Blake Ranch
Ethan stepped inside the house. It was warm inside; the air smelled of burning wood and coffee. Sartana stood by the doorway, hesitant, as if unsure whether she was allowed to enter.
A light flicked on in the hallway. Blake appeared—her hair a total mess, wearing an oversized sweatshirt. Her eyes were half-closed from sleep, but the moment she saw Sartana, they snapped wide open.
—Ethan, you're back… —Blake hurried toward him, then froze when she noticed the woman behind him. Her smile vanished, replaced by a tense, jealous look.
—Who's she…?
—Blake, wait —Ethan calmed her, resting his hands gently on her shoulders. Then he turned toward Sartana—. Sartana, this is Blake. Blake, she's… a friend.
Blake crossed her arms, not bothering to hide her distrust. Her gaze went from the rifle on the floor to Sartana's blood-stained clothes.
—A friend in trouble, I guess —she muttered.
—Yeah. Big trouble. And she needs a place to stay.
The plan was to lay low here until they figured things out—and until Letty arrived. Ethan guided Sartana to the couch, but Blake barely sat, her eyes fixed on the stranger.
—What kind of trouble?
Ethan sighed. He didn't want to worry her, but honesty was the only thing that ever worked with Blake.
—Look, it's complicated. Remember what we saw the other day? The dead people at the border—the migrants?
—Yeah. The massacre —Blake nodded, her face suddenly grave.
So Ethan told her everything that had happened over the past few days: the conspiracy, the attack on Sartana's house. Blake listened, wide-eyed, trying to process it all. Her jealousy slowly melted away, replaced by concern.
—Oh my God. So… it's all part of a conspiracy?
—Yeah.
—But… if it's that big, if a senator's involved… Cordell could help you. You should call him.
Ethan shook his head, caution in his voice.
—We can't. We don't know how deep this goes. If Pierce is involved, there could be more people inside the agency—or even among the Rangers. Cordell's a good guy, but calling any contact right now would only put him and his family at risk.
Blake let them settle in the living room while she made large mugs of coffee. It was going to be a long night.
Sartana pulled an external hard drive and her laptop from her bag, placing them on the table along with Booth's notebooks—right in front of Letty, who had just arrived a few minutes earlier. There was no point in just explaining it. Letty needed to see the truth.
Even after watching the videos a second time, Sartana felt deeply uneasy. She finished her beer in long, heavy gulps.
Letty's face darkened until it was a mask of fury. The people who'd been shot were innocent—migrants looking for a better future. For years, she and her friend Sonny had built a network to help them cross safely. But now, watching those videos—seeing Sonny's death—something inside her broke.
Judging by the footage alone, at least fifty migrants had been brutally murdered. Elderly people, pregnant women, and children—all slaughtered. Senator McLaughlin had called them "cockroaches," and his actions showed he truly saw them that way. He felt no guilt.
Ethan noticed Blake's eyes filling with tears. He closed the laptop lid gently—this wasn't something for someone as sensitive as her. He'd have to comfort her later.
Letty emptied her coffee cup in one go, breathing hard, then said:
—Whatever you're planning, I'm in. I'll help you all the way.
She understood that going after a senator and an entire web of corruption wasn't something they could do alone.
Ethan nodded and took control of the laptop.
—First, let's show Senator McLaughlin the power of the Internet.
—You remember Job? The guy who helped us get into Booth's house today?
—Yeah, your hacker friend —Letty said—. What can he do?
—A lot, actually. Think about the kind of power he has. —Ethan opened a video call app, eyes fixed on the screen as if already watching his enemies' downfall—. Job can dismantle the carefully built myth around the senator and Booth. We're not going after their money—we're taking their credibility, the real source of their power. Once they're exposed, they'll be finished.
A few seconds later, the video call request popped up. Ethan accepted. A window opened, showing Job's bald head and a margarita glass with a lime slice on the rim.
Job raised a finger, took a sip, and greeted them grumpily:
—Hey, asshole. Good evening.
—This is Letty, you already know her, and this is Sartana Rivera.
—Of course. We already planned to go shopping when she visits New York. —Job waved at Letty.
Letty barely nodded, too drained to respond.
—I'm Sartana.
Ethan turned the laptop around.
—That's Job. He's a pain in the ass. Don't believe a word he says about me—he's always trying to one-up me.
—Fuck you, Ethan. —Job rolled his eyes dramatically and flipped him off at the camera.
