Rivera's Place.
—Hold on a second. —Sartana stood up and opened the liquor cabinet; from several bottles, she picked a clear one that gleamed under the light.— If this is what I think it is, I'm gonna need a drink.
—Make that two. —Ethan said, eyes still fixed on the screen as he slid the disk into the computer.
Sartana came back with two shot glasses and the bottle of tequila. She poured with a steady hand, they raised their glasses, clinked them together, and downed the shots in one go.
Cling.
The sharp ring of glass still hung in the air when Sartana exhaled the burn of the alcohol, moved the mouse, and opened the newly loaded file. A pop-up appeared right away: password required.
She glanced at Ethan for a hint. Then, with a soft sigh, she set her hands on the keyboard and typed the password she'd been using all day.
She hit Enter. Access granted.
Booth was the kind of guy who used one password for everything—it made life easier. They both silently noted to change a few.
Inside the disk were several video files, all labeled with "hunting logs" and dates.
The word hunting hit Ethan like a warning. Something was off. Sartana moved the mouse and opened the most recent file—dated just two days ago.
As they watched, the footage began to play. The scene was dim, quiet, still. Clearly nighttime, with the moon casting a cold glow.
The landscape was barren, dotted with low scrub.
The camera zoomed in, revealing several figures approaching from a distance. They looked nervous, clothes torn, carrying large and small bags.
—Migrants. —They exchanged a look but kept their eyes on the screen.
After a moment, the camera slowly panned sideways. An old man wearing a cowboy hat came into view, holding a bolt-action rifle.
As the camera lingered, he raised the weapon and took aim.
—That's Senator John McLaughlin. —Sartana's voice was barely above a whisper as she stared at the white man on screen.
Ethan clenched his fists without realizing it; she placed her palms over his closed hands. The camera shifted again, focusing on a woman in a red dress standing in front of him.
The curve of her belly made it obvious she was pregnant, her steps slow and heavy.
"Welcome to America, you damn wetback," the senator sneered—and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The night's silence shattered. A burst of blood spread across the woman's stomach before she collapsed to the ground.
Sartana's hand trembled, and Ethan held it tight.
The scene shifted abruptly.
Now everyone was inside a jeep. Senator McLaughlin fired again, and the vehicle sped off, headlights slicing through the desert midnight. The camera followed, chasing the migrants running for their lives. Gunshots echoed nonstop.
Screams. Pleas for mercy.
But the hunters showed none—they executed them where they stood.
The jeep spun around and drove back to its starting point.
McLaughlin jumped out, euphoric, and strode to the woman in red. He knelt beside her, rifle raised, posing triumphantly.
—Booth, take my picture.
—And don't forget to send the video to my sponsors later. They'll love it.
When he finished, he grinned at the camera.
—Come on, Vaughn.
—Let's take one together.
—Sure. —A middle-aged white man in jeans and a black shirt stepped forward. The two of them, shoulder to shoulder, filmed another clip showing off their hunting skills.
Ethan hit the space bar. The image froze on the man behind McLaughlin.
—You know this guy? —he asked.
—Yeah. Vaughn. Local rancher. —she said, pouring herself another shot of tequila.—A racist piece of shit. He runs a vigilante militia that roams the border, hunting "illegals" for the Border Patrol.
The bitter liquor burned down her throat, but it helped her think straight. She'd been tracking that militia for months, suspecting they were behind smuggling routes across the border.
She still couldn't believe what she was seeing. How could someone like that exist?
—Easy on the drink. —Ethan warned, patting her back. He took out his phone and snapped a picture of Vaughn's face. He'd seen dehumanized men like that before—he'd built up some immunity.
He'd thought Ethan would use the footage to blackmail Booth, maybe to find out who was really behind the hunts. But what they had here didn't just point fingers—it exposed the entire operation.
Before killing them, he'd have to destroy their reputations.
Sartana slammed the glass down, stopped the video, and clicked through more files.
Every one of them was the same. Different nights. Different victims. Over a dozen lives recorded on that single drive.
They even found a few secretly recorded bribery videos, and Sartana felt bile rising in her throat.
