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“Hands up, soldado. You fight like that, you die like that.”
Alejandro was pacing up and down the training field outside Los Vaqueros’ headquarters, supervising his squads’ combatives drills.
It was a hot summer afternoon, even for Las Almas, the air thick with humidity and the sun beating down on them without mercy, his soldiers red-faced and sweating from physical exertion as much as the unrelenting heat.
Alejandro himself had changed into something lighter: a plain black T-shirt beneath his bulletproof vest.
A warm breeze drifted through his damp hair, ruffling the longer strands at the top as his eyes scanned over his men.
They’d just moved on to a new exercise: one soldier attempting to bring his partner to the ground while the other tried to prevent the takedown.
Every two minutes, they’d switch positions.
“¡Órale, Martínez! Orozco, don’t let him get you like that.”
“¡Sí, señor!” came Orozco’s belated reply as he pushed himself off the parched grass, his pride visibly stung by the reprimand.
Good, Alejandro thought. Better a bruised ego during training than a broken body in the field, all because he’d decided to go easy on them.
His gaze moved across the base, settling on Rudy, Chávez, and Rivera by the main entrance as they loaded up the trucks for their next mission near Olmeda. They worked in a steady rhythm, occasionally trading quiet jokes with each other. All of his men got along well. It was something Alejandro prided himself on: that effortless, tight-knit camaraderie. It’s what made them such a good team, and what made them brothers.
On the far side of the compound, close to the barracks, Soap and Ghost were talking. Or, more accurately, Soap was doing all the talking while Ghost hardly even moved, his expression unreadable behind the skull-patterned balaclava. Funny relationship those two had, Alejandro mused, but it seemed to work just fine for them.
The strong, acrid smell of jet fuel carried over from the tarmac, drawing his attention. A Shadow Company transport was being taxied into a nearby hangar, the sound of people shouting instructions barely audible over the engine’s roar.
Shadow Company.
Alejandro’s jaw imperceptibly tightened.
Foreign presence on his base still sat wrong with him. Soap and Ghost had earned their place through necessity and results, but now he had an entire army of gringos operating within his perimeter. If he’d counted right, there were enough of them that Los Vaqueros were no longer the majority on their own ground.
It wasn’t that he doubted Graves and his Shadows. Not in that sense. But one could never be too careful.
Las Almas and the military had taught him that.
And even if he didn’t peg Graves for a traitor, that man sure was something else.
At the very least, he seemed to enjoy war a little too much for someone who walked around calling it a job.
His eyes shifted until they found the man occupying his thoughts, leaning against a black fence line about ten meters away, rolling a knife between his half-gloved fingers at an unhurried pace.
How long had he been standing there?
Graves, for his part, wasn’t even looking in Alejandro’s direction. His attention was directed at some invisible point on the horizon, occasionally feigning interest in the knife as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d seen all day.
The knife did look unusual, Alejandro had to admit. It reminded him of his own, the one left to him long before he’d joined the special forces, by a squadmate who hadn’t made it home from deployment.
To Alejandro’s surprise, the blade even sported the same gently curved, silver-gray crossguard.
It couldn’t possibly be the same, though, could it?
He slipped his hand into the weathered cotton fabric of his outer right pocket, where his fingers came to rest on the familiar shape.
Except it wasn’t familiar at all.
He pulled out the knife and raised it into the sunlight, only to have his earlier suspicion confirmed: this wasn’t his.
The blade sitting in his palm featured a matte black composite handle, not a brown wooden one like Alejandro’s. It was lighter, and no doubt sharper, if the tip and the deep serrations near the base were anything to go by.
He turned the weapon in his hand, his fingers gliding over the smooth surface.
On the other side, two initials cut into the gleaming metal: P.G.
He gritted his teeth, his lips curling into a snarl.
Hijo de-
“Rojas!” Alejandro called, his eyes never leaving Graves as he addressed his sargento instructor. “You’re in command.”
“¡Sí, mi coronel!”
Despite a visibly irritated colonel stalking toward him, Graves still didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he was now balancing Alejandro’s knife on the tip of his index finger, trying to find the equilibrium point.
