Under the blistering sun, a Mexican man with a wide-brimmed cowboy hat and dark shades stood at the edge of a rundown alley, his presence sharp and unsettling. His boots scraped the cracked pavement as he approached a lone street dealer lingering near a stack of broken crates. The dealer, twitchy and on edge, used to run for the Los Ballas before everything fell apart after the massacre. Now, he was just trying to stay under the radar.
The Mexican man looked him up and down, sizing him up before speaking, his voice low and dangerous. "I hear you used to work for the Los Ballas," he said, his accent thick but deliberate. "I got some questions, and you're going to answer them."
The dealer, trying to keep his cool, glanced around nervously. "I-I don't know nothing, man. I don't want no trouble."
The Mexican stepped closer, towering over him. "You know something. You were there when the Los Ballas were still running things. Now they're dead. I want to know who did it."
Sweat began to bead on the dealer's forehead as he fidgeted, but he knew he couldn't stay silent. This man wasn't one to walk away empty-handed.
"I heard things, alright," the dealer said, his voice shaky. "People talk, you know? After the massacre, the streets went quiet. But… but there's this name that keeps coming up. Tyrone. People say he's the one who had it out for the Ballas. He's connected, man. Dangerous."
The Mexican man tilted his head slightly, as if intrigued. "Tyrone, huh? And how do you know this Tyrone had something to do with it?"
The dealer swallowed hard. "He's the name in the streets now. Word is, he's got the backing. After the Ballas got wiped out, he's been making moves. But that's all I know, I swear."
Satisfied with the answer, the Mexican man pulled a small roll of bills from his pocket, tossing it at the dealer's feet. "You've been helpful."
Without another word, the man turned on his heel and walked off, leaving the dealer to exhale a sigh of relief, wiping the sweat from his brow.
---
Later, the Mexican man stood in the dim light of a **warehouse**, his dark shades now tucked into his shirt pocket as he stared at a whiteboard covered in photos, names, and scribbled connections. The name **Ricco** and **the supplier** stood out, circled in red, alongside a messy diagram of their operations with **Los Ballas**. As he connected the dots in his mind, the pieces fell into place. Tyrone had been behind their deaths too—it wasn't just about the massacre. Tyrone was eliminating key figures and consolidating power in ways that were slipping under the radar.
Revelation hit him hard. Tyrone wasn't just some street thug. He was calculated, moving in the shadows, taking out anyone who threatened his rise. **Ricco's death**, along with the supplier's, wasn't an isolated incident. It was all part of a bigger plan—a strategy Tyrone was executing flawlessly.
The Mexican man ran his hand over his mouth thoughtfully before grabbing his phone. He dialed a number and waited for the person on the other end to pick up.
When **Isabella Rodrigo** answered, her voice was calm, controlled as always. "What do you have for me?"
"I've got the name you've been waiting for," he said, pacing as he spoke. "It's **Tyrone.** He's the one behind the massacre, the death of Ricco, and your supplier. He's making big moves, Isabella, and he's got serious backing. You'll want to handle this carefully."
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, but Isabella's voice came back, cold and calculated. "Good. Keep tracking him. I'll take care of the rest."
The Mexican investigator ended the call, his mind already working on his next steps. Tyrone was a problem, but Isabella? She had the power to turn that problem into an opportunity—or a war. And by the way she sounded, war might just be on the horizon.
The **DEA agent** sat at his desk, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of a framed photo of his kids. Their smiles beamed back at him from the image, a stark contrast to the dark world he found himself immersed in. His mind drifted back to that night, the chaos of the massacre, the deafening gunfire, and the sight of bodies strewn across the ground. He had been pulled out just in time by the SWAT team, but the scene was burned into his memory.
A knock on his office door snapped him out of his thoughts. It was **Agent Sarah Matthews**, his colleague. She stepped inside, her brow furrowed with concern as she closed the door behind her.
"You okay, Jack?" she asked, her voice soft yet direct. She had noticed his silence over the past few days, the way he seemed more distant than usual. "You haven't said much since the op."
Jack let out a long sigh, setting the picture down on his desk. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "I'm fine," he said, though his tone wasn't convincing.
Sarah crossed her arms, standing near his desk, her eyes not leaving his. "No, you're not. I saw how you looked when we got out of there. It wasn't just another bust—people died, Jack. A lot of people. No one just walks away from something like that without it sticking with them."
Jack's gaze drifted out the window, the sounds of that night still ringing in his ears. "I've been through bad ops before. But this…" He paused, shaking his head. "It was a bloodbath, Sarah. I've seen shootings, drug busts go wrong, but never anything like that. The violence... it was so... ruthless."
Sarah softened, pulling up a chair beside him. "Look, I get it. I really do. But what happened wasn't your fault. You did your job, and SWAT got you out before things got worse. You couldn't have changed what happened to those men."
He nodded, but his mind was still clouded with the weight of what he had seen. "I just keep thinking about the kids… the wives, the families of those guys. Doesn't matter if they were criminals. They had people who cared about them, and now…" His voice trailed off.
Sarah put a hand on his arm, trying to ground him. "You need to remember why you're doing this job, Jack. You've got a family too. Don't let this eat you alive. What happened was brutal, but it's part of the world we're in. We fight to stop it, not get lost in it."
Jack stared at the picture of his kids again, their innocent faces a reminder of why he was in this fight to begin with. After a long moment, he sighed. "Yeah, you're right. I just… need some time to process."
Sarah gave him a reassuring smile. "Take the time you need. And don't do it alone. We've all got scars, but that's why we lean on each other. You're not the only one carrying the weight of what happened."
He nodded, appreciating her words, though the images of that night still lingered at the edges of his mind. "Thanks, Sarah. I'll be alright."
As she left the office, Jack sat in the silence, the picture of his children in front of him, reminding him of the world he was fighting for—the world he needed to come home to, no matter how dark things got.