HOSPITAL — PRESS ROOM
At the press conference, McLaughlin read the full statement, lowered the newspaper from the podium, and looked at the moderator. The moderator nodded and picked up the microphone.
—Next, questions, journalists.
Just as he expected someone to raise their hand, the room buzzed. Someone's phone rang, sparking a wave of activity. Everyone scrambled for their own devices. During work, calls like that could be urgent, and reporters couldn't help answering.
At that moment, only one person raised a hand. To avoid an awkward pause, the host quickly pointed to her. A beautiful woman in a suit stood up.
Booth noticed that the faces of the reporters answering their phones shifted drastically.
—Senator, —Sartana's friend asked— there is evidence that you orchestrated the assassination attempt and that your aide, Michael Booth, carried it out. What do you have to say about that?
McLaughlin's head buzzed, and he froze momentarily. He forced a smile, resting his hands on the podium, and said:
—Excuse me, I don't know what you're talking about.
Sartana's friend smiled disdainfully and pressed on:
—There is now a large amount of evidence online proving that you and your associates organized and participated in the murder of illegal Mexican immigrants. What do you have to say about that?
McLaughlin's face went pale, sweat running down his forehead. He turned sharply to Booth, who was also drenched in sweat, dabbing his face with a handkerchief.
Then came the final blow:
—Senator, we've received information and evidence that you are collaborating with Mexican drug trafficker Rogelio Torrez… and that you've been accepting his sponsorship for your campaign and working with him to establish a drug trafficking network.
When her words ended, the room fell into a deadly silence.
The other reporters, informed through their respective channels, knew the fake assassination attempt was staged by the senator himself. But they hadn't expected such explosive content. The senator's collusion with a Mexican drug trafficker was shocking even for these seasoned journalists.
Angela Smith's question hit so hard that everyone froze, gasping.
—Fuck you, bitch! —shouted one of McLaughlin's loyalists, ready to attack her.
Unexpectedly, McLaughlin threw down his cane and ran up the stairs with such agility that everyone gawked. Booth stumbled after him, trying to escape the chaos.
—Senator!
—Mr. Booth!
Their reactions confirmed the online information was real. The dozens of reporters present, ignoring protocol, surged forward frantically, creating chaos. Security guards tried desperately to contain them.
Within minutes, the senator plummeted from heaven to hell, fleeing in panic.
The ardent supporter who had been about to chase the reporter froze. Silently, he removed his shirt with McLaughlin's face on it, threw it to the ground, and crushed the smiling face of the senator.
—What the hell is going on? —McLaughlin shouted as he reached the second floor. He turned, grabbed Booth by the neck, and pinned him to the wall, yelling.
—I have no idea, —Booth said, knowing there was no recovery possible, letting go and speaking excitedly—. Let's get out of here. Don't panic. We can still find a way to fix this. The video could be fabricated, and all the evidence could be slander.
—Shit! —McLaughlin cursed, striding toward the back door.
Booth gestured with his hand, and seven or eight armed guards followed quickly. He didn't know where everything had gone to hell; they just had to catch a single woman, yet everything had gone so wrong.
Booth pulled out his phone as he walked. Moments ago, it had been vibrating uncontrollably. He opened it and saw it filled with messages from friends, videos of the murders, and related evidence. His face went pale. This obstacle would be difficult to overcome—the senator's political career was finished.
As they hurried away, a Mexican woman pushing a cleaning cart on the second-floor hallway grabbed her phone and reported the senator's location.
A group of more than a dozen people quickly exited the back door, where two Mercedes-Benz and a Lincoln Navigator were parked. McLaughlin climbed into the SUV, and Booth followed quickly. Under his direction, two armed guards approached. The others got into the two black Mercedes-Benz.
The convoy sped away from the hospital and merged onto the street.
Several Mexican workers at the back entrance stopped working. They sent information about the number of people in the senator's group, license plates, the number of people per car, and which car he was in.
These normally discreet and hardworking Mexican workers now formed a network, tracking him.
Inside the Lincoln, McLaughlin was furious. He tugged at his tie and shouted at Booth:
—How the hell did they get those videos?
—I swear to God I don't know —Booth stifled panic and said gravely—.
McLaughlin collapsed on the couch. The only option now was to negotiate with whoever had the original data and retreat from the campaign until things calmed down. Donors had short memories. The most important thing now was to de-escalate the situation.
