In a private villa on the outskirts, a man enjoyed the aroma of a Cuban cigar and a whiskey on the rocks in front of his pool.
A beep interrupted the silence: it was a video call request on the laptop in front of him. Clumsily, he pressed the buttons without taking the cigar from his lips.
The screen showed the courtyard of a private estate. The camera moved toward a pool where a dozen girls in bikinis splashed and laughed.
The man, unperturbed, kept smoking.
The image stabilized, revealing a stocky Mexican man with a prominent nose, a floral shirt, and slicked-back black hair. Around him, five naked women surrounded him like trophies of power.
—Mr. Torres, what can I do for you… —said the goateed man, scratching his beard with a grin— By the way, did you see what I sent you?
—I did, but I still don't get it —Torres removed his sunglasses, revealing an icy stare as the news report of the attack replayed on the nearby screen—. How the hell is shooting the senator supposed to guarantee him victory? Dead, he's useless to me. I thought I was funding his reelection… and in that video, all I see is a political corpse, Booth.
—You're mistaken, sir —Booth replied, leaning toward the camera with a calm, steady voice—. That bullet didn't weaken him; it turned him into a martyr. People are more sensitive than ever, and McLaughlin's approval rating is skyrocketing.
Booth paused, almost enjoying the man's confusion.
—I just came back from the hospital. It was packed with supporters crying, praying for him. Believe me, with that wound, the senator's reelection is already guaranteed.
—It better be… because you know what happens if you fail, don't you? —growled Torres, lighting a cigar handed to him by one of his companions.
—I'm a man of my word —Booth replied calmly—. When this is over, you'll see that what you invested in the senator will be nothing compared to what we'll gain in the next term.
—Good. —Torres ended the call without another word.
Booth stood up and walked to the window. Outside, two armed guards patrolled the garden under the sun. The empty pool reflected a dull glimmer; compared to Torres's obscene excess, his own villa looked almost miserable.
But with the senator's imminent reelection, his plan had worked perfectly. All that remained was to tie up a few loose ends.
Thinking about them, he frowned, pulled out his phone, and gave the order in a sharp tone:
—Have you found her yet?
—Not yet, sir.
—Then move your asses. It's a fucking red food truck—find her. I want her dead before the day's over, goddammit.
—Yes, sir.
He hung up, shook his head, and started walking toward the inside of the house.
The smell of food hit him in the air. In the dining room, a mature red-haired woman with generous curves and a suggestive smile awaited him.
—Honey, come have lunch. I made your favorite… —she said, setting the dishes on the table.
Booth nodded silently and sat down. He sank his fork into the greasy pasta; the red sauce splattered the tablecloth, and the smell of meat and garlic clung to his hands. He chewed slowly, his mouth stained red.
Just as he was about to take another bite, he felt a foot teasing him under the table.
—Please —murmured Booth, gesturing toward the food—, can I at least eat in peace?
—You haven't touched me in three months, honey… I'm feeling so hot right now—his wife replied, biting sensually into her food and letting the juice drip down her lips.
The cramp in Booth's stomach wasn't hunger. He coughed, uncomfortable.
—I've been too busy with the campaign, and you saw they shot the senator in the middle of his speech… I'm not in the mood for that—he said flatly, turning back to his plate to change the subject—. People have lost all sense of morality. I don't know what's happening to this world.
—That's right, this fucking world's a mess.
Just then, a young red-haired girl walked into the kitchen in a pink floral dress. She kissed Booth on the cheek and sat next to him.
—Honey, please don't use that kind of language. It's not ladylike—her mother said mockingly as she got up to serve food.
Booth looked at her with feigned disapproval, though his eyes showed affection.
—April, don't you have school today?
—Please, Dad, don't start lecturing me this early. —April replied with disdain.
April grabbed her plate carelessly.
Mrs. Booth frowned in reproach, eyeing her daughter with resentment. She quickly noticed the girl wasn't wearing underwear and raised her hand in warning.
—April, even if you're home, you should be a little more discreet with your clothing. The staff could see you.
April tossed her hair back and arched her chest defiantly.
—Come on, don't be so old-fashioned, Mom —she said as she lit a cigarette—. Do you have any idea how popular my website is? People love seeing me like this—and I love being seen.
Booth blinked, surprised.
—A website? What website?
April rolled her eyes.
—Don't worry, Dad. It's just a little project. I'm gonna focus on promoting myself online in the future. —she replied confidently.
April's mother nudged her lightly with her foot under the table. Booth just shrugged; he didn't seem willing to scold his daughter. It was always the same story: he avoided confronting her, and she, as a mother, felt her authority slipping more and more in front of that rebellious girl.
—Let the girl be June, at least she's found her own path.
April smiled and started eating.
In the heart of the city, at The Picnic park, a 2016 blue Mustang tore through the trees. It circled a couple of times before stopping in front of a group of people.
The driver frowned, his face showing disdain as he scanned where the food trucks were gathered, like he was looking for something. He got out of the car in front of some diners; a few men immediately stepped back, intimidated, but a middle-aged man calmly observed the crowd.
The driver, wearing a black leather jacket, was one of Booth's men.
He walked toward one of the food trucks, stopping in front of the cashier, and asked:
—Where's the food truck? —the man in the leather jacket said firmly— The red one, the one with graffiti that was here yesterday.
A chubby smile spread across the other man's face. He spoke quickly in Spanish, raising his arms defiantly, almost mockingly.
The jacketed man gritted his teeth, holding back impatience:
—In English, you damn beaner!
—I… I don't… speak English… sir… —the man stammered, dragging his words, eyes full of fear and confusion.
Visibly annoyed, the man in the jacket opened his coat and revealed the silenced Colt strapped to his waist. Instantly, the other man raised his hands, his smile fading.
—I haven't seen Letty all day. I think she took the day off, sir —he now shouted in perfect English, trying to regain composure.
—Letty? —the man in the jacket asked, raising an eyebrow, his voice full of suspicion— You know her, right? I assume you know where she lives.
—No —the man denied, his skin prickling, sweat beading on his forehead.
Tension spiked immediately. The man in the jacket pressed the barrel of his pistol against his face, breathing heavily.
—Good. Think carefully about your next answer —he warned, his voice low and deadly— Do you know where she lives?
—Yes! —the man with glasses exclaimed, eyes wide, voice shaking, on the verge of panic.
Under the threat, he had no choice but to get into the car and follow the man to his vehicle. They loaded him into the back seat of the Mustang; one guy held an MP5 submachine gun. His face stiffened at the sight of the weapon, but he could do nothing.
They got in, and the man in the jacket drove off with satisfaction. Behind them, another black car followed.
The scene didn't go unnoticed by the workers nearby; some exchanged glances, and the more cautious got up and left. A few minutes later, a silver BMW appeared.
Sartana got out of the vehicle and confirmed that the red food truck that usually parked there had disappeared. Moreover, the number of waiting workers had noticeably decreased.
That confirmed Sartana's conviction: she was on the right track.
She had been watching Letty for some time and knew her exact address. The food truck might have vanished, but the house hadn't. If an illegal immigrant had been involved in the shooting, she had to know something.
On the outskirts of the city, Letty lived in a secluded, isolated cabin. After leaving the city, finding a safe place became a priority; it was clear that whoever tried to frame them was on her trail. For Letty, the smartest move was to find her friend, the one who had connected her with the hotel people, and make a plan.
Ethan was alone, waiting for news. Annoyed, he turned on the TV, and on almost every local channel, coverage revolved around the senator's attack: old campaign ads, McLaughlin interviews, official statements… all repeating over and over.
Ethan shook his head, hoping Letty would soon find a clue about who had set the trap. But the bastard had messed with the wrong person, and he was going to pay dearly for it.
Outside the apartment, a blue Mustang and a black Passat cautiously stopped a few meters from the house.
—Are you sure this is the place? —asked the man driving to the food truck cook. His name was Carlos, one of Booth's trusted men.
No car was parked in front of the cabin.
Carlos turned his head, his gaze cold and piercing.
—If you dare lie to me, I promise I'll cut you into pieces and feed you to the dogs.
The cook nodded frantically, face dripping with sweat, too scared to move.
Carlos opened the Mustang door and leaned on the front. The others got out, opened their coats, revealing the MP5s slung over their shoulders.
—The boss wants her alive, but if she resists, kill her.
One of the men nodded, slung the gun on his back, and carefully advanced to the front door. The place was silent; only the creak of their steps could be heard. Eerily silent.
The man crouched at the wooden steps, swallowed, and peered through the peephole, trying to catch any movement inside.
—Puff.
A bullet tore through the door, entering his mouth and exiting the back of his head. The body fell heavily onto the wooden planks.
Blood mingled with the stench of urine.