—This world's fucked up. —she muttered.
She clicked on a document and studied it closely.
—Come look at this guy—recognize him? —she asked, tapping the screen. A Mexican man appeared, slick black hair, a large nose.
—That's Rogelio Torres. —Her expression hardened.—He's a major Mexican drug lord, head of the Juárez Cartel. Off the record, over a dozen anti-narcotics officers in Mexico have been killed on his orders.
—Why the hell would a Mexican cartel boss bankroll an American senator's campaign? —Ethan asked, seeing the missing piece.
—I think I know. —Sartana clicked on the next file: a construction diagram. She stretched her arm and tapped it sharply.—Remember the senator's slogan?
—"Build a wall to keep every illegal Mexican out"? —Ethan muttered, taking another sip of tequila.
—Yeah, well, looks like it's more than just a campaign slogan. —she said.—This is the real goal.
She hovered the cursor and pointed at several red dots on the blueprint.
—Maybe Torres is funding the campaign so the senator keeps pushing the wall. —Sartana's voice sharpened.—But the wall's just a cover—to shut down rival cartel routes.
She leaned closer, lowering her tone.
—They're secretly building an underground tunnel network.
Her hand traced across the map, outlining the red points.
—See these? That's where they plan to dig. While the wall goes up as political theater, they'll secure exclusive trafficking channels under it.
Sartana pressed her lips together.
—The drugs won't stop with that wall; they'll pour through these tunnels nonstop.
Who would've imagined a U.S. senator using his power to collude with Mexican cartels—on both sides of the border—to build a massive drug network?
She was dead right. Once that wall was completed, whoever controlled those access points would basically own gold mines that never ran dry.
From Texas, their reach could spread across the entire country.
The United States was the world's biggest drug consumer, burning through tens of billions every year. If this plan worked—if they secured a safe, stable route—they'd dominate the market.
Ethan narrowed his eyes, thinking.
—So how do they get past Border Patrol?
Sartana suddenly remembered.
—You remember Vaughn, that "Patriot Militia" leader?
She flipped through her notebook, fingers drumming against the table.
—Look… that militia's been funded by the senator all along.
Ethan rubbed his chin, processing.
—So that militia's basically McLaughlin's private army.
—Exactly. —Sartana nodded, comparing what she found online with her own notes.—And they collaborate with Border Patrol. They control the drug entry points, using migrants as mules. I'd been tracking them for months. That's why I asked Letty for help a few days ago—so she could back me up in the investigation.
—Damn...
After connecting the dots, Ethan exhaled deeply and leaned back on the couch. He'd always thought they were just a bunch of zealots hunting migrants.
He hadn't expected something this deep.
From the Mexican trafficker to the senator, with the militia in between—it all formed a perfect circle. Booth was the middleman. As long as McLaughlin got re-elected, the wall project would move forward.
With everyone playing their part, the plan could roll out smoothly.
It was a web of power and profit that tied together some of the most powerful people in the state.
Sartana set her phone down on the table and drained the last of the tequila. What she'd uncovered that night left her completely shaken.
Ethan thought for a few seconds, then took the disc out of the computer and slipped it, along with the notebook, into the small backpack Sartana had just handed him.
She looked up as he packed his things.
—What are you going to do now?
—I'm not sure yet. But I'll find a way to tear their plan apart.
Ethan slung the backpack over his shoulder and stood up.
—Now you see I wasn't lying. I told you the truth. You won't want to arrest me anymore, will you?
Sartana shook her head, though hesitation flickered in her eyes.
—My couch is free. You can stay here.
Sartana had already helped him a lot, and she knew the next steps would be dangerous. If she got more involved, she'd risk the quiet life she'd managed to build.
—Forget it —Ethan said—. Pretend you never saw me. That we never spoke.
—If people find out what you're planning to do, you'll be in serious trouble. —Her tone was grave—. Too many people are involved.
Sartana grabbed his backpack, stopping him.
—Where are you going now? —she asked, clutching the fabric between her fingers—. At least here you're safe. No one would imagine you're hiding in an agent's house.