Booth's eyes flickered as he typed a message to his wife in a low voice, fully aware of the devastating impact of the leaked information. This issue was definitely not going to be resolved easily.
The senator's life was secure. But inevitably, there would be a scapegoat—and he seemed like the perfect candidate. He would never allow himself to be in that position. After sending the message, Booth put his phone away.
He had decided that once McLaughlin was back at his residence, he would immediately find an excuse to escape. He still had over $20 million in overseas accounts and could live anywhere worry-free for the rest of his life. He didn't need to take the fall for someone else's crime.
Just then, his phone rang again. Booth answered, saw the number, and his heart skipped a beat. At that moment, he didn't care who it was. Booth hung up Torrez's call indifferently and blacklisted the number.
The convoy accelerated onto the interstate.
—Understood —Letty hung up, staring intently through the rearview mirror.
Ten seconds later, two Mercedes-Benz and a Lincoln emerged from traffic, merging onto the interstate. For all city residents, Letty had the escape route of Booth and his convoy well under control.
She leaned forward and whistled sharply backward.
—Let's go —Sartana said in a deadly tone, pulling her Glock—. It's time for revenge.
Ethan nodded, stepped on the accelerator, and followed Letty's Cadillac.
Behind him, five old trucks followed, pickup trucks filled with Latino men. As soon as they started, they put on masks and drew their weapons.
They all knew this wouldn't cost a senator his life, and maybe he wouldn't even go to prison, but that didn't mean they couldn't do something. Letty had many connections, including with criminal gangs operating in Texas, so gathering people to attack the convoy was not difficult. This time, they had united for a common goal.
A convoy of seven vehicles, led by a Cadillac and a Camaro, pursued McLaughlin and his men.
Ethan covered his face with his red sling bag and watched the traffic. They had to get the Lincoln off the interstate quickly; otherwise, civilians could get hurt.
—Look, something's happening —Sartana patted Ethan's arm and pointed ahead.
McLaughlin's convoy was only fifty or sixty meters away. Before Ethan and his men could move, four black Chevrolet vans appeared suddenly from one side. They accelerated quickly, positioning themselves parallel to the Lincoln.
Ethan glanced at Letty, who was driving the Cadillac beside them. She also looked confused; it didn't seem like they were her people.
Inside the stretched Lincoln, Booth's phone kept ringing. This time, it was an unknown number. He hung up several times, but it kept ringing. He answered helplessly.
—Look to your left —Torrez's chilling voice resonated.
Booth tensed his neck, looking left. He hadn't realized several Chevrolet vans had already pulled up next to him. The window of the car parallel to theirs rolled down slowly.
Torrez's large nose appeared before him, eyes cold.
—Listen to me —Booth shouted, rolling down his window—. I can explain.
—I think you can —Torrez brandished his AK-47, barrel sticking out the window—. Explain it, let's see if he believes you.
—Fuck you! —Booth cursed, lunging forward, grabbing the steering wheel, and yanking it hard.
While Ethan was confused, the Chevrolet vans ahead rolled down their windows and deployed more than a dozen weapons.
—Bang, bang, bang!
Suddenly, gunfire erupted. Cars on the interstate braked sharply, creating chaos and multiple accidents. The Lincoln veered off the shoulder and sped into the desert.
The two remaining Mercedes-Benz didn't react as quickly. Their windows shattered under the intense shooting, and the rear windshield quickly turned red with blood. The rear Mercedes crashed head-on into a tree trunk by the road, front twisted into a 'V.' The front Mercedes jolted violently, then flipped, falling forward amidst a shower of sparks and debris, completely destroyed.
Ethan turned the wheel sharply to avoid the flipping Mercedes. Hitting the accelerator, the Camaro also jumped into the air, following the Chevrolets into the desert.
Letty followed closely, dodging low bushes and quickly pulling ahead. Looking in the rearview mirror, she saw one of the trailing cars, unable to avoid the impact, slam into the Mercedes still tumbling.
A loud crash sent car parts flying. Two people were thrown through the windshield, landing on the road, faces smashed to the bone.
The remaining four cars swerved in time, turned off the shoulder, and quickly caught up.
Ten vehicles launched into a frenzied desert chase, kicking up clouds of dust. The vehicles swayed constantly, brush scraping their sides with crunches.
