St. David's Medical Center
—Meanwhile, St. David's Medical Center was unusually busy because of the senator's shooting.
Booth, after giving several interviews to the media, returned to the hospital's improvised meeting room to discuss the next phase of the campaign tour with his team.
The senator's latest promotional video was already recorded and playing on the screen. First, an image of Senator McLaughlin appeared with his hand raised, swearing on a Bible.
A voice-over narrated: "State Senator John McLaughlin has sworn to defend the Constitution to his dying breath."
Then, the scene shifted.
The footage from the previous day's shooting reappeared. Thanks to the prior setup, the camera had captured the firing angles and the horrified reactions of the crowd. Panic erupted; screams filled the air.
The images painted a portrait of a patriotic fighter gunned down by a shameless villain.
The narrator's voice grew stronger: "Now he faces an assassination attempt because of it."
The scene cut to a close-up of the senator in his hospital bed. He looked exhausted but still possessed an unbreakable spirit.
"That's the bullet."
The camera zoomed in, showing the senator holding a deformed bullet in his hand.
"Fellow Americans, please stand and cast your sacred vote for Senator John McLaughlin. We need fighters like him. Make America great again."
The senator tossed the bullet into the trash, looked straight at the camera, and said:
—I'm Senator John McLaughlin. Not even bullets will stop me from defending the American way of life. Vote McLaughlin.
Finally, the video returned to the rally's opening scene, with the U.S. flag waving.
A voice-over concluded: "If you support the traditional American way of life, please step forward. This is the donation account for Senator John McLaughlin's campaign office. Contribute to his reelection."
The room lights brightened, and Booth nodded with satisfaction.
—Excellent. But the voice-over needs some tweaks—make it sound more passionate, tougher.
The five or six people around the table quickly took notes.
Booth stroked his graying beard and, in a gravelly voice, ordered:
—We're working overtime tonight. By tomorrow morning, I want this video on every major network. Have our media partners run it all day.
—Yes, Mr. Booth, —they all answered in unison before getting to work.
Booth rolled up his sleeve and checked his watch. His workday was done. Pulling out his phone, he noticed several missed calls.
He stood up calmly and left the conference room.
Just as he was about to return the call, he saw a man in a suit approaching.
—Has Carlos dealt with the woman yet?
The man shook his head awkwardly and replied:
—No, sir. We haven't been able to reach Carlos. I sent someone to the woman's cabin, but we haven't heard back.
—Damn it! —Booth slammed his fist against the car's dashboard, his voice seething with fury—. Can't any of you do anything right?
His assistant stayed silent, staring straight ahead. Booth's glare was sharp enough to cut glass.
—And what about the other thing? —he said in a low, threatening tone—. That damn ICE agent… have you handled that nosy bitch yet? She's been sniffing around, keeping tabs on Jackson's men. I want her out of the way as soon as possible.
The assistant swallowed before answering.
—Sir, we've located her. Mr. Jackson said he'd handle it personally—he's sending some of his men.
Booth leaned back in his seat, exhaling a deep growl.
—Good. Make sure there's no trace left. Now… —his eyes narrowed like blades— focus on finding Letty Ortiz. I want results.
The assistant nodded firmly, closed the car door carefully, and hurried around to the driver's seat. With a sharp twist of the key, the engine roared to life in the dim light.
Booth stared out the window, lost in thought. The night was heavy, almost suffocating. He ran a hand down his face and sighed. After everything, the least he could do was please his wife.
—Where to, sir? —the driver asked respectfully.
—Home… —Booth closed his eyes, exhausted—. It's been one hell of a day.
Back home, Booth froze as he entered through the garage. The house was silent; even the kitchen was empty.
Had April gone out fooling around again? Then where was his wife?
—April… —he muttered, tugging at his collar irritably, ignoring the leather-clad man following him and shouting.
—Boss, maybe the backyard, —the man reminded him carefully, recalling something.
Booth glanced at him, pushed open the large French doors, and stepped outside.
He followed the stone path, hearing nothing. A faint unease crawled up his spine—until he saw them asleep on the lounge chairs. Relieved, he approached to wake them.