—What they're planning isn't a game —Ethan replied—. It could cost thousands of lives.
Sartana let out a breath and looked away for a moment.
—I don't have the courage to face them all —she admitted—, but I can't let them get away with this either. I'll help you.
—All right. —Ethan nodded, not celebrating, just accepting the fragile truce.
He didn't press further.
After a moment of silence, Ethan chuckled under his breath.
—What's so funny? —Sartana asked, tying her hair into a messy ponytail.
—I was just thinking… we had quite a day, didn't we?
—Really? —she shot back with irony, rubbing the wrist still marked by the cuffs—. Why don't I believe that?
Ethan quickly changed the subject.
—Mind if I take a shower?
Sartana glared at him.
—You know where the bathroom is. I'll bring you a towel.
—Of course.
Ethan nodded and casually walked into her room, grabbed a clean towel, and headed for the bathroom.
After showering carefully, he put his same clothes back on—he had no other option.
Sartana sat on the couch, watching the news. When she saw the report about the senator's attack, a fleeting sense of relief crossed her face.
Just then, Ethan's ears twitched.
A faint crack of branches sounded outside. His instincts kicked in—he activated his radar.
Outside, a dozen points of light formed a circle, moving fast toward the house.
Ethan shoved the couch, knocking Sartana to the floor.
—Ah! —she gasped, lips tightening, eyes wide and watery.
But Ethan didn't pin her down as she feared. Instead, he grabbed the two pistols from the table and turned toward the window.
—Bang! Bang! Bang!
The Glock roared, the muzzle flash lighting Ethan's tense face for an instant. The bullet tore through the living room, shattering the glass sliding door with a sharp crack. Glittering shards rained across the floor like diamonds.
Outside, a figure dressed in black barely turned its head before the bullet pierced its skull. The impact was brutal—his head burst into a red mist.
The red dots on Ethan's radar accelerated, moving closer. He fired three more shots toward the kitchen, taking down those trying to breach from there.
—Bang! Bang! Bang!
The bedroom and bathroom windows shattered as someone burst inside.
Ethan advanced, arms extended, both pistols aimed. He fired his Glock twice—two shots, and something heavy hit the ground.
He pivoted, raised the other gun, and fired two more rounds toward the door—two neat holes appeared.
—Ah! —a cry rang out.
Of the two white blips on the radar, only one vanished.
—Puf, puf, puf!
The wounded man outside the front door returned fire. Bullets ripped through the entrance, shattering plates, splintering cabinets, and tearing across the couch.
While Ethan held off the attackers, Sartana grabbed her backpack and rolled under the wooden table.
Ethan dropped his Beretta near the TV, snatched up Sartana's Glock, and kept firing—one hand aimed at the bathroom, the other at the door.
—Boom! Boom! Boom!
Gunfire thundered through the house. The man at the front door and the two dots near the bathroom disappeared from the radar.
Then, a dark object flew into the bedroom. Ethan dove under the table.
—Boom!
The grenade exploded, sending shrapnel everywhere and blowing the bedroom door off its hinges. The remaining white dots clustered toward the back of the house. Ethan crawled out, dragging Sartana with him.
—Bastard! —she yelled, pressing her finger over his and firing toward the bedroom.
After a few wild shots, Ethan calmed her down.
—Easy.
—Damn it! —her eyes burned with fury—. This is my house!
Two more grenades crashed through the bedroom window. With all his strength, Ethan pulled her into the bathroom.
—Boom! Boom!
The blasts threw them to the floor, dodging debris and splintered wood. Darkness swallowed everything—the power was out.
—Shh —Ethan whispered, covering Sartana's mouth.
She nodded quickly, clutching her backpack, eyes blazing with restrained anger.
Ethan stood, eyes adjusting to the dark. Five blips remained on the radar—three in the bedroom, two moving toward the living room. They were setting up a two-front assault.
He analyzed the situation, positioning himself beside the bathroom door, both Glocks ready. Sartana crouched near the bathtub; her gaze fell on the bodies sprawled across the floor. She grabbed one of the dropped rifles and slung another over her shoulder.
Their eyes met—no words, only a silent exchange of command.
Ethan lifted two fingers forward: advance. Sartana nodded slightly, locked her weapon, and hugged the wall as she moved out, her barrel sweeping across every corner.
Ethan covered her from behind, both of them moving as if they'd trained together for years.
There was no running now; their only advantage was knowing where the enemy was.
Ethan pressed his back against the bedroom wall, breathing steadily. With a small gesture of two fingers, he gave a signal. Sartana caught it instantly—she stepped back two paces, steadied her aim, and pointed at the second bedroom.
On the radar, two dots approached.
She didn't know why, but she chose to trust him completely. Adjusting her sights, she pressed the stock to her shoulder and opened fire.
—Da-da-da!
Flames burst from the muzzle, lighting the dark room. Bullets ripped through the thin wooden wall, splintering it and shredding the three men inside before they could react.
Gunpowder filled the air. Sartana advanced carefully, covering angles, until she reached the doorway. Ethan was already there, backing her up, ready for the next front.
He knew there were still enemies in the bathroom, but seeing how she had taken down several men in seconds, they adjusted their plan.
Ethan knelt, eyes fixed on the backyard. He squinted—two dark figures darted out from the balcony.
He squeezed the trigger instantly, unleashing a storm of bullets.
The two men who tried to ambush them didn't stand a chance; they dropped dead before they could react.
Sartana gritted her teeth and kept firing until their heads burst in a crimson spray. Only then did she release the trigger, breathing hard, still alert.
Ethan lowered his rifle and stepped into the bedroom. The three men inside were already down.
Two were dead instantly. One still moved, clutching his stomach, blood seeping through his fingers, a faint groan under his black mask.
A shirtless, heavily built man stepped into the dim room, rifle glinting faintly.
When he saw Ethan approach, the wounded man's eyes widened in panic. He reached for his gun—but Ethan kicked it away.
They'd thought the job would be easy—a woman alone, simple target. They hadn't known she wasn't alone, or that the man beside her would wipe them out in seconds. Everything had gone to hell before they even understood what had hit them.
Ethan strode forward and ripped the hood off the last man in black.
He was a stranger—a white man, probably in his thirties.
—Who sent you here? —Ethan crouched down, his eyes cold, the gun barrel shifting between the man's legs and pressing against the wound—
—You with the Patriot Militia? —Ethan tilted his head, aiming the rifle at the man's chest—. How did you find the address?
—Y-yes… yes —the man gasped—. It was Alexander Pierce… the director of ICE. He told us… he sent us to kill Agent Rivera.
—My boss? Why? —Sartana's voice cracked.
A wave of betrayal hit her. Her own boss and mentor—the man she had trusted blindly—had ordered her death. A cold shiver ran down her spine, a bitter confirmation that her life, as she knew it, was over.
—Because you were— —the man started, but his words broke off in a choking sound, silenced by a final convulsion.
Ethan lowered the barrel, crouched beside the body for a moment in thought, then stood up.
He glanced around the completely wrecked room and let out a long sigh. As he moved to leave, Sartana gave him a wary look.
—I'm sorry. That can't be easy. —Ethan scratched his head and dropped the rifle to the floor with a dull thud.
—Why did he do it? —Sartana's tone was hollow—. He was like a father to me, you know? He told me I was the best, that I had a future… He gave me this life. He taught me to be tough, to trust no one. And I believed him! Was I that stupid? That blind?
She stood in the middle of the ruined room, the rifle lying at her feet. Her eyes, fixed on an invisible point, filled with tears as fury gave way to a painful clarity.
A short, bitter laugh escaped her throat. She raised a trembling hand to her face, feeling the dirt and dried blood on her skin.
—My whole life… just a well-told lie. The job, the oaths, the loyalty—what for? So my "boss" could send hired guns to blow my head off when I threatened some corrupt politician's interests? To erase me?
—Come on. We need to get out of here before the cops show up —Ethan's voice was low and urgent. He was quickly checking the dead mercenary—. There's no way to explain this legally. If your own people betrayed you, we'll end up either in prison or in body bags.
