Crucible of Dirt and Blood
The safehouse was a concrete coffin on the edge of Ciudad Mer, its walls sweating diesel and despair, the Rio Grande’s stench clawing through the cracks. I leaned against a rusted steel table, its edges biting my palms, the amber lamp above buzzing like a trapped wasp. Maps and sat photos sprawled before me, a butcher’s blueprint for tomorrow’s slaughter: 200 mules, coke strapped to their spines, a Northeast Cartel deal to cement our name, and a 65% chance some DEA-puppet Monterrey gang would come for our throats. My gut was a knot of barbed wire, not from fear but from the weight of blood I’d spill to pull this off. The Program’s promise—farms, rehab, a lifeline for these souls—rode on my shoulders, and I’d be damned if I let it slip.
Mateo, my brother in this hell, stood across the table, his bulldog face half-lit, cigarette glowing like a demon’s eye. “We solid, jefe?” he asked, voice steady, grounded by a family I’d never know. I tapped the map where the tunnel snaked under the river, a vein of dirt and risk. “Solid as we’re gonna get, amigo. Decoy’s set—rafts, ten mules, no coke. Splits their force, draws the heat. Main run’s here, 200 heads, all the product. We hold the mouth, push ’em through, pray the bastards bite.”
The door groaned, and in walked the hired guns—Guy, Emile, and Anna, Program mercs I’d slipped into the crew a month back, early enough to blend with my trafficking dogs but late enough not to spook ’em. Guy, a Brit with a Marine’s edge, had eyes like a man chasing ghosts, his quiet fire burning too bright. I liked him—selfless, loyal to the bone—but his intensity was a fuse, and I worried it’d blow at the wrong time. Emile, a mountain of a man, grinned like he could laugh through a bullet, his calm a shield I envied. But I wondered if he’d falter when the blood got thick. Anna was different—a blade forged in ice, her dark eyes cutting through the room like she was already killing. Her lethality was a gift, but something in her was missing, a void that made my skin crawl. I trusted her hands, not her heart.
“Listen up, y’all,” I said, my North Texan growl softened by years in Mexico’s dirt. “This ain’t no Sunday stroll. Tunnel’s a choke-point, one-person wide, 200 mules hauling coke. We’re delivering for the Cartel, but the Program’s got bigger stakes—those folks get to farms, not graves. Monterrey gang’s likely to hit, maybe DEA-backed. Decoy rafts’ll pull some, but expect hell here.” I jabbed the tunnel mouth on the map. “My crew holds the entrance. Emile, Guy, Anna, you’re inside, keeping the flow. Exit crew splits coke, loads mules onto trucks. Fight breaks, you crush it. Clear?”
Guy’s jaw tightened, his voice clipped. “Enemy strength? Gear?”
“Twenty, maybe thirty,” I said. “Small arms, blades, nothing heavy. Mindspace’ll give us an edge, but the mules’ panic might jam it. Stay frosty.”
Emile leaned back, smirking. “Sounds like a fiesta, jefe. We dancin’ with the Cartel?”
“Nah, cabrón,” I shot back, a grim smile tugging my lips. “Cartel’s our ticket. We deliver, we’re kings. Fuck it up, we’re worm food.” I glanced at Anna, her face a mask. “Anna, medical kit good?”
“Always,” she said, voice flat, eyes locked on the map like it was prey. Her coldness was a blade I needed, but it cut both ways.
Mateo flicked his cigarette ash. “Exit crew’s tight, but if shit hits, they’ll need you, Bryce. You running the show?”
“Damn right,” I said. “Mindspace keeps me wired in. If it goes south, I’m through the tunnel, holding it together. Priority one: mules live. Two: coke gets through. Three: we walk away. I ain’t letting these folks die for our game.” My voice was steel, but inside, I was a mess of guilt and resolve. The Program’s endgame—saving these mules from slavery—kept me sane, but the means were a butcher’s work. I’d seen kids drugged, “rented” to predators, shipped to hell. This job was ugly, but it was their shot at redemption, and I’d bleed to make it happen.
Chaos was my lens, always had been. I’d planned for it—decoy site to split the enemy, tunnel defenses to break ’em, Mindspace to keep us linked—but you don’t tame a storm. You ride it, and I was the bastard holding the reins. The Cartel needed this to trust us, the Program needed the profit to grow, and I needed to flush out those DEA-backed criminals, see who they were. Risk was high, but so was the reward. I just prayed the mules wouldn’t pay the price.
---
The tunnel mouth gaped like a wound in the earth, concrete-lined, reeking of damp and dread. Midnight, and the mules shuffled in, 200 souls, coke packs sagging, eyes hollow with fear. My crew—six locals, AKs hot—flanked the entrance, shadows in the moonlight. I stood at the edge, bandana tight over my face, MAGA cap low, greasy hair tied back, every inch the sleazy traficante I played. Mindspace was a mess of panic and bloodlust, the mules’ terror a tidal wave, my team’s bonds cutting through like knives. Guy’s was steady, Emile’s warm, Anna’s a cold spike. I trusted them to hold the tunnel, but the static gnawed at me—too much fear to sense the snakes.
“Move, vamos!” I growled, waving mules in. A woman, maybe 30, gripped a kid’s hand, her pack dragging. I caught her eye, voice low. “Estás bien, hermana. Keep going.” She nodded, trembling, and vanished into the dark. I hated this—using them, knowing we’d drug their water later for chipping—but it was the only way to save them. The Cartel wanted coke; the Program wanted lives. I was the fool juggling both, my soul rotting with every step.
Mateo, at my side, checked his radio. “Exit crew’s set. Trucks ready. Decoy’s live—rafts moving.”