—Wake up.
After a few pats, mother and daughter finally stirred.
—Hi, Dad.
June looked up to see Booth standing before her with a grim expression. She smiled sweetly and hugged him.
—When did you get home? Mom and I were sunbathing and must've fallen asleep.
Feeling the warmth of her body through the towel, Booth turned quickly and wrapped her in his arms.
—Go inside and get some rest.
—Oh.
April stuck her tongue out at her mother and skipped toward the house.
June's expression tightened slightly. She was about to speak when she noticed Booth's eyes blazing with anger.
—Ah— —she gasped softly, but before she could react, Booth lunged forward.
His wife watched him storm off, resentment flashing in her gaze. Booth tossed his coat on the living-room sofa and climbed the stairs toward his office.
It was obvious he was in a foul mood. He whistled as he opened the office door—but the tune stopped dead.
Inside looked like a hurricane had torn through. The couch was flipped over, filing cabinets open, papers scattered like snowflakes.
The paintings had fallen from the walls, and the safe door hung wide open.
Booth's face changed instantly; he rushed forward.
The safe was empty—completely wiped clean.
His vision darkened, his body went numb.
Seeing his boss about to collapse, Thomas, his assistant, hurried to steady him into the chair.
Cold sweat covered Booth's forehead. The contents of that safe could destroy them all.
If that information leaked, they were dead.
—Go find the security team. What the hell are those idiots doing?
—Don't go, —Booth said suddenly, regaining focus and stopping him—. Don't tell anyone. We need to think this through.
Just then, a text alert pinged on his phone.
Booth glanced at it, forced himself to stay calm, and with trembling fingers opened his laptop for a video call.
—Mr. Torres, good evening.
—Mr. Booth.
Torres, lounging by a pool on the other end of the screen, was enjoying a massage from two women in maid uniforms.
—You don't look well. Something wrong?
—No problem. It's just a bit hot here.
Booth quickly wiped the sweat from his forehead. If the man on the other side sensed his mistake, Booth would be the first to die.
—Good, —Torres said, sipping his tequila—. Have you taken care of the loose ends we discussed?
Since their last conversation, Booth had laid out the entire plan.
—Mr. Torres, don't worry. We've already handled the issue.
He motioned to the man holding the laptop to bring the camera closer.
—Mr. Booth… I hope so.
Torres took the cigar offered by one of the women and lit it with a satisfied smirk.
—Sir, there's one more thing I need to discuss, —Booth said firmly.
—Go ahead, I'm listening, —Torres replied, leaning forward slightly.
—When can you transfer the rest of the senator's campaign funds? Tomorrow we'll launch a massive media push.
—Relax, Mr. Booth, —Torres answered calmly, biting down on his cigar—. I'll transfer the money tonight.
—Good, —Booth nodded—. Just make sure you use the same channels as before. All transfers must be made in small amounts.
The call disconnected.
Booth slumped back in his chair. From April's room, loud rap music blasted, unaware of the gunshot.
—Damn it… —Booth exhaled hard, regaining his focus.
—Find her. I don't care what you use—just make sure she's dead, —Booth said, his voice cold as steel, every word slicing through the air.
The assistant froze for a moment, absorbing the order, then nodded once, face unreadable.
—Yes, sir, —he replied in a measured whisper—. I'll take care of it.
Booth didn't look away.
The assistant turned around and left the room. The door closed with a faint click.
In the hallway, the light was dim. The man paused for a moment, resting his palm against the wall.
Just as he was about to stand up, he noticed a Post-it.
Seeing the label, Booth reached out and tore it off.
"Nice try, Booth. But you've lost the upper hand."
The signature was a simple smiley face, written in an unfamiliar handwriting he had never seen before.
At Sartana Rivera's house.
Ethan watched Letty's Camaro pull away, grabbing his jacket as he headed for the front door. The radar showed only one person in the house, still in the same position, no problem detected.
—Guu! Guu!
Just as he turned the key in Sartana's lock, a faint moan came from inside.
He dropped his things in the living room and headed straight for the bedroom door. Sartana was struggling on the bed, her legs twisted in an odd position.
When Ethan appeared, Sartana glared at him furiously.
This time, Ethan took the handcuff key from his pocket and unlocked her, stepping back a few paces.
He expected her to attack after being restrained for so long. Unexpectedly, once freed, Sartana frantically tore off the cloth tangled around her feet, not even bothering to remove the towel from her mouth, before bolting away.
—Bang!
The bathroom door slammed shut, followed by the rush of running water. Ethan slapped his forehead.
No wonder she'd been in that state.
A minute later, the bathroom door burst open. Sartana charged at him. Ethan didn't dare hit back — he sidestepped to avoid the fight.
But her hands and feet were numb from being tied up so long. She stumbled and fell headfirst onto the couch.
Ethan stifled a laugh, watching her carefully, ready for another attack.
Unexpectedly, Sartana collapsed onto the couch and began to sob, her shoulders shaking.
Ethan didn't understand — until he noticed the dark stain on her pants. Realization hit him, and he scratched his head awkwardly.
He had no choice but to approach and gently pat her shoulder.
—Sorry… I'm late. Things got a little complicated.
He didn't dare mention the accident. If he did, Sartana would probably kill him.
—Smack!
Sartana slapped his hand away, stood up sharply, and stormed into the bedroom.
Moments later, she came back out, furious, clutching her clothes and towel. Without even glancing at Ethan, she returned to the bathroom, and soon the sound of the shower filled the air.
Ethan could only step out onto the balcony, pull out a cigarette, and light it.
By the time he finished smoking, Sartana had finally emerged from the bathroom.
She was wearing an oversized purple and gold basketball jersey, the number 8 printed clearly across the front.
It hung low enough that it was impossible to tell if she was wearing anything underneath.
Sartana walked straight to the TV, her steps firm. From behind the set, she pulled out a Glock taped in place with gray duct tape. In one swift motion, she tore it free and aimed it at Ethan — teeth clenched, eyes hard.
He froze for an instant at how close her finger hovered over the trigger. But he didn't flinch. Instead, he calmly walked over to the couch and sat down, as if there weren't a gun pointed at his chest.
—I'm hungry, he said in a calm, almost lazy tone. How about we order something?
—You're an idiot, Sartana spat, tightening her grip on the weapon. Hands up. You're under arrest.
Ethan raised an eyebrow, offering a tired smile.
—I know… but tell me, do you want Chinese food or maybe pizza? You know any good places around here?
Sartana's blood boiled, but her finger never quite reached the trigger. Ethan's audacity threw her off — he wasn't reacting like any criminal should.
The tension hung in the air a few more seconds. Finally, Sartana hesitated, took a deep breath, and lowered the gun. Something about him stopped her. She sensed he wouldn't try to hurt her… and honestly, she didn't have the strength left to argue with a man who seemed impossible to intimidate.
With a sharp motion, she tucked the Glock back behind the TV and headed for the kitchen.
Ethan watched her go, still sitting on the couch. He heard the fridge door open, followed by the clatter of jars and containers.
A moment later, Sartana came out with her hands full of fresh ingredients — onions, peppers, a bunch of cilantro, meat wrapped in paper. She dropped everything on the counter with a solid thud.
—I don't like takeout, she muttered, not looking at him as she started organizing the kitchen. It makes me gain weight.
Ethan let out a soft chuckle.
The silence of the house filled with the rustle of bags and the rhythmic thud of a knife hitting a cutting board.
As night fell, the room dimmed. Ethan got up, walked over, and flipped the switch, flooding the house with a warm light.
Sartana's movements were quick, practiced — it was obvious she cooked for herself often and liked her food spicy.
He leaned against the counter and sat down. Sartana's place had a small bar-style counter, and from the high stool, Ethan watched her chop vegetables.
His lips curved as he said, deliberately:
—Could you use a little less chili?
The moment he said it, Sartana grabbed a handful of peppers and began slicing them furiously. Ethan rested his chin on his hand, silently watching her cook.