Sartana looked at him, eyes hollow, a faint trace of ash on her cheek. Her voice carried an echo of despair.
—I have nowhere to go. No one waiting for me. No family. No future to go back to —she said, each word falling like a stone—. I've got nothing left.
Ethan could feel the weight of her pain in every syllable. He stepped closer, placing his hands gently on her shoulders. Their eyes met in the dim light, and he knew exactly what that emptiness felt like.
—I'll help you. I know what it's like to be completely alone… to start over from nothing. You're not alone. Not anymore.
Ethan grabbed his gun to holster it, but the barrel burned his fingers. He yanked it back instantly.
—Idiot.
Sartana snorted, half amused by his clumsy innocence.
But as she looked around at what was once her home—now reduced to a warzone—her throat tightened.
She turned toward Ethan, gritted her teeth, dropped the rifle, and punched him with both fists.
This time, Ethan didn't dodge. He tilted his head and let her hit him hard.
She struck him several times before collapsing against him, clutching him tightly and biting his shoulder with raw emotion.
—Ugh! —Ethan gasped—. Ow—hey, easy!
After a few seconds, she released him, breathing out like she'd been holding it in for hours.
—No time. Grab whatever's valuable and move. We have to go. Now.
Ethan rubbed his shoulder hard. Booth's men had found Sartana's home—that meant she'd been exposed.
Given what they knew about the power behind Senator McLaughlin's lobbying network, Sartana's life was effectively over.
This wasn't something that could be solved by killing Booth or McLaughlin. She was already on their hit list.
What they'd uncovered had threatened too many powerful people.
As long as Sartana lived under her current identity, she'd face endless retaliation—some open, some silent.
Witness protection or the FBI would be useless; it would only make it easier for them to erase her quietly.
Sartana gathered herself and ran to her room, stuffing valuables and a few clothes into her small backpack.
She wiped a tear away as she looked at the wrecked bedroom.
When she tried to open the closet, the door collapsed, but her favorite brown leather jacket was still hanging inside.
Moments later, she emerged wearing boots, jeans, and the jacket, with a small backpack slung over one shoulder.
—If you leave me behind… —Sartana growled, gripping an assault rifle she'd picked up from the bedroom— I swear to God I'll shoot you.
Seeing the fury in her eyes, Ethan raised his eyebrows.
Sartana glanced around one last time, holstered her pistol, grabbed a gasoline can from the garage, and poured it over the floor.
After a moment, they both stepped outside.
—I'm sorry —Ethan said quietly, lighting a match and handing her the lighter.
—It's just a house… besides, now you're stuck taking care of me. —Sartana watched the flames flicker, then tossed the lighter.
A blazing fire erupted, lighting their faces in a fierce orange glow.
Ethan tugged gently at her arm.
—Come on. We've got to move before the firefighters or cops spot that smoke.
They crossed the backyard quickly, jumping over a shattered wooden fence, and headed into the darkest side of the street. They walked fast for several blocks, the crackling of flames fading behind them.
—Where are we going? —Sartana asked, adjusting her backpack.
—Downtown. I need to pick up my truck. Your car's not an option anymore. —Ethan's voice was calm but focused as they neared the main road.
When a taxi with its light on came around the corner, Ethan flagged it down. The driver, a drowsy young man, stopped.
—Grand Plaza Hotel, please —Ethan said, giving him a central but vague address to avoid suspicion.
The taxi started moving. Inside, silence filled the air, broken only by the low hum of the driver's radio.
—We're going to my friend Blake's grandparents' ranch —Ethan explained softly, leaning toward Sartana—. It's safe. Out in the country. No one will find us there while we regroup.
—And then what?
—Then we wait for Letty. We regroup, make a plan, and take those bastards down.
They reached the parking garage across from the hotel. Ethan paid the driver and led Sartana to a black Range Rover with a license plate caked in dry mud.
An hour and a half later, the SUV rumbled down a dirt road, dust swirling behind them. Finally, the silhouette of a farmhouse appeared through the darkness.
—We're here —Ethan said, cutting the engine.
They stepped out. The air was cool, carrying the smell of wet earth.