I gulped hard, throat dry as sandpaper, as I peered over the edge through the open side door of the helicopter.

  The world below had shrunk to a dizzying patchwork of green hills, snaking roads, and distant rooftops that looked like scattered toys.

  We were impossibly high—thousands of feet up, the altimeter ticking higher with every passing second—and the rotor bdes thundered overhead in a relentless, bone-rattling rhythm that vibrated through my entire body.

  "Was this really necessary?" I managed, tearing my gaze from the vertigo-inducing drop to find Car's steady eyes instead. She sat beside me in the leather seat, calm as ever, one leg crossed casually over the other like we were just taking a Sunday drive.

  "Faster and safer," she decred without hesitation, her voice cutting cleanly through the roar of the engines and the wind whipping past the open cabin.

  There was no room for argument in her tone—just cool, practiced certainty.

  My hand shot out and cmped around hers like a lifeline, fingers interlocking so tightly my knuckles bnched white. Terror cwed up my spine; I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the world to narrow to just the feel of her skin against mine, the faint warmth of her palm, the steady pulse I could feel beneath my grip.

  I tried to pretend I was buckled into the passenger seat of her armored SUV—solid ground, no endless void beneath us—but every lurch of the chopper shattered the illusion.

  "Man... seeing this thing on the helipad was one thing," I rasped, voice cracking as another gust rocked us sideways, "but being in it is something else entirely." I swallowed again, the taste of bile sharp on my tongue, and instinctively pressed myself closer, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, seeking every inch of contact like it could anchor me to reality.

  My free arm looped around her waist, clinging as if she were the only solid thing left in the sky.

  "Don't worry, baby," Car murmured, her voice softer now, almost tender beneath the mechanical din. She shifted slightly, draping one powerful arm across my shoulders and pulling me in until my head rested against the firm curve of her chest.

  Her other hand moved in slow, deliberate circles over the tense muscles of my upper back—firm pressure, soothing rhythm, the same way she'd calm me after a nightmare or a bad day. "You'll get used to it. Promise."

  The words vibrated through her ribcage into my ear, steady and sure, and for a moment the fear receded just enough for me to breathe.

  I kept my eyes closed, focusing on the rise and fall of her breathing, the faint scent of her leather vest mixed with the clean sharpness of helicopter fuel and high-altitude air. Below us, the ndscape blurred past unseen, but up here—with her arm around me and her hand still tracing those calming circles—I almost believed I could survive the ride.

  "Almost there..." Car said over the roar.

  I nodded, squeezing my eyes shut. The vibration beneath us rattled through my bones, the rhythmic thunder of the rotor bdes swallowing every other sound.

  The wind whipped violently around the aircraft, and even through the headset, it felt overwhelming.

  Closing my eyes helped. Just focusing on my breathing. In. Out.

  Then, gradually, the shaking softened.

  The descent slowed. The machine gave one final heavy tremor as the skids touched the ground. A jolt—then stillness.

  The rotors above us spun slower and slower, their furious chopping fading into a dull whir... then a ticking hush.

  "We're here," Car said.

  I opened my eyes.

  In front of us y a small pueblo—sun-washed buildings clustered together, narrow streets winding between them. It looked peaceful. Almost picturesque. People moved casually through the square, carrying bags, talking, living their ordinary lives.

  Children ran past a corner store. An old woman leaned back in a pstic chair outside her home. A man hung undry that fluttered gently in the breeze.

  And right in front of them sat the helicopter—bck, heavy, unmistakably built for war.

  A machine of intimidation in the middle of somewhere so calm it almost felt unreal.

  Yet no one screamed. No one panicked.

  They just... continued.

  Like this was normal.

  Like power nding in their town was just another part of the day.

  "Welcome to La Tuna," Car said softly, cing her fingers through mine as she guided me out of the helicopter.

  The heat hit immediately—dry, heavy, sun-soaked. Dust swirled lightly around our shoes as the st of the rotor wash settled.

  "Let me take you to my mom's house," she added, her voice calmer now that the noise had died.

  I barely responded. I was too busy looking around.

  No one stared.

  Not a single wide-eyed child. Not a whispering group. Not even curiosity.

  People walked past us like we were just another couple arriving from out of town. A man carried groceries. A woman pushed a wheelbarrow down the street. A dog barked zily from the shade.

  It was the normalcy that unsettled me the most.

  As we walked deeper into the pueblo, I started noticing them.

  Her Soldiers.

  Stationed at corners. Near doorways. On rooftops.

  All dressed the same—bck vests stamped with bold white letters, bck boots kicking up dust, bck helmets and face coverings concealing everything but their eyes. They didn't move much. They didn't need to.

  They looked ready for war in the middle of a town that looked built for afternoon naps and family dinners.

  Car's grip on my hand remained steady. Confident. Like she belonged here in a way I never could.

  She led me toward a house tucked into the far corner of the town. It wasn't fshy. No gates dripping with gold, no towering walls. Just clean stucco, fresh paint, neat windows. Maintained. Protected. Intentionally modest.

  No cracks. No decay. No visible damage.

  It looked... cared for.

  Car slowed as we reached the front.

  I felt something shift in her—subtle, but real. This wasn't business territory. This was personal.

  She unlocked the heavy oak door with a soft click of the key, the sound echoing faintly in the still air. As we stepped inside, the faint scent of aged wood, vender polish, and something indefinably nostalgic washed over us.