Carlos watched from a distance, disdainful, holstered his pistol, and ordered:
—Circle the house, and kill the bitch.
The four remaining men, MP5s drawn, advanced in short steps, forming a circle around the cabin.
Ethan, who had kept his radar on since the incident, saw several red dots closing in on his position: enemies. They were surrounding him. He hadn't expected to be found here; rage burned in his chest. Letty had sold him out —damn bitch—, betrayed him twice. Next time he saw her, he'd put a bullet in her head before she could say a word.
With a swift motion, he rolled to the side in the bedroom, lying face down on the floor. Of the five points on the radar, one remained stationary; the other four were positioned in a circle around the cabin.
Ethan wasn't going to stay still and wait to be finished off. He crawled silently toward the bedroom wall, right in front of one of the red dots, just two or three meters away.
He raised his pistol with cold calm, lined up the shot, pulled the trigger, and fired.
—Bang! Bang! Bang!
The wood splintered, and a dark spray hit the outside. A body dropped.
The other three reacted instantly. The sound of their gunfire shook the cabin: wood splintering, cushions bursting, window frames shattering.
Ethan moved crouched, dodging gunfire like a ghost, until he reached the kitchen and grabbed a pair of kitchen knives.
The first enemy burst through the back door. A flash, a short burst: Ethan fired twice, one shot to the chest, another to the leg, knocking him down. He wasted no time: the knife sliced through the throat in a clean arc, silencing the scream before it could escape.
The second came through the window, rolling. Ethan met him with gunfire, but the man managed to take cover behind the broken frame. Without pause, Ethan threw the knife, it spun in the air, embedding in his shoulder. The man screamed and faltered; enough for Ethan to leap, take the rifle from him, and use it as leverage to snap his neck with a brutal twist.
The last one was still outside, breathing heavily, radar blinking with his position fixed. He slid through the front door, yanked it open, but Ethan pressed the barrel to his forehead and pulled the trigger.
The shot went through his head side to side, leaving a bloody trail on the wood before the body collapsed like an empty sack. The fight had lasted only a few minutes.
The radar blinked: a single red dot remained, fixed in front of the cabin, by the car. The enemy's silhouette was visible behind the vehicle, waiting for Ethan to peek out so he could empty the magazine.
Ethan wasn't giving him that advantage. He slid across the ground to the broken window, barely raised his head, and saw the reflection in the windshield: the guy was crouched, eyes fixed on the entrance, finger tense on the trigger.
With a quick move, Ethan went around the side of the cabin, low and agile, circling until he was diagonal to the vehicle. He stepped on a dry branch in the dirt, and the noise made the enemy turn. Too late.
Ethan fired first: two bullets shattered the Mustang's side window. The man ducked, rolled on the ground, and fired a blind burst, flashes going everywhere.
When the magazine emptied, Ethan didn't hesitate. He launched himself onto the Mustang's hood and crossed it like an unleashed beast. He fell directly onto the enemy, tackling him with all his weight, slamming him to the ground.
The impact stunned Carlos, air escaping his lungs in a harsh groan, while the gun rolled out of reach. He tried to reach his pistol, but Ethan pinned him with his knee on his chest, knife at his throat, eyes cold.
—Touch that gun, you die.
Ethan didn't think twice. The man's jaw gave under a solid hit, collapsing onto the porch wood. He was breathing hard. Ethan dragged him to the kitchen, sat him in an old chair, and tied his hands and feet with duct tape.
The man coughed, spat, and tried to regain his voice. Small, hard eyes, a scar running down his left cheek.
—Tell me who sent you —Ethan said, low voice.
—Go to hell… I won't tell you anything —the man spat, a broken smile on bloody lips.
The first punch shut him up: a solid right to the abdomen. The prisoner arched in the chair, gasping for air. Ethan waited for him to recover, keeping his eyes on him, then delivered another punch, this time to the ribs.
—Who planned the senator attack? —Ethan asked, deep, calm, more dangerous than a shout.
The man only whimpered, twisting in the chair.
Ethan sighed with cold patience, stood, and circled him slowly. Then he leaned and delivered a backhand to the mouth. The metallic snap of a tooth breaking mixed with a thread of blood running down his chin.
Calmly, Ethan grabbed his hair and forced him to lift his head.
The prisoner gritted his teeth, but finally, gasping, the truth came out:
—Mich… Michael Booth —he muttered with a groan— Booth wanted to use Letty as a scapegoat… —he choked on his own saliva— The plan… comes from his campaign… all for the senator's reelection.