Ethan gripped the wheel tightly, focused on the cars ahead. Just then, a man with a large nose leaned out of a van. He looked at the Cadillac behind him and, without hesitation, raised his AK-47.
Seeing this, Letty swerved quickly.
—Bang, bang, bang!
The AK-47 spat fire, chasing her.
—That's Torrez…! It's him! —Sartana shouted, raising her pistol out the window and repeatedly pulling the trigger at his truck.
After several shots, the rear windshield of the truck shattered. Torrez retreated inside and stopped firing. Meanwhile, to avoid the bullets, Letty slowed down and dodged the shots.
The group had moved far off the road after their high-speed chase. Several cars behind Ethan caught up, and the Mexican gangsters leaned out and opened fire wildly on the Chevrolet trucks ahead.
They didn't care who was in front; anyone out there wasn't one of theirs, and everyone got shot at. Not to be outdone, Torrez's men stuck their rifles out the windows and returned fire.
Bullets flew, and a truck tire blew, making the vehicle wobble.
—Bang!
It first hit a low rock, then was thrown off and landed upside down. Two of the Mexican gangsters that Letty had contacted were also hit. They screamed and fell out of the car, thrown instantly far away.
As the Camaro roared past the overturned truck, Sartana leaned out. She raised her Glock and quickly fired at the staggering figures inside.
Torrez's men unleashed another burst of bullets.
Ethan hurried to dodge the car. The occupants of the car beside them were hit; the windshield shattered, blood splattered him, and the car quickly flipped.
—Drive faster, don't stop! —Booth shouted at the driver, flopping frantically over the seat and leaning back to look behind.
—Shit!
He noticed the intense gunfire between the vehicles and, ignoring his scruffy beard, quickly drew the pistol from his pocket.
McLaughlin was also scared from the recent shooting. He looked at the smashed window and the car chasing them, and panicked:
—It's Torrez! How did he get here? And those people behind us? Who are they?
—Bang!
Another burst of bullets hit the car. Booth rolled and dropped low, yelling:
—Shit! How the hell am I supposed to know?
—Then what good are you if you know nothing? —McLaughlin snapped—. You don't know what happened at the press conference and you don't know why they're attacking you now. You're fired! I'll fire you when we get home, you damn loser.
—Bang!
Booth shot McLaughlin in the thigh.
—Ahaaaaaaaah! —McLaughlin felt the searing pain, clutched his thigh, and screamed.
—Get the hell out and shut your mouth! —Booth yelled frantically, pressing the pistol barrel against his face—. Piece of shit! If it weren't for me, you'd still be shoveling horse crap.
Under the threat of the gun, McLaughlin shut his mouth tightly, his eyes shining with fear.
—Bang!
Booth slapped him again before pulling out the gun. Risking his life, he stood and shouted ahead:
—Five hundred thousand dollars each if you get me out of here!
A high reward always inspires courage, and Booth was the one responsible for communicating with the militia. The two men in front ignored McLaughlin. The driver, re-energized, hit the accelerator.
But on this terrain, the stretched Lincoln was destined to be at a disadvantage against the vehicles behind.
The Chevrolet truck carrying Torrez quickly caught up. Under his command, the truck rammed the stretched Lincoln violently, making both vehicles shake, and the driver struggled to maintain control.
Ethan turned the wheel slightly off-center. Luckily, he dodged quickly; otherwise, he would have been caught in the enemy fire.
—Hold the wheel! —he shouted to Sartana.
After she gripped the wheel, Ethan eased off the gas, quickly drew his left-hand Python pistol, and leaned out the side window.
He aimed and pulled the trigger.
—Bang!
The bullet hit a truck tire. The vehicle shook violently and stopped crookedly. He moved the barrel and fired again. Another truck tire instantly blew, smashing into the nearby bushes.
Ethan put away the pistol and sat back.
—Careful! —Sartana shouted, turning the wheel sharply.
The Camaro tore through several bushes, snapping branches and leaves.
The Mexican gang car stopped abruptly, and several people with red bandanas jumped out and approached the side of the overturned vehicle. They raised their rifles and aimed inside the car.
—Da da da!
—Da da da!
—Da da da!
—Nice shooting! —Letty said from the Cadillac, arm out the window, thumb raised.