—And that's Blake. I told you about her. —
After lowering his hand, Job looked at Sartana.
—Damn, you're gorgeous… that bastard always gets lucky.
Sartana smiled slightly and nodded, giving Ethan a curious glance. The more she learned about him, the more mysterious he seemed.
Ethan straightened the laptop so all four of them were in view—he in the center, with the three women leaning into the frame.
—So, what did you find in the safe?
Job took another sip.
—Anything we can use to blackmail Booth?
When he finished speaking, he noticed the others' serious expressions.
—You have no idea —Ethan said, his lips tightening—. It's enough to give every conspiracy theorist a hard-on straight to Area 51.
—Shit. That good? —Job blinked, intrigued.
Ethan nodded.
—Yeah. The senator took drug money to fund his campaign, worked with paramilitary groups to smuggle narcotics into the country, and—get this—hosts migrant-hunting trips along the border. And to top it off, he runs a network of bribed officials. How's that sound?
—Oh, hell, that's gold —Job's eyes lit up—. Send me everything. All of it.
—What do I need to do?
—I'll send you a link. Just click it and install the file. —Job took another sip—. Leave the rest to me.
Following Job's instructions, Sartana backed up the data. She and Blake also photographed Booth's notebooks, organizing every financial transaction in order and saving everything to the laptop.
It took them half an hour to finish.
Job reviewed the files with fascination. He'd hacked the FBI before to uncover the truth about Area 51, but even he was stunned by the darkness in this data.
—I thought they were dirty —Job lit a cigarette—. I didn't think they were this dirty.
He exhaled smoke and looked straight at the camera.
—So, what's the plan?
The three women and Ethan watched him intently.
—We go public —Job leaned closer, voice calm but sharp—. We use this data to destroy their lives. The courts can't touch people like McLaughlin. But the court of public opinion? That's where we'll bury them.
His eyes gleamed with the thrill of the fight.
—We're not just leaking this to some small blog. We're going everywhere—news sites, trending apps, online TV networks, even digital billboards across major highways and airports. Anywhere we can drop the file, we will.
He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in.
—Let the U.S. and the whole world see who Senator McLaughlin and Booth really are—in high definition. It's not just exposure, Ethan. It's social death. We'll turn them into pariahs.
—I like it —Ethan said, standing up with new fire in his eyes.
Here's the revised final line you included, translated naturally:
—All right, you heard Job's plan —Ethan said, looking at Sartana—. We're going to drag that senator through the mud. What do you say?
Sartana nodded slowly. The idea of a legal trial no longer offered any justice; only full exposure would do.
—Public humiliation is the only thing they fear. A senator can survive an investigation, but not having his voters and donors see his real face—the face of a child killer —Sartana declared in a cold, firm voice—. As far as I'm concerned, let the network burn.
Ethan turned his attention to Letty. Her eyes were still bloodshot with rage from the massacre videos.
Letty clenched her jaw, nodding sharply.
Then she looked at Blake. She had gotten up from the sofa, her initial concern replaced by the same silent fury that burned in Letty.
—You have my support, Ethan.
Ethan smiled. He looked at all three of them, then at the screen where Job was waiting.
—Looks like we have a consensus. Have fun, my friend. We want those bastards in the morning news.
—You can do that? —Letty asked, disbelief in her voice.
Although she knew Job was an expert hacker and that only with his help had they gotten those leads, the plan still seemed almost impossible.
—Of course not… at least not alone —Job said, smiling and shaking his head—. It's a lot of work, beyond your imagination. But I'm not a lone wolf. I have a network of friends online.
Ethan nodded.
—Tell me how much it will cost.
Anyone Job could call a friend was probably as skilled as he was—and not cheap. But in this case, even if it cost two or three million, Ethan felt it was worth it.
—No money is needed —Job picked up his wine glass and took a sip—. They don't charge a cent for this. They're all "anti-U.S. government." Exposing this kind of political scandal will be like Christmas for them. You just have to give me an hour to start.
—Tomorrow —Letty interrupted quickly—. Tomorrow at one in the afternoon, Senator McLaughlin will hold a press conference about the shooting. There's no better time; he'll be surrounded by journalists and won't be able to escape.
Sartana remembered something and grabbed Ethan by the arm:
—I have a friend who works at a TV network. Her network and McLaughlin aren't in the same political party. Her people are also running for the Senate.
—Perfect! She can be our Trojan horse. —Ethan clapped and looked at Job—. You can do it after the press conference starts, you can broadcast it across the network, can you do it?