Ethan released him, letting him slump against the chair back, defeated and trembling.
In the silence that followed, the revelation sank like an icy knife in Ethan's chest. Booth was the mastermind. And Letty had been the trap from the start.
Sartana arrived at the cabin, her pulse racing. The slightly open door let her glimpse Ethan: there was a body tied to a chair, and the heavy smell of gunpowder hung in the air. As she stepped inside, the scene hit her like a physical blow.
Sartana didn't hesitate:
—Stop! Hands where I can see them! —she shouted, then identified herself aloud—. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. What happened here?
Ethan looked up calmly, tension in his eyes. He didn't flinch at the badge.
—Immigration? —he replied skeptically—. What are you doing getting involved in this?
Sartana set her chin, her voice firm enough to hide the tremor she felt, trying to gain ground:
—If you tell me the truth, I promise I'll report it to my superiors. I won't deport you over this if you cooperate. —She paused, gauging him—. What exactly happened?
Ethan studied her for a second, and in that instant, he made a decision. He wasn't going to waste time with formalities. With a swift movement, before Sartana could fully react, he took two steps toward her, his hand flashing over the grip of her Glock, catching the hammer before it could even fire.
In the blink of an eye, the situation flipped: Sartana's gun was now in Ethan's hands, the barrel pressed against his temple.
The agent's face went pale, her throat dry.
—Get on your knees. Put your hands on your head. —Ethan said, his voice cold—
She swallowed, dropped the weapon, and sank to her knees, hands on her head. As she obeyed, she tried to reclaim authority, but now he was the one setting the terms.
—I'm not going to kill you —Ethan said firmly, picking up the fallen Glock and pointing it directly at Carlos, Booth's man—. These guys came to kill me… I just defended myself. And now, it looks like we're in this together.
Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger twice, bullets hitting the man in front of him in the chest. Carlos fell to the floor, and the heavy silence of the cabin enveloped everything.
Sartana remained frozen, unable to process what had just happened. This man had taken out the guy in the chair with his own weapon… and now she, out of proximity and fear, had become an unwilling accomplice.
Her house… why did these men come here?
Ethan looked at her with a cold, blood-chilling calm.
—Easy —he said, gesturing lightly toward the fallen bodies—.
Ethan took advantage of the moment and, without lowering the gun, explained the essentials in a few words: the conspiracy he had been dragged into, the rifle planted in the Grand Plaza room, and the chain of events leading to Charles Booth, the senator's campaign manager.
Sartana listened closely. When he mentioned Booth's name, her face hardened.
—Booth… —she repeated, as if saying the name out loud helped her digest the disbelief—. The campaign advisor. Do you have proof?
—None, really. But now, you're the only one who knows this. —Ethan answered, with a hint of menace.
She understood perfectly what it meant to be there. She was the sole witness to all of this. Her breathing trembled, her hands clenched on her knees to avoid showing weakness.
—Please… don't kill me —she said, her voice breaking—. I can help you. I'll talk to my bosses… you can get out of this, we can fix it, they'll put you in witness protection.
For a moment, Ethan considered the simplest option. It would be much easier to kill her right now; one bullet and the problem would be gone. No one would know. No one could betray him. All this mess would be behind him, no loose ends.
But when he raised his eyes and met hers, something stopped him. That wasn't what he wanted. He wasn't a hitman.
—Now we need to get out of here —he finally said, his voice low but firm—. Let's go to your car. We're going to your house.
Her eyes widened, bewildered. She bit her lip, trembling.
—Why my house? —she asked, in a thin voice—. Just… let me go. I promise I won't tell anyone I saw you.
Ethan leaned toward her, the shadow of his face covering hers.
—Because I need a place where no one can find me —he replied calmly—. And, like it or not, that place is your house.
She swallowed. She knew that if she screamed, no one would come; she knew her life depended entirely on this man at that moment. Her hands trembled as she searched for the keys in her pocket.
Forty-five minutes later, the car arrived at a suburban home. It was a single-story house, an ordinary middle-class residence.
Sartana pressed the remote and opened the garage door, letting the car in as it closed behind them.
—Turn off the car, and slow. If you take a wrong step, I'll shoot —Ethan ordered, checking that the radar was clear, then carefully exiting the car.
Sartana wanted to resist but found no opportunity. Suddenly, she felt that the other person, that shadow watching her, moved with the experience of a highly trained officer, in her judgment.