Sartana saw the man with his head down in the passenger seat beside Letty and the bullet holes in the windshield.
She shouted:
—Are you okay?
—Fine, for now.
Ignoring the passing people, Letty ripped the red bandana from her face and waved it vigorously.
—Step on it! Kill those bastards!
Ethan nodded, slammed the accelerator, and the two cars sped forward side by side.
Just then, the two cars ahead collided, slowing down, swaying side to side, and kicking up a cloud of dust.
—Hang on! —Ethan shouted, and the Camaro roared, ramming the side and rear of the Chevrolet truck.
—Let's go! —Sartana yelled, excited, shielding her head with her hands.
—Bang!
With a strong impact, the truck violently overturned. The Camaro's momentum stopped it after hitting a large rock.
—Bang!
Another loud crash. Letty, also driving her Cadillac, smashed into the stretch of Lincoln with tremendous force, shattering the windows of both cars and deploying the airbags.
The dust raised by the vehicles was carried away by the wind, and silence fell over the scene.
—Are you okay? —Ethan unbuckled his seatbelt.
Sartana shook her head as well, signaling she was fine.
Pushing the door open, Ethan moved quickly to one side of the Chevrolet truck. He raised his Glock and aimed at the windshield. Two people were slumped in the front seats, one with a twisted neck, the other with blood at the corner of his mouth.
—Bang!
Ethan fired decisively; the bullet shattered the glass and blew the person's head off.
Meanwhile, Sartana ran to the side of the Cadillac and helped Letty open the door. Both, pistols raised, flanked the Lincoln.
Ethan moved forward and, through the window, raised an AK-47. He quickly pulled the trigger, shooting the hand holding the AK. A cloud of blood rose as the palm exploded.
—Ahhhhhhhh!
A scream and a struggle echoed from inside. Ethan jumped up and climbed onto the overturned car.
—Mr. Torrez, if you don't mind. I hope you won't touch that gun again.
With his eyes fixed on the black barrel in front of him, Torrez gritted his teeth and withdrew his hand.
—Who the hell are you, asshole?
—I'm nobody, but let's just say I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like you. —Ethan gestured for him to get out of the car.—. Slowly.
Two more shots rang out from the Lincoln. Moments later, Torrez, Booth, and McLaughlin were forced to kneel on the gravel.
A roar sounded, and the three cars that had just collected the wreck approached quickly. Doors slammed shut with a dull thud, and the sound of hurried footsteps echoed as the remaining six or seven Mexican gangsters ran up.
Ethan, holding his Beretta, approached Booth and the other three. His leather shoes crunched against the gravel.
He stopped in front of Torrez, crouched, and carefully examined the Mexican drug lord.
—Mr. Torrez, why are you in the United States?
Logically, a drug lord like him wouldn't come here unless absolutely necessary. If caught, he would face at least life imprisonment.
—Bah! I came to do what I had to; this damn thing cost me a lot of money because of your stupidity. —Torrez spat at Booth, who knelt beside him, spitting blood on the ground—. But I have plenty of money; if you let me go, I'll give you ten million dollars.
He wasn't a fool just offering money. He had previously planted a spy near Booth. Thanks to this spy, he knew the scapegoat hadn't been killed, but the situation had escalated. Seeing this, Torrez decided to personally bring his men to confront Booth. He had planned to wait until the press conference ended to speak to McLaughlin personally, but unexpectedly, everything had gone to hell.
The plan had been discovered and his money wasted. Furious, Torrez decided to kill McLaughlin and Booth, but he could not foresee the outcome.
—I'm a senator, you can't kill me —McLaughlin said excitedly, hands clasped behind his head—. If you let me go, I'll give you double, twenty million, I've got it all.
Everyone looked at him like he was a fool. Everyone there knew he was a senator. Since he had dared to act, no one feared his identity. Ethan ignored him, stood up, approached Booth, and removed his mask.
—Mr. Booth, we finally meet.
—Who the hell are you? I don't even know you. —Booth was blunt. He looked at Ethan—
—Well, you're very unlucky, my friend. I was just looking for the senator over the migrant deaths —Ethan did a quick pistol flourish.
—Damn it! —Booth muttered, his face drawn with panic.
