The next day, the Avengers Squad boarded the plane Sam had arranged and left the United States. It was a military aircraft, most likely a supply transport headed for the naval base near the Gulf of Mexico. Owen and the team were stowed in the cargo bay alongside their weapons and gear.
After a lengthy flight, the aircraft finally touched down. When the cargo bay doors opened, the soldiers around them treated them as if they were invisible. One of them simply snapped his fingers and gestured for Owen's group to follow.
It was indeed a U.S. military base. From there, they were transferred onto a boat, which rocked back and forth on the waves for quite a while before eventually reaching the Mexican coastline.
Two off-road vehicles were parked on the shore, and beside them stood two people. As soon as the boat reached land, Owen spotted a familiar figure waiting on the beach.
"Bryan…"
Owen jumped off the boat and gave Bryan a bear hug. Bryan patted Owen on the shoulder affectionately. He looked a bit older than last time, though still sharp and vigorous.
"What are you doing here? This is unbelievable—what a surprise. Oh, wait… I get it. This is about Jim?"
Owen was genuinely glad to see him. The last time they'd met had been at Jim's funeral. While Bryan and Sam were old friends, Bryan had nothing to do with the PMC business. His presence here could only mean one thing—Jim's death.
Bryan nodded but didn't pursue the topic further. Instead, he glanced at the others behind Owen, reminding him that introductions were in order.
"Guys, this is Bryan. Bryan, this is Ghost, Oracle, Ela, you already know Heartbeat, and this is…"
Owen went on introducing the members of Omega one by one. Bryan nodded and replied, "I'm Bryan, and this here is Mohawk."
Bryan introduced the guy beside him—a stocky Black man with a powerful build. The nickname "Mohawk" likely came from his distinctive mohawk haircut.
Everyone piled into the two off-road vehicles and drove toward the city.
"If you guys are here because of Jim, I can help. I said that before…"
"I know. I know. You owe Jim."
"Yeah. Back in Colombia."
"Let's not get into that now. Owen, can you tell me exactly who you're targeting this time? Don't worry, I'm not trying to pry. I just want to make sure we're not on opposing sides due to some misunderstanding…"
"Sánchez Group. They're the target this time."
Owen didn't bother hiding it. Bryan was someone he trusted. The others in the car didn't object either—they might not know Bryan well, but they trusted Owen.
"And you?" Owen asked, turning the question around.
Bryan smiled. "Looks like we'll be working together again. Time to make the Sánchez Group the next Montel family."
That answer brought a smile to Owen's face too.
"What's the story?"
Bryan wasn't shy about talking in front of the others. He spoke while driving: "You know Sam has ties to the CIA. Sometimes he does the dirty work they can't handle themselves…"
Owen nodded. Both Sam and Bryan were ex-CIA. While Sam's PMC often took contracts from the military, his CIA connections were stronger. And the Agency trusted him with his background—whenever they had something too shady to touch, they passed it on to him.
Bryan continued, "The CIA's fingerprints are all over Mexico's drug scene. The fall of Colombia and the rise of Mexico? That was no accident—it was all CIA-backed. But what they didn't expect was for Mexico to become the world's largest drug exporter almost overnight."
"Sam's last job was to broker a drug deal on behalf of the CIA. But they got hit—ambushed by pros. It was a massacre. Sam's team took heavy losses. Jim died in that ambush, along with two rookies."
"We had no idea who the hell pulled it off—until the DEA caught a few key players from the Sánchez Group. News coverage put their faces on TV. One of them was Guzmán—he was one of the ambushers. The other one? Dorok Sánchez. He led the team that day."
Owen and his team exchanged looks. What a damn coincidence. Guzmán and Dorok—those two bastards were also on their kill list.
As for the CIA running drugs, well… that wasn't even a secret anymore. Since World War II, they'd done it all: trafficking with cartels to fund black ops, smuggling to foreign countries, even poisoning their own backyard. There had been a journalist who broke the story years ago, which led to a special investigation… but it was buried quickly. The reporter was later found with two bullets in the head. The official cause of death? Suicide.
"When are you planning to make a move?" Owen asked.
"Sam hasn't decided yet. Tensions between the Sánchez and Lofta Groups are sky-high. They could go to war any moment. That's got their security beefed up big time. Especially Dorok—his guys are pros. Taking him out with a raid would be almost impossible. We might need your help for that."
Bryan shot a glance at the rearview mirror—Owen followed his eyes and saw he was looking at Swagg's rifle bag. Judging by the length, it had to be a sniper rifle. That made Swagg's role obvious.
They drove for most of the day before reaching their destination. Sam's team had set up on the outskirts of Ciudad Juárez. The area was sparsely populated and not under the control of any of the six major cartels—perfect for laying low and making plans.
"Sam…"
Owen walked quickly over and gripped Sam's hand in a firm shake. The two then embraced.
"You're not worried about the trouble this might cause? Going rogue like this?"
They'd already spoken over the phone during the drive and had a rough idea of each other's situations.
"I don't care anymore. Worst-case scenario, they kick me out. I'll just join your PMC."
"In that case, I'd be honored."
They both laughed. Bryan stepped up to introduce everyone on both sides.
"This is Howler. You've met Mohawk already. That's Sam—you can call him Mask."
"I'm Light. Got some food ready for you guys. Come on in. Anyone want a drink? I've got the good stuff…"
One guy stepped forward energetically. Owen walked over and gave him a hug. He didn't know the new faces like Howler or Mohawk, but Light was from the old days—he'd been part of the Colombia operation. Still a booze hound, just like back then.
"How you been, man?"
"Great. Drink?"
"You know I don't drink before a mission."
"Fair enough."
After the introductions, everyone headed inside. Sam's team had prepared a basic dinner—pizza and meat stew. After a full day of travel, their stomachs were screaming. All they'd eaten were a few awful military rations. Compared to that, this was a feast. Sure, it didn't beat Owen's zhajiangmian, but Chinese cooking wasn't exactly easy to whip up in a safehouse in Mexico.
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