"Throw her off the building!"
Hearing the boss's order, the underlings bared their teeth and rushed over, grabbing the woman's wheelchair to hurl her down.
This public housing was on the seventh floor. A fall meant certain death.
The woman struggled and cried out.
"Let her go! Bastards, let her go!" Cuauhtémoc lunged forward but was pinned to the floor. His face flushed red, veins standing out.
His son McClure rushed too, but a trafficker kicked him aside.
A neighbor across the hall cracked the door at the commotion, then quickly shut it again at the sight.
"Throw her! Throw her!" the man with the nose ring laughed.
Knock, knock, knock…
Just then, a knock sounded at the door. Everyone turned to look.
A man stood at the threshold in a suit, close-cropped hair, looking sharp. A Mexican face—not exactly handsome, but very clean-cut—somewhere in his twenties.
He looked like a salesman.
"Is this Mr. Cuauhtémoc's home?"
"Beat it!"
The nose-ringed man glared and snapped, "If you don't want to die, get lost."
The man took in the scene, startled, but his eyes swept the room, taking everything in. The corner of his mouth lifted. "Sorry—looks like I'm a bit late."
"Motherf—!" The trafficker nearest the door frowned and moved to teach the kid a lesson.
Who knew the guy would pull a pistol from his suit and put a round into his head—the bullet entered through the eye socket and lodged in the skull.
He swung the muzzle and raked the other traffickers in the room!
A military-issue Pistol 88B!
A 31-round machine pistol.
His hand was steady—the recoil barely made it twitch.
And most of all, he drew without warning. Who dodges at this range?
Within seven paces, the gun was fast and true!
The nose-ringed man had decent reflexes; he had just reached for the pistol at his waist when a bullet punched through his neck.
Clutching his throat, he collapsed in convulsions.
Calmly, the man stepped inside. He covered McClure's eyes with one hand and, with the right, put finishing shots into the fallen traffickers.
The motion…
Seamless!
Just like in the movies—007!
He tucked the pistol back under his jacket, leaned to McClure's ear, and whispered, "Go back inside and rest, boy."
Cuauhtémoc pulled his son close, covered his eyes, and looked at the man warily. "Who are you, sir?"
"Oh, sorry—forgot myself again. I'm Ethan Hunt. Here's my card." The man tapped his forehead, fished in his pocket, and pulled a card from his breast pocket, handing it over with both hands.
Cuauhtémoc snatched it, glanced down quickly.
"Director, Mexican Department of International News office?"
What was that?
Why had he never heard of it?
"I'm a journalist," Ethan Hunt said with a grin.
The hell! Since when do journalists shoot like that?
And carry guns around?
"I came up from Baja. Mr. Victor invites you to see a Baja without drugs."
"Victor?" Cuauhtémoc raised a brow. At the name, his guard dropped a notch. There was probably no one in Mexico who didn't know it. He glanced back at his wife and hurried to help her up.
"How does he know me?"
Ethan Hunt smiled. "Victor is watching Mexico."
Cuauhtémoc opened his mouth. That line ought to be spoken by Americans.
"He asked me to tell you this: real warriors never fight alone. A pride of lions is never a lone gun. Saving Mexico takes the efforts of many."
"He hopes you'll see his results and share his joy."
Cuauhtémoc fell silent. He was a smart man and understood Victor's meaning. He'd heard about Raúl Salinas and knew what the recent storm was.
He was, after all, widely seen as Carlos's successor.
His status wasn't low, but the era wasn't his yet. Maybe because Carlos saw him as a threat, Raúl had warned him several times to give up illusions.
Once he'd even cursed him out in the office area, bragging, "Mexico belongs to the Salinas family. No one can take it."
That showed the level of arrogance.
Luckily… he was dead.
Cuauhtémoc hesitated, and his wife squeezed his hand. "Go. You should have someone helping you."
She paused. "I only hope the child can grow up safely."
The words jolted him. Looking down at his wife, he saw the plea in her eyes. She always tried to be strong.
But she was truly fragile.
Had she never cried? When traffickers crushed her legs, she hid under the covers and cried for a long time. But in front of husband and child, she braced herself and comforted them instead.
She was just a woman. She needed care. But she also knew her husband had given so much for Mexico; she could endure for the family.
She had prayed more than once for God's protection—for their family's safety.
They'd dodged it this time. What about the next? And the one after?
Cuauhtémoc sighed and looked up at Ethan Hunt. "Alright. I'll apply to inspect Baja tomorrow."
"Welcome. Don't worry—we'll stay by your side and protect you during this time." Ethan Hunt glanced around at the bodies, then picked up the suitcase the nose-ringed man had brought.
Spoils of war.
He took out a stack of U.S. dollars and set it on the table. "Sir, Victor says the cause of justice needs food, salaries, and life. You can hate U.S. dollars, but you can't do without them. They make our power to fight stronger."
With that, Ethan Hunt left.
No manners at all.
He could at least have helped deal with the bodies.
Cuauhtémoc looked around. There wasn't even a decent clock on the wall. The carpet was from a secondhand market. His father had never amassed wealth; when he died, he left nothing behind.
But the most valuable thing, he always believed, was integrity!
His father's aura still sheltered him a decade after his passing. Only… times had changed, and the traffickers no longer played by the rules.
"We're staying at a hotel tonight," Cuauhtémoc said, stuffing the cash into his pocket and holding his wife and son. "Don't worry—I'll protect you always."
Ethan Hunt went downstairs and slid into a red sedan.
Four people sat inside.
He hadn't come alone, of course.
"Protect them well. No mistakes," Ethan Hunt said.
His colleagues nodded.
Cuauhtémoc was a key move for Mr. Victor.
Politics must be resolved with political means.
Violence is merely an offshoot of politics.
(End of Chapter)
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