  The entryway opened into a wide, sunlit living room where everything appeared frozen in time: the cream-colored sofa cushions plump and perfectly aligned, not a single throw pillow out of pce; the gss coffee table gleaming under a thin, undisturbed yer of dust; family photographs in silver frames arranged with geometric precision on the mantel.

  Nothing looked lived-in. Nothing looked touched.

  It was less like a home and more a meticulously preserved exhibit—like a museum dedicated to a life that had quietly ended years ago.

  "I lived here until I was fourteen," Car whispered, her voice barely above the hum of the distant air conditioning. She stood just inside the threshold, eyes sweeping the room with a mixture of reverence and quiet ache.

  "That was the age when my mother rose up with CDS..." Her words trailed off, heavy with unspoken history—the kind of history that didn't need eboration right now. She gave my hand a small, grounding squeeze before continuing.

  "Come on. Let me show you my room."

  She led me down the long hallway, our footsteps muffled on the thick Persian runner that stretched the length of the corridor.

  Framed soccer medals and faded team photos lined the walls, their colors softened by time. At the very end, she paused before a door painted a soft, faded sky blue—the same shade it must have been when she was a girl.

  She turned the knob slowly, almost ceremonially, and pushed it open.

  Inside, the room was a time capsule bathed in gentle afternoon light filtering through sheer curtains. The walls were the same deep cobalt blue, now slightly sun-bleached at the edges.

  Posters of Los Dorados—Sinaloa's pride—covered one entire wall: triumphant pyers mid-celebration, golden kits gleaming, the team crest bold and proud above curling signatures in bck Sharpie.

  A narrow twin bed sat neatly made with a navy comforter, fnked by a small wooden desk still holding a cracked ceramic pencil cup and a dog-eared copy of some old sports magazine. Soccer cleats—small, scuffed, clearly outgrown—stood side by side in the corner like loyal sentinels.

  A single shelf held trophies, ribbons, and a worn leather soccer ball signed by half the team.

  Car stepped fully inside, releasing my hand only to wrap both arms around herself in a loose hug. She drew in a long, slow breath, as if trying to pull the scent of her childhood back into her lungs.

  "I've never shown any man my home," she said quietly, turning to face me. Her dark eyes were steady, unguarded in a way I rarely saw. "Not like this. Not ever." A small, almost shy smile curved her lips. "This should show you just how much I love you."

  The words settled between us like something sacred. I crossed the room in two steps and pulled her into my arms, feeling the solid warmth of her against me—the same strength that had held me steady in the helicopter now trembling, just slightly, with the vulnerability of memory.

  I pressed my forehead to hers, breathing her in, letting the quiet of this untouched room wrap around us both.

  The quiet didn't st.

  Gunshots cracked through the air—sharp, violent, impossibly close.

  "Get down," Car ordered instantly.

  She didn't wait for me to react. She pulled me down with her, both of us hitting the ground hard as more shots rang out. The peaceful pueblo shattered into chaos in seconds—shouting, boots pounding against dirt, distant screams swallowed by more gunfire.

  My ears rang. My heart smmed so violently against my ribs it hurt.

  Car was already reaching for her radio.

  "01, ?qué pasa? ?Qué pasa?" (01 whats going on?) she demanded, voice controlled but edged with urgency.

  Static answered first. More shots echoed somewhere down the street.

  Then finally—

  "Emboscada del CJNG." (Ambush by CJNG)

  The tone on the other end wasn't good. Not panicked—but tight.

  Gunfire continued in bursts, closer now, then further away. I pressed myself lower against the ground, dust clinging to my clothes. I didn't want to die. Not here. Not like this.

  "Fuck..." Car hissed under her breath.

  "?Lo tienes bajo control? ?Hay alguien herido?" (Is it under control? Anyone injured?) she asked quickly, her voice steady despite everything exploding around us.

  Seconds stretched. My pulse wouldn't slow. I could barely breathe.

  Then—

  Gradually, the gunshots thinned out.

  One final burst.

  Silence.

  Not peaceful silence. Heavy silence.

  The radio crackled again.

  "Nadie está herido. Todos los atacantes están muertos. Tenemos a alguien con quien quizás quieras habr." (Nobody's hurt. All the attackers are dead. We have someone you might want to speak with)

  Car's jaw tightened slightly at that.

  I stayed frozen beside her, the dust still settling in the air, my heartbeat refusing to calm.

  Someone they wanted her to talk to.

  Slowly, carefully, we pushed ourselves up from the ground.

  The house stood untouched. No shattered windows. No chipped stucco. No blood on the walls. Just sunlight and silence, as if nothing had happened at all.

  "I swear..." Car muttered under her breath, her jaw tight. "If they hurt a civilian..."

  She didn't finish the sentence.

  She grabbed my hand again, firm this time—not affectionate, but protective—and led me outside, locking the door behind us with a sharp click.

  The guards had shifted positions. Their stances were tighter now, rifles angled, eyes scanning every rooftop and alley. The calm routine from earlier was gone. This was alert mode. Every movement deliberate.

  We walked toward the highway at the edge of town.

  Strangely, the streets still looked intact. No storefronts blown apart. No homes scorched. Just dust settling slowly back onto the road.

  But when we reached the stretch near the highway, the difference was obvious.

  Several trucks sat crooked across the asphalt, riddled with bullet holes. Windshields spiderwebbed. Tires shredded. Doors hanging open like broken wings.

  The metallic smell of gunpowder lingered faintly in the air.

  Car's fingers tightened around mine.

  "I swear..." she repeated, quieter now—but more dangerous.

  This wasn't anger for show. It was personal now.

  ——