When Letty had been investigating the migrant massacre, he had thought to use her as the perfect scapegoat for the senator's shooting. But, by some damn twist of fate, the person who had been asking questions at the hotel, the one who had gone to his house… was this guy.
It wasn't Letty who was the real problem. It was him. He was the man who had stood in the way of every one of his plans.
Damn, he thought, I really had bad luck.
—Just end this —Booth gritted his teeth and said meaningfully—. I can see in your eyes you've made your choice; just make it quick, I won't beg.
—Alright —thinking of Anna and her grandfather, Ethan shrugged—.
He raised his hand, pressing his Glock to Booth's forehead.
Booth's lips trembled, he closed his eyes and said nothing, just waiting for the inevitable end.
—Bang!
Booth's head exploded, sending red and white debris across the yellow sand behind him.
McLaughlin flinched violently, his crotch dampening quickly, and a strong smell of urine overwhelmed him.
Ethan covered his nose and turned back to look at Letty.
—You want the honors.
—Oh hell yes. —Letty said with disdain, pulling a machete from the trunk.
She slowly approached McLaughlin and pressed the blade to his neck.
—Senator, since you hate migrants so much, I'll let you experience what they suffer when crossing the border and being caught by people like you. You won't die that easily, Senator.
McLaughlin shuddered and looked at her with pleading eyes.
After killing Torrez, Ethan and the others quickly fled the scene with McLaughlin.
Half an hour later, a car arrived at a desolate border zone. It was a deserted place, nothing but empty desert for more than sixteen kilometers along the border.
The rear door opened, and McLaughlin was kicked out.
Letty followed, stepping out and raising her pistol.
—Let's see if you can survive too, Senator.
—Bang, bang, bang!
She fired at McLaughlin's hands and feet. Ignoring his screams, Letty got back in the car.
Ethan shifted gears and drove off. The car accelerated, leaving McLaughlin struggling in the desert. He let out a desperate moan as he watched the vehicle disappear into the distance.
The sun blazed overhead, and a strong wind whipped the yellow sand around.
After dealing with McLaughlin, the group returned to Letty's private workshop.
As soon as they parked, Letty ran to the sofa and turned on her computer. The internet buzzed with debates about the incident, but it was clear someone was manipulating public opinion. Major media outlets, in particular, framed it as an unfortunate personal act. Some online platforms were also carrying out large-scale evidence purges.
Nothing was new under the sun, and as long as it served his purposes, Ethan didn't bother intervening.
—Ethan, Sartana, thank you for your help —Letty raised her beer bottle and said seriously—. Without your help, many more people would have been hurt.
—You're welcome. Anna and all those migrants deserved someone to stand up for them. —Ethan clinked his bottle against hers—
They finished their beers happily, and Ethan sat on the sofa. The news hadn't spread yet, but the story that the senator's convoy was attacked and missing would break soon.
In any case, before any conviction, he was still a senator. No matter what he had done, being killed like that was a serious provocation to those in power.
They didn't care about the crimes McLaughlin had committed; they would never allow something like this to happen again. It happened to McLaughlin this time, but could it be me next?
If the disappearance and misfortune of the senator were confirmed, this small town would be thrown into chaos under federal authorities.
—I understand —Letty nodded—. I'm heading to Los Angeles to hide. There's nothing here in my name, so they can't trace it to me.
Ethan took Sartana's hand.
—We'll stay at Blake's ranch a few days until things calm down. I have a few things to wrap up here too.
He walked to one side, grabbed a large gas can, and poured it forcefully inside the workshop. It would create a massive fire, leaving no trace.
After saying goodbye to Letty, Sartana and Ethan left the factory and got in the car.
It was finally over. Sartana threw herself at Ethan, hugging him tightly and kissing him passionately.
After kissing for two or three minutes, they pulled apart, breathless.
—Wow! That was better than I expected —Ethan said, smiling.
—We should leave before the firemen arrive.
—Is it always like this with you? —Shootouts, drug lords, corrupt politicians? And buildings ending up in flames? —Sartana asked, amused.
Most of the time —he replied humorously as they walked to their truck.
—And now, what do we do? —Sartana asked, adrenaline fading, leaving a trace of uncertainty.
—I need to help Blake with some legal paperwork, to sort out the ranch affairs, so she can return to college without worries. Then, I have to head to New York to look for Job.