—Of course, no problem —Job snapped his fingers—
Sartana gritted her teeth and said:
—I'll handle the TV network.
—Alright, no problem.
Ethan knew she wouldn't feel comfortable if she didn't cause them some trouble. After a few more instructions, Job ended the video call. He was destined to be very busy that night. It was easy to say, but not so easy to do.
As the call ended, Letty asked anxiously:
—It won't end like this, right?
—Don't worry. After they feel the desperation and anguish, we'll end their miserable lives. —Ethan clenched his fist and said coldly.
The three discussed it for over half an hour before finally deciding everything.
Letty stood up and climbed onto the coffee table with a black suitcase. Inside were more than a dozen guns and knives, and boxes of ammunition of various calibers.
—Are you sure you're just a cook? —Sartana asked mockingly.
—Everyone has a side job —Letty casually picked up a Colt M1911 and strapped it to her belt—. Use whatever you want.
Finally, after surveying Ethan and Sartana, she smiled knowingly and said:
—Well, I have to go. We'll see each other tomorrow as agreed.
With that, she raised her arm, waved, and hurried to her Cadillac to leave the estate. According to the plan they had just discussed, she needed to contact many people. She still had a lot to do that night.
—So your name is Ethan? You don't look like Jonny. —she asked.
—Ethan Morgan —Ethan loaded his Glock, unloaded it, and loaded a single round—.
Sartana loaded her pistol and looked at him.
—So you spy?
Blake, who had been watching from the hallway, felt a pang of jealousy witnessing their chemistry. She could no longer pretend to be outside the conversation or the intimate moment. She stepped forward to interrupt.
—Sartana, you can take the room at the end of the hallway, on the left —Blake said, her voice still a little dry, though she tried to mask hostility under a hostess tone—. There are clean sheets in the closet.
Sartana caught the hint immediately. Blake's eyes were not looking at her with kindness, but with territorial possessiveness. She chuckled softly.
—Well, for my part, it's been a long night and I'm exhausted. —Sartana grabbed her backpack and the Glock from the table—. Left, right? With your permission.
Sartana climbed the stairs provocatively, swinging her hips. As she passed Blake, she threw one last enigmatic glance before disappearing down the hall.
Blake waited a moment, then approached Ethan, who was reloading the guns on the table.
—"Friend in trouble," Ethan? Really? Seems like the "trouble" is pretty comfortable with you.
—Blake, it's not what you think, she just had a bad day, lost her house, her entire life. There's nothing between her and me. —Ethan sighed, trying to explain the complexity.
—And that's why she has to jump on you at the first chance she gets, right? —Blake moved closer, her voice dropping to a reproachful whisper—.
Ethan took her hands, trying to calm her. Blake looked into his eyes; her anger softened a little, but the jealousy remained.
—Alright. I trust you. But… you have to make it up to me a little —She moved closer, her body brushing against his—
She took his hand and gently pulled him toward the hallway.
The next day, Ethan woke up early.
Sunlight fell on Blake's face, and her eyelashes fluttered slightly. He gently caressed her delicate cheek with his thumb for a while.
—Hmm! What's up? What time is it? —Blake stretched lazily and moved Ethan's hand from her face.
After two or three rounds of sex during the night and only a few hours of sleep, she now felt a burst of pain. But for Ethan it was different; he had found a way to cope with shootings through sex.
—Eight. It's still early. Go back to sleep. —Ethan's hand slid from her shoulder along her delicate skin down to her waist.
—Hmm~ —Sartana hummed a couple of times, closed her eyes again, and rested her head comfortably on the pillow.
After a few minutes, Ethan let go and headed to the nearby bathroom.
Shortly after, the front door rang. Sartana, who had woken up some time ago, was the first to answer.
—Guys, I'm coming in. I brought some food. —Letty said, removing her sunglasses and placing food and coffee on a table.
—Thanks.
Sartana, already hungry, quickly took out freshly baked croissants and grabbed a cup of coffee. In another bag was a suit and leather shoes.
—Thanks for the trouble —Ethan said, coming down the stairs.
After lunch, Ethan and Letty went over the details. Once they confirmed everything was in order, Sartana contacted her friend through Job's secure line. After hanging up, Ethan grabbed the keys to the Camaro Letty had tossed him and headed for the highway.
For her safety, Blake would stay at the ranch, and through Job she would track them in real time.
