“Xenia,” Rios said, lowering his rifle a fraction. “You’re not on our list.”
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.
She looked at his hand on her sleeve, then back at him. “El Diablo keeps a private vault beneath the depot. Inside: ledgers, CIA contacts, names of politicians he owns. You want to cripple the cartel? You burn the guns. I want to salt the earth.” army of two the devil 39-s cartel xenia
Xenia watched the flames. For the first time in three months, she felt something—not relief, not grief. Just a cold, clean emptiness.
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?” “Xenia,” Rios said, lowering his rifle a fraction
“La Familia nunca se va.”
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. She disassembled her rifle, cleaned it in silence,
“Xenia… mi hija,” he rasped. “You brought friends.”
She didn’t answer. But as the sun rose over the burning border, she walked alongside them toward the extraction chopper—not as a contractor, not as a friend.
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: