen asked, "Weren't the Sánchez and Lofta Groups clashing recently? What's the status on that?"
"Just minor skirmishes so far. Both sides are still holding back, probably afraid the other four will swoop in and take advantage."
"Then how about we help fan the flames a little?"
...
The Next Day, Around Noon
A balding, chubby man waddled out of a well-known Italian restaurant. His driver pulled the car around, his young model girlfriend got in first, and he followed from the other side. The car pulled away from the curb.
"Owen, target spotted, proceeding along the planned route..." Sweetpea's voice came through the earpiece. Her screen displayed the real-time GPS tracking of the fat man's vehicle.
The target was Blayman, the chief legal advisor for the Lofta Group—a key enabler of their criminal empire.
As the car reached a T-intersection and Blayman was busy groping his girlfriend, an SUV came flying out from the side road and slammed into the lead security vehicle. The impact flipped the car with a thunderous crash.
Tires screeched as the car behind tried to reverse, only to find two more SUVs blocking its retreat. Doors flew open. Several men in black hoods jumped out and opened fire on Blayman's car without hesitation.
The security detail didn't stand a chance. The flipped car was riddled with bullets before the guards inside even had a chance to get out.
In the trailing Mercedes, the driver was slumped lifeless over the steering wheel, blood everywhere. His body pressed down on the horn, which blared endlessly. A masked man raised his rifle and slowly approached the rear door.
Through the rear window, Blayman and his girlfriend could be seen soaked in blood. Her eyes were wide open—lifeless. Blayman's mouth twitched, blood spilling from his lips, clearly still clinging to life.
He tried to speak, but only gurgled on his own blood.
RATATATATAT!
The rifle spat fire. Blayman's body jerked violently, then went limp, the last light fading from his eyes.
The gunmen sprinted back to their SUVs. All three vehicles did a quick U-turn and sped off.
...
Twenty Minutes Later
News of the hit reached the Lofta Group's boss. The sound of shattering glass echoed through his office as his wineglass met the wall.
Almost simultaneously, the other five major cartels received word of the assassination. Leita Sánchez called his brother.
"Dorok, was this your doing?"
"No, not me. Ask Mario. He's always feuding with that fat bastard over women..."
Leita was just about to call his son when another call came in.
"Boss, our factory in the south got hit. It was the Lofta guys. We got into a firefight and killed one of them. He's definitely one of Lofta's shooters. It's retaliation."
"Lofta, that son of a bitch..."
Leita was furious. Until now, both groups had kept their clashes small and calculated. But now, the gloves were off. The factory in the south wasn't just any asset—it was a key production site. At this point, whether or not they were behind the lawyer's assassination didn't matter. War had been declared. The Sánchez Group had to respond—violently.
"Dorok, get your best men. Hit Lofta's cash vault on the west side."
With a roar, Leita ordered the counterstrike. The two major cartels were officially at war. It started with their most elite forces.
...
Ten Minutes Earlier
A box truck suddenly backed into a bar, ramming through the front entrance. The bar wasn't open yet; only a few staff were inside, cleaning up.
Before the truck even came to a full stop, several masked men burst out from the back, spraying bullets through the room.
The staff hit the floor, frozen in terror. Two of the attackers rushed toward a wall and planted explosives.
BOOM!
The wall exploded outward, revealing a hidden drug lab. The bar was a front for one of Sánchez's clandestine processing sites—where raw materials from Mexico and Colombia were turned into refined product.
The workers inside were swiftly gunned down. Two barrels of fuel were then doused throughout the lab. Flames engulfed the space in seconds.
Before leaving, Ghost dragged a pre-prepared corpse from the truck and placed it inside. The body was that of a known Lofta enforcer. Once the Sánchez Group saw it, they'd be certain Lofta was behind the hit.
And sure enough, that's exactly what happened.
...
"Becky, what's the status?"
Owen and his team were holed up in a house on the outskirts. Outside, all hell had broken loose. The Sánchez and Lofta Groups were officially at war. Other smaller cartels were still watching from the sidelines, but it was only a matter of time before they joined in to grab their share.
"Three vehicles just left the target's villa. Two waves of guards have already been deployed," Sweetpea reported through the radio.
Owen exchanged a glance with Sam. They both picked up their weapons. Behind them, the team stood ready.
With war raging across the city, both cartels were suffering losses. Being in the same city and long-time rivals, they knew each other's assets well. Most of their exposed operations had already been hit.
Guzmán, a key figure on the Sánchez side, had already dispatched two teams to reinforce their facilities. His own security detail had been significantly weakened.
That made him nervous.
After being captured by the Americans last time, Guzmán had taken his security extremely seriously. He'd doubled his guards, changed safe houses frequently, and never let anyone know where he was headed next—not even himself sometimes.
"Move out!"
Owen gave the command. The black-hooded operatives pulled down their masks and piled into their vehicles. The next phase of the operation was about to begin.
______
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