“This is my base,” Alejandro said as he planted himself wide-legged in front of the shadow commander, the gravel crunching hard beneath his boots. “You’re only temporary guests here.”
Graves turned, looking at him for the first time.
“I’m aware.”
“Yeah?” Alejandro crossed his arms. “Then who the fuck gave you permission to go through my room and steal my possessions?”
A few of Alejandro’s men who’d been close enough to overhear the exchange looked over at them, their eyes tracking the interaction with quiet attention.
Graves didn’t pay them any mind.
He just tilted his head slightly, as if the question amused him.
“This yours?” He rotated the knife once more, letting it catch the light. “Sorry, musta missed that. I was simply… admirin’ its beauty.”
His eyes flicked down to the knife, then back up at Alejandro, stormy blue meeting deep brown in an unspoken challenge.
“Tall, dark.” He narrowed his eyes, making sure to stare directly at Alejandro as he said the next word. “Unusual.”
The implication left Alejandro speechless, if only for a moment, his usual confidence giving way to hesitation, the knife Graves had slipped him forgotten in his grip.
“What do you want?”
Graves shrugged.
“I don’t get paid for wantin’ things.”
“Of course not.” Alejandro let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “And you’ve got no problem with that, eh? A dog on a leash, biting when they tell you to.”
“Hey, whatever pays the bills, ain’t that what they say?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Good.” Graves nodded, his expression hardening. “I don’t expect you to.”
Their eyes locked in a silent contest, neither man willing to give ground.
Somewhere in the distance, he caught the distinct crunch of footsteps on gravel, growing closer and closer until the sound abruptly stopped.
“Disculpe, señor.”
Alejandro turned to his right, where Corporal De Lalla had come to a halt at a good arm’s length from him.
“What is it?” Alejandro said, shifting his weight.
De Lalla looked nervously between the two men before fixing his gaze on Alejandro again.
“Señor, the crates have been loaded into the trucks. El sargento Parra said you might want to know.”
“Thank you, cabo. Tell Rudy I’ll be there shortly.”
De Lalla nodded, content.
“Mi coronel,” he said, saluting Alejandro with unmistakable eagerness before walking off.
Graves gave a low chuckle, his eyes trailing after De Lalla.
“Your boys seem to admire you a great deal.”
Alejandro’s brows furrowed.
“The same can be said about your men,” he countered, glancing toward the hangar where two Shadow Company members were unloading more heavy weaponry and ammunition. “Ex-special forces, no?”
Graves nodded, but this time it was less cold and more reflective.
“We’ve all had our fair share of disillusionment during our time in the military. Turns out they never actually let you do what needs to be done. But then again, I’m sure y’all can relate.”
“The military can be inefficient,” Alejandro conceded. “But it’s still no justification to become a mercenary.”
“Or a sicario?” Graves offered, butchering the word like only a gringo could.
“Yes.”
His gaze held Alejandro’s with quiet intensity before he looked away.
“You should get back to your men, Colonel.”
“Is that supposed to be an order?”
Graves smiled, but it contained entirely too much teeth to be considered genuine.
“’Course not. This is your base after all.”
Alejandro kept his eyes on him for a beat longer.
Then, finally, he turned to check on his men.
Rojas seemed to be doing well so far, the drills continuing without issue. He would make a good squad leader one day. That is, of course, if they’d all make it that long, Alejandro included.
If they didn’t, he’d fight to the bitter end regardless. It was in his blood. This was his city, the one he’d been born in, and the more time passed, the more certain he grew in his belief that he would eventually die defending it.
And if that was to be his fate, he found that he was strangely at peace with it.
His attention shifted once more to the man in front of him, but by the time he’d turned his head, Graves had already left, marching back toward the hangar, back to his Shadows, Alejandro’s knife tucked into his pocket like nothing had happened.
Alejandro exhaled slowly, clenching Graves’ knife in his hand until his knuckles turned white.
El que se lleva, se aguanta, he thought, as he straightened himself to his full height and returned to his men.
The sun had almost dipped beneath the horizon line; the sky bruised orange and red.
“¡Vaqueros! That’s enough for today.”