Before long, she tossed a pile of chili rings into the wok and began to stir-fry. Her loose basketball jersey hid her perfect figure — a shame, he thought; she probably had a great ass.
Sartana couldn't stand his stare any longer and banged the pan twice.
—Are you going to tell me how it went?
—Not yet. Once we eat, we can go over it together. Maybe you'll spot something I missed — there are a lot of local names in those notes, Ethan said with a small smile.
Sartana cooked faster, adding minced meat, onions, black pepper, and other ingredients.
Moments later, she set a large plate of unfamiliar food in front of him. Ethan cautiously called it beef fajitas.
Sartana grabbed a tortilla, sliced it with a knife, took a cautious bite — and was surprised to find it actually tasted pretty good.
Seeing Ethan's delight, Sartana frowned.
—Didn't you say you couldn't handle spicy food?
—I lied, Ethan replied, making her frown even deeper.
After dinner, Sartana's anger from earlier had eased considerably.
That was exactly what Ethan had wanted — a small distraction. Otherwise, it was hard to talk to a woman holding back her rage.
After a short break, they both moved to the living room and sat on the couch. When Sartana saw the bulky suitcase on the table, her curiosity flared.
—Is this the evidence you mentioned?
—Yeah, Ethan nodded. This stuff should prove I'm not lying. Of course, you'll have to check it.
—Alright, leave it to me.
Even though she knew she shouldn't get involved — not even her boss could — curiosity won out. Sartana quickly unzipped the suitcase.
—Bring the laptop.
Ethan brushed her hand away and pointed toward a laptop sitting nearby.
For some reason, Sartana didn't resist. She simply followed his instructions, stood up, and grabbed the computer.
Her eyes widened. A stack of green bills was spread out before her. Ethan picked up a bundle of twenties, flipping through them carelessly. They were all old, unmarked bills.
When he turned around, Sartana was standing there, frozen.
—Come on, help me. Don't just stand there.
—Ah… Sartana muttered, setting the laptop down and helping Ethan count the money.
—Who are you?
After a while, Sartana finally spoke — not as an interrogation, but with genuine curiosity.
—Hitman, gangster, mercenary… secret agent?
As her guesses grew wilder, Ethan stacked the bills neatly in his hand.
—If I told you I'm CIA, would you believe me?
—Yeah, Sartana replied without hesitation. You've got that mysterious vibe. The way you killed and tortured that guy… I wouldn't doubt it for a second. You haven't even told me your name.
Ethan piled up the money in front of him — a familiar gesture he'd done many times before.
—Right. Pleasure to meet you… I'm Johnny Utah.
Silence filled the room.
—Ha! Sartana smacked the stack of bills against Ethan's head. She didn't believe a single word that bastard said.
It wasn't much — maybe a hundred and twenty grand. Ethan looked at her and tossed her thirty thousand.
Sartana blinked.
—What's this?
—Consider it an apology for keeping you tied up so long. Ethan winked.
Thirty thousand dollars was nearly half a year's salary. She still had some student debt, so she accepted the money without protest — and the atmosphere between them softened.
Now it was time for the main event. Ethan handed Sartana the black notebooks, asking her to see if she recognized anyone listed inside.
Sartana flipped through carefully — then froze as her eyes landed on a name written in black ink.
—This is the deputy police chief… Richard Halpern, she whispered in disbelief, her pupils narrowing.
She turned the page, her hands tense, her breathing quick.
—This… this is a state legislator, Charles Whitmore. Her voice cracked slightly, and after a few more pages, her eyes widened in shock. My God… this one's my boss's boss — James R. Hargrove.
Sartana flipped through a few more pages, but the churn in her stomach was too much. She slammed the notebook shut, as if reading further might sign her own death warrant.
She had recognized only three names, but that was enough to grasp the scale of what Ethan had put on the table. This wasn't just a list — it was a detailed map of a corruption network in Texas, linking police departments, legislators, and high-ranking politicians.
A structure of bribes, illegal favors, and covert operations that, if proven, could bring down entire institutions.
—I think that's the highlight, Ethan said, taking the external drive and connecting it to Sartana's laptop with a cable.