—And me…? —Sartana asked, a lump in her throat, fearing the moment of truth meant abandonment.
Ethan took her hand over the center console.
—I told you I'd take care of you, remember? You're coming with me, of course. Job can help you get a new, safe identity, with documents, a license, passport, even a new social security number. Then we'll go to my home in Banshee, and you can stay there until you decide what to do with your life.
—Good, that sounds like a plan to me —Sartana said, her melancholy giving way to happiness and relief.
The chaos of the chase and the reckoning faded, replaced by the dusty calm of Blake's grandparents' ranch. The three spent a week in that refuge. It was a desperately needed break: a bubble of normalcy after immersion in violence and corruption.
The days passed under the relentless sun, devoted to simple things: repairing fences, cooking meals, and, above all, talking. Ethan and Sartana told Blake, in great detail, everything that had happened on the road: Torrez's ambush, Booth's final shot at McLaughlin, and how they had left the wounded, humiliated senator at the border for the desert—or the Migra—to handle. Blake listened, sometimes horrified by the brutality, other times relieved by the justice achieved.
The first priority of the week was securing the future of the ranch, the last emotional anchor Blake had.
Thanks to Ethan's earnings and careful spending, he bought 95 percent of the property from the Stephens family, ensuring no one else could take it. However, in a gesture of love and trust toward Blake, he left her a symbolic lease at an extraordinarily low rate of just one dollar.
During those days, they also laid the foundations for the ranch's operations. They got the first shipment of young livestock and, through Monhan Walker's contacts, hired an experienced couple, the Garcías, to manage the place in their absence. The ranch came alive again, ready for the future.
By the end of the week, Ethan's truck was packed with backpacks, and the ranch smelled of farewell.
—Promise me, Ethan, that you'll call soon. —Blake said, hugging her boyfriend tightly, trying to compensate for the distance—. And remember, we'll spend Christmas here. Abby won't forgive me if we don't.
The airport was filled with the hum of travelers and PA announcements. Ethan's car stopped at the departure zone. Blake, radiant but carrying the weight of the farewell, got out.
She turned to Ethan, and all the composure she'd shown at the ranch vanished.
—I'm going to miss you —Blake said, her voice barely a whisper.
Ethan stepped closer, not caring about the people passing by.
—I'll miss you too, B. Stay safe.
But Blake didn't wait for more words. She threw herself at him, cupping his face in her hands and sealing their lips in a long, deep, passionate kiss.
Ethan responded with equal intensity, arms wrapping around her tightly for a moment.
When they pulled apart, both were breathless, their breathing ragged. Blake's eyes were bright, full of emotion and an urgent question.
—Ethan, I know we've never talked about this… but I need to know.
—Go ahead, cowgirl.
—Is there a future for us?
Ethan was silent for a few minutes. The noise of the airport faded around him. He had never liked the feeling of being tied down, and he had never thought about a "future." Yet the time spent with Blake, the sanctuary she represented, was priceless.
—I don't know, B —he finally said, his voice soft and sincere—. My life is a damn messy road right now. But I'll tell you this: I wouldn't mind spending the rest of my life with you on that ranch.
He paused, looking directly into her eyes.
—Live your life, Blake. Go to college, finish your degree. And if fate wants us together, if what we have is real, then it will be.
He gently stroked her cheek.
—I love you.
Blake hadn't expected those words. Tears instantly filled her eyes. The fear of being just a memory dissolved with that simple declaration.
She quickly wiped away a tear, not letting the emotion overwhelm her, and turned to face Sartana, who had been watching from the side.
Then she approached Sartana, who observed the scene with a mix of curiosity and a hint of jealousy. Sartana held out her hand, expecting a formal shake.
Blake took it, but instead of a shake, she pulled her into a quick, tense hug. In her ear, just audible to her, Blake whispered:
—I know you like him, but I'm not losing to you. Just… take care of him. And please, don't let him keep getting into so much trouble. Though, to be honest, it seems he likes it.
Sartana took a second to react. A faintly crooked smile appeared on her lips.
—I will —Sartana said, with a tone leaving no doubt about the new dynamic of ownership—. And yes, the bad life suits him well.
Blake nodded, grabbed her luggage, and, without looking back to resist the temptation, walked toward security, ready to resume her life at college.
Ethan and Sartana watched her disappear before getting into the car together, heading to New York.