Half an hour later, they saw a silver Jaguar parked on the curb. A black-haired woman, wearing a pencil suit, sat on the hood of the car. She looked around anxiously, smoking a cigarette.
Ethan slowed down and observed the surroundings:
—Do you trust her? —he asked.
—Yes, Angela and I went to college together. She's trustworthy. —Sartana patted her Glock in its holster—. Besides, a juicy story like this is how careers are built; she won't let the opportunity pass.
Ethan nodded, slowing down.
Sartana grabbed a small bag with most of the evidence and opened the car door. Seeing the Camaro parked nearby, Angela dropped the cigarette butt and strode forward without taking her eyes off the driver.
Ethan's large sunglasses covered almost his entire face, hiding his gaze. He gripped his pistol at his side and scanned the surroundings, especially cars approaching from behind.
Outside, Sartana had a hurried conversation with her friend. She made a series of expressions toward Ethan: first curiosity, then astonishment, and finally excitement.
After a moment, they hugged, and Sartana handed her the bag and returned to the car. The woman hurried back into the silver Jaguar and drove away quickly.
—Let's go, she'll do her part. —Sartana sighed in relief, closing the car door.
—Alright.
Ethan turned the wheel and merged into traffic. He checked the time in the car. It was eleven in the morning, two hours before the show began.
INT. HOSPITAL — VIP ROOM
In the hospital's VIP room, Senator John McLaughlin stood before a full-length mirror while several aides helped him adjust his clothes. His popularity had risen over the past two days.
Buoyed by the good news, he now looked radiant and flushed. An aide noticed and quickly signaled the makeup artist to make him look paler.
Booth, leaning on a cane, stood by the window watching the crowd. His face showed not joy but concern.
He hadn't slept the night before after receiving the police report.
Clearly, he'd hit a thorn in his side. One lone immigration agent couldn't have walked away from a dozen charred bodies.
The situation had reached a point of no return. He'd mobilized every force he could to hunt those two men. Booth simply couldn't believe that bastard couldn't be killed.
—Mr. Booth, ready. Two more minutes.
A hand on his shoulder made him turn quickly.
—What are you thinking about? —McLaughlin frowned and said seriously—. Today's press conference is important. Don't get distracted.
—Sorry, Senator, —Booth apologized, nodding, and headed for the door, turning the knob.
—Showtime. —McLaughlin smiled at his reflection, straightened his tie and rolled up his sleeve before leaving the room.
The gunshot wound, carefully tended by the man in the leather jacket, barely scratched the arm. It was minor and almost healed, but he still wore a sling.
—Please, slower.
Booth moved quickly behind him, following in short steps.
As they reached the stairwell, the buzzing in the lobby was already audible. Today was an exceptional occasion, with dozens of media outlets gathered at the hospital. This was a press conference no journalist wanted to miss. After all, the senator's shooting was a matter of national interest.
McLaughlin set his expression and prepared to descend.
—Hold on, forget the cane, —Booth whispered, handing him the black cane.
—Yes, I'd forgotten.
McLaughlin took the cane, steadied his step, gripped the handrail and limped down.
The press conference host, upon receiving the announcement, quickly raised the microphone:
—Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome, Senator John McLaughlin.
Applause erupted in the room, flashes popping and lighting the area with white light. This was a high point in McLaughlin's life.
As the applause rolled, McLaughlin descended the stairs with difficulty. Flanked by Booth, he stood behind the podium. He straightened, smiled at the more than twenty cameras before him, and projected the temperament of a tough man—though his pale face betrayed that he wasn't in great shape.
—Senator, do you know the identity of the shooter?
—How is your recovery progressing?
—Senator, do you have anything to say about your rising approval rating?
Reporters pushed forward, raising microphones and asking questions in a rush.
McLaughlin raised his hands and pressed his palms down. The press conference security team hurried to form a human wall to hold back the eager reporters.
He looked around with satisfaction and spotted a few still figures in the corner, as if they were waiting for something. McLaughlin's mood darkened when he saw who was in front of him: Angela Smith, the ABC correspondent. She was a steadfast supporter of the Democratic Party, so her presence didn't surprise him.
McLaughlin tapped the podium microphone twice with his finger.
Dong, dong.
The room fell silent quickly, and he cleared his throat.
—Everyone knows what happened to me. Yes, I was shot. An illegal worker attacked me. I understand that my firm stance offends many. But that's no excuse for criminal behavior, and it's not right.
McLaughlin condemned it forcefully.
