"No! You sons of bitches! You're all going to hell—ahhh! Please, please let me go... ahhh—"
Guzmán's screams echoed through the interrogation room, refusing to fade. The Omega team took turns working on him, torturing him until he was hovering between life and death. Neither defiance nor begging made any difference. While there was no direct evidence, everyone firmly believed the highway ambush was connected to Guzmán's capture, and they held nothing back. Guzmán had been beaten into a bloody pulp.
The incident made the news. The drug lord's operation had once again humiliated the DEA. Yes, this wasn't the first time. The sheer brazenness of Mexico's cartels was beyond imagination for outsiders. It was as if they were the true rulers of the country.
Surprisingly, the cooperation between both sides was going smoothly. Even after what had happened, the Mexican DEA became even more aggressive in their anti-drug operations. Not just the Sánchez Group, but every cartel big and small came under intense scrutiny. It was clear Patrick wasn't willing to take this loss lying down. The DEA was operating at full tilt, activating all their embedded informants. Official and unofficial intel poured in as Patrick ramped up efforts to find out who was behind the ambush.
Patrick also formally requested that Guzmán be handed over. After all, the incident had occurred just after Guzmán's capture, making him the prime suspect from any angle.
Owen had no reason to refuse. In fact, taking Guzmán back to the U.S. for trial wasn't even a real option. All Owen wanted was to wring as much intelligence as he could from the man. He had already agreed to return Guzmán to the DEA in three days.
Over the next few days, Owen made repeated trips between the U.S. military base and the DEA office. He grew increasingly familiar with Patrick, who, despite only holding the title of operations captain, had near-absolute authority. The DEA had no formal director or deputy director—turnover was too deadly. One new director had been shot on their very first day. The position had become a death sentence, and so Patrick had effectively become the de facto chief.
As for the locations Guzmán had given where Mario might be found, CTU, despite its high-level access, couldn't afford constant satellite surveillance of all of them. Not even the military dared to monopolize such costly resources—every second of satellite use came with a price.
Thus, the majority of surveillance had to be carried out by the DEA. Patrick gave his full cooperation, especially as all the accumulated intel increasingly pointed to the Sánchez Group as the orchestrators behind the highway ambush.
Though the attack made the news, it had little impact among the general public. The deaths of a dozen DEA agents was hardly a shock in chaotic Mexico.
Gunfights broke out every day. Deaths were routine. It wasn't unusual for residents to wake to the sound of gunfire, then find corpses on the roadside or people hanging from bridges.
Apart from those colluding with the cartels, regular police tried to stay out of trouble. For them, it was just a job to feed their families—not worth dying for. No one wanted to find their own severed head in a cardboard box on their doorstep.
Two Days Later
"You bastard, looks like you've been playing games with us..."
Inside the military base interrogation room, the sound of water echoed. Ghost stood over Guzmán with a ladle, repeatedly pouring water over his face. A wet towel covered Guzmán's mouth and nose—he was enduring the torment of waterboarding. His body thrashed violently as he fought to breathe, but Heartbeat pinned him down with brute force.
The water kept coming. Guzmán began convulsing. Only when it seemed enough did Ghost remove the towel. Water poured from Guzmán's nose and mouth as he gasped for air, his chest wheezing like a broken bellows.
After days of interrogation, none of the locations Guzmán had provided had yielded results. It now seemed likely that he had given out false leads to buy time.
"No—I swear... cough cough—I told the truth! Mario... must've found out I was caught... started getting careful... that must be it..."
Guzmán looked utterly broken. Days of torture had drained him mentally and physically. Every member of Omega and Phantom Squad had taken turns venting their rage on him.
Outside the room, Shepherd took a deep drag on his cigarette before stomping it out. He reached into a nearby box, pulled out a can of beer, and tossed one to Owen before cracking open his own and taking a long swig.
Owen popped the tab and had just taken a sip when—
Ring ring ring~
His phone buzzed. It was Patrick. The two had been sharing information regularly, especially anything related to the Sánchez family.
"Patrick, it hasn't even been three days yet…"
"Owen, we've got solid confirmation—the highway ambush was carried out by the Sánchez Group."
"How reliable is the source?"
"Very. The intel came from the Lofta Group, and we've personally verified it."
The Lofta Group was another of Mexico's six major cartels, and their territory bordered that of the Sánchez Group. The two frequently clashed. Owen didn't bother asking if this might be a setup—Patrick wasn't an idiot. If he said it had been verified, then it likely had.
"Alright. What do you need me to do?"
Now that the DEA had confirmed it was the Sánchez Group, their goals were aligned.
"Turn Guzmán over to us."
"Fine. It's too late today. We'll deliver him to you first thing tomorrow."
Owen agreed without hesitation. After days of grueling interrogation, they had squeezed every drop of intel out of Guzmán. Now that the DEA had a clear target, they'd be desperate to extract whatever they could from him. Owen might as well do them a favor.
Bang bang bang~
After hanging up, Owen walked briskly to the interrogation room and knocked on the heavy metal door. With a metallic clang, it opened. Heartbeat poked his head out.
"Boss, what's the word?"
"You've got one more night. Tomorrow we hand Guzmán over to the Mexicans. Make the most of it."
Owen turned and left. Heartbeat shut the door behind him.
"Beardo, looks like we're short on time. Let's pick up the pace. How about a fun little game?"
Guzmán's screams resumed inside the room.
Not far away, Ela happened to be passing through. She heard the screams, looked over briefly, hesitated, then turned and walked the other way.
______
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