He was old. Sixty, maybe. Silver hair, jade crucifix around his neck. He smiled when he saw her.
“I want to watch him die knowing his own blood sold him out.”
Xenia didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She disassembled her rifle, cleaned it in silence, and began planning. The mission with Salem and Rios was supposed to be a one-off: destroy El Diablo’s main weapons depot south of the border. Xenia guided them through sewer tunnels she’d mapped herself, past patrol routes she’d memorized, and into the heart of the compound. army of two the devil 39-s cartel xenia
But at the armory door, Salem grabbed her arm. “You’re not just here for the guns. What’s your real play?”
She pulled the trigger. Outside, as the depot collapsed in a tower of fire and black smoke, Rios clapped her on the shoulder. “What now?” He was old
She had been waiting. The two American contractors—Salem and Rios—stormed in like bulls, rifles up, expecting a cartel lieutenant to be cowering behind a desk. Instead, they found her: a woman in her late thirties, black tactical vest over a gray shirt, short-cropped dark hair, and eyes that had stopped feeling anything years ago.
Xenia watched the flames. For the first time in three months, she felt something—not relief, not grief. Just a cold, clean emptiness. He smiled when he saw her
Xenia knelt in front of El Diablo. For a long moment, she just looked at him. Then she unholstered her pistol, pressed it under his chin, and whispered:
“Mateo was weak. You are strong. Come back. We burn these mercenaries together. The family forgives.”