—I strongly condemn this criminal and those who protect him. These people are like the plague, destroying us from within. These people don't only attack me —McLaughlin struck the podium—. These people attack all of the United States. They want to destroy our way of life. We will not allow these terrorists to succeed. We must finish them.
Most of those present at the press conference nodded vigorously.
—Right.
—That's exactly what we should do.
—Expel all those Mexicans from this country!
At the back of the room, a group of McLaughlin loyalists waved flags and roared their approval.
NEW YORK — TIMES SQUARE.
Known as the crossroads of the world, with giant screens atop buildings constantly playing music videos, news and ads, the place pulsed with activity even at one in the afternoon, neon lights flashing.
Suddenly, most of the screens began to flicker. The unusual image stopped tourists and pedestrians in their tracks, unsure of what was happening.
Here is the speech that would appear on the giant screens, styled like an Anonymous message and directed at everyone involved in the corruption network:
The giant screens flicker and the massacre footage freezes. White text on a black background appears, followed by a quick montage of images of MCLAUGHLIN, BOOTH, and crossed-out Government/ICE logos.
Then, the logo of a faceless figure—reminiscent of a Guy Fawkes mask—overlays the screen, and a deep, distorted robotic voice begins to reverberate through Times Square and all hacked locations.
—Citizens of the world, we are Legion.
—For years you have witnessed contempt. You have felt the weight of the lies that uphold the pillars of power. They promised you security, they promised order. Instead, you received corruption wrapped in the flag and the deaths of the innocent.
The image centers on MCLAUGHLIN's face.
—Senator John McLaughlin. You call yourself a patriot. But you are nothing more than a mercenary hiding behind Congress. We have seen your deals. We have seen how your ambition knows no morality or border. You did not only betray your oath; you betrayed humanity.
The image shifts to BOOTH.
—And you, Michael Booth. The loyal adviser. The man who cleans up. You are not a mere pawn; you are the silent architect of cruelty. You turned human tragedy into a line of credit. You used the militia, you used fear, and worst of all, you used innocent people to hide the truth, then betrayed them.
The voice deepens and broadens.
—But this network is not just two men. The system that allows this to happen is broken. At government levels, at the immigration agency, to all the officials who saw the truth and looked away for comfort or cowardice: you are guilty too. Corruption is not an error; it is a choice.
—Now, the truth you hid in safes and encrypted servers is free. It's on every screen, every device. It's proof that there are hunters among the guardians, and that they use power to kill those they were supposed to protect.
The background turns red and the voice rises.
—We have penetrated. We have taken your channels. We have exposed your secrets. And this is just the beginning. Do not expect justice from your courts; we will demand it in the public square.
—To those who were silenced, those who were murdered: your memory is our engine.
—To the corrupt: we do not forget. We do not forgive. We are many, and we will not stop until every level of your rotten system collapses.
The mask remains on screen, with one last resonant line of text at the bottom.
WAIT FOR US.
—Bang, bang, bang!
At that moment, the square's screens continued with sound. Gunshots could be heard and footage of the shooting of migrants kept playing. At first, viewers assumed it was promoting a Hollywood film. It wasn't until an old man wearing a cowboy hat appeared that people realized something was terribly wrong.
When footage of pregnant women and children being shot showed up, the least resilient began to vomit.
—My God!
—Who is that person? What is happening?
More people argued loudly, pulling out phones in astonishment to record what was happening.
—Welcome to America!
Those words echoed repeatedly in Times Square. The sound of gunfire spread across the United States.
Similar scenes played almost simultaneously in Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston and Philadelphia. The senator's "Welcome to America" reverberated across much of North America. Airports, stadiums—anywhere Job and his team could hack—the clips played. They knew how to draw attention.
The videos were meticulously edited and spectacular. There were also clips of bribes so blatant that HBO would be embarrassed.
HIDDEN CHAT ROOM
In a hidden chat room, a hacker codenamed J gave orders quickly, and dozens of well-known hackers followed. Under the handle J is one of the most mysterious figures in the community.
Under his control, a hurricane swept the internet. Social networks, apps and media outlets flooded with proof of collusion between Senator McLaughlin, campaign adviser Booth, militia member Vaughn, and Mexican drug trafficker Rogelio Torrez. Videos, text messages, transaction records, images: it was all there.
American netizens were already riled up, and with those people fanning the flames, the hurricane intensified.
—Thirty seconds —Job typed quickly—. In thirty seconds, stop attacking. The FBI is on our radar.
The chat room instantly filled with "like" emojis.