We slip through the fence like ghosts.
Phantom takes point while Shadow and I flank him.
The rest of Shotgun Saints spread out behind us in practiced formation.
The two guards at the front gate see us too late.
Shadow drops the first one with a suppressed shot to the head.
The second one reaches for his radio—I put two rounds in his chest before he can speak.
Both bodies hit the ground.
Then all hell breaks loose.
Someone inside must have heard something because lights start coming on in the main house.
Shouting in Spanish. Doors slamming open.
"Go, go, go!" Phantom's voice cuts through.
We rush the main house as Los Coyotes soldiers pour out of buildings like ants from a kicked nest.
Gunfire erupts from every direction.
The quiet, surgical strike we planned becomes a full-scale assault in seconds.
I'm firing as I run—controlled bursts, center mass, dropping anyone who moves.
A soldier appears in the doorway of the main house with an AK-47.
Shadow takes him down before he can aim.
We breach the door and inside is pure chaos.
Men scrambling for weapons, half-dressed, panicked.
They weren't expecting this. Weren't ready.
Their mistake.
We move through the house like a machine.
Room to room. Door to door. Anyone armed dies. Anyone reaching for a weapon dies.
No hesitation. No mercy.
This is war.
A Los Coyotes member jumps out from a bedroom, knife in hand. He manages to slash Shadow's arm before I put three rounds in him.
He drops, twitching, blood spreading across expensive tile.
"You good?" I ask Shadow.
"Flesh wound. Keep moving."
More soldiers in the hallway.