“Good,” I said, scanning the river’s glint. “Monterrey’s coming. Mindspace is fucked, but I’m betting they hit soon.” My gut screamed fight, and I’d rigged the board to win—decoy to bleed ’em, tunnel to crush ’em. But if they were DEA’s dogs, they’d be cunning, and I hadn’t seen their full hand.
Gunfire cracked in the distance—decoy site, right on time. My radio hissed. “Rafts hit, ten down,” a voice spat. I grinned, cold as ice. “Suckers bit the bait. Hold the mouth, boys!” My crew braced, barrels up. Inside, Guy’s bond flickered, then Emile’s spiked. Trouble.
“CONTACTO! EN GUY!” Guy’s scream ripped through the OpFrame, raw, desperate. My heart slammed, not fear but clarity, the crucible igniting. “Emile, Anna, on him!” I barked, Mindspace flaring. The mules’ panic drowned my senses, but I felt Anna’s ice, Emile’s fire. Outside, the gang hit, AKs roaring, bullets chewing dirt. My crew fired back, muzzle flashes painting the night. I ducked behind a concrete slab, MP5 barking, dropping a shadow at 11 o’clock. “Hold the fucking line!” I roared, my voice a lash.
Mindspace showed hell inside—Guy’s bond fading, Emile surging, Anna closing. I didn’t know the enemy had slipped killers into the mules, carbon-fiber blades hidden in the crowd. Our fuck-up, my fuck-up. I’d prepped for a frontal hit, not this. “Mateo, flank right!” I shouted, firing again, clipping another gunman. Bullets zinged, chipping stone. My crew was holding, but the tunnel was a slaughterhouse.
I plunged into the tunnel, boots pounding, Mindspace my only guide. The air was thick, mules screaming, shoving, a stampede in the dark. I shouldered through, bellowing, “¡Atrás!” to clear space. Ahead, Emile’s bulk loomed, hauling Guy, blood streaming. Anna knelt beside him, hands red, packing a wound. “Kidney stab!” she yelled, her voice a blade. “He’s bleeding out!”
“Get him out!” I roared, firing into the dark, suppressing shadows. The mules were a wall, some shot, packs bursting, coke spraying like ash, blood mixing in a red-white sludge. I saw it now—killers in the crowd, blades glinting, a betrayal we didn’t see. Emile shoved a mule aside, gentle but firm. Anna struck another, screaming in Spanish, her control a cold fire, Mindspace steady as steel. She was a machine, and I feared her as much as I needed her.
Outside, my crew was pinned, bullets ripping through mules, gore and coke painting the ground. I hit the mouth, firing, dropping two more. “Mateo, take left!” I ordered. He moved, AK spitting. The gang was breaking, maybe 15 left, scattering among trucks. I turned, sprinting through the tunnel to the exit. The exit crew—four locals—were a fucking mess, mules panicking, coke piles scattered, trucks half-loaded. “Calm the hell down!” I snarled, grabbing a guy’s collar. “Split the coke, load the mules, move! We’re clear!”
“Fight fucked us, jefe!” one whined, pointing at the chaos.
“Do it or I’ll bury you!” I snapped, shoving him. I scanned the damage—three mules dead, shot, coke bags burst, but most were alive, trucks still rolling. “Get ’em to the farm, no stops!” I barked, then ran back through the tunnel, Mindspace pulling me to Anna and Emile.
The tunnel was a grotto of hell, bodies strewn, blood and coke crusting the walls like a twisted mural. Emile was torching the leftover coke, flames licking the dark, his grin gone. Anna knelt over Guy, saline bag taped to his head, her hands a blur, stitching him up. “Lazy Brit’s still breathing, boss,” Emile said, voice low, tossing a body aside.
“Good,” I panted, my chest tight. “Burn the rest, clean it up. We’re out.” I looked at Anna, her face a skull behind her bandana, blood streaking her gloves. “You got him?”
“Yeah,” she said, not looking up, her voice empty. “Farm’s ready.”
“Move,” I said, helping Emile lift Guy. We hauled him out, my crew mopping up stragglers. The gang was gone, broken, but we’d paid in blood—mules dead, Guy half-dead, our intel fucked. I shoved it down, focused. The Program needed this, and so did I.
---
In the farm’s medical bay, hours later, I stood over Guy, my arm hooked to his, O-negative dripping from my vein to his. Anna worked, needle flashing, closing the kidney wound, her precision surgical but her eyes dead, like she was carving a carcass, not saving a brother. Emile leaned against the wall, wiping blood from his hands, his humor buried under the night’s weight. “Hell of a night, jefe,” he said, voice raw.
“Yeah,” I grunted, my North Texan drawl heavy, cracked. “Fucked up, letting those bastards slip in. My call, my sin.” The words tasted like ash, my failure a blade in my gut. We’d planned for chaos, set the decoy, armed the crew, but we didn’t see the mules as weapons. The DEA’s dogs outplayed us, and it cost us—mules dead, Guy’s blood on my hands, the Program’s dream dented.
“We all missed it,” Anna said, her voice a ghost, not looking up. “He’s alive. That’s what counts.”
I nodded, but it didn’t ease the rot. Guy’s face, pale but breathing, was a mirror—his fight, his love for us, his ghosts chasing him like mine chased me. I’d bleed for him, for them, for the mules we saved, the ones we didn’t. But as my blood flowed into him, the crucible’s heat burned through me. Mexico was a grinder, chewing my soul—every lie, every dead kid’s eyes, every blade I didn’t see. I was holding it together, but cracks were forming, deep and jagged. The Program was my light, my redemption, but it was also my cross, and I didn’t know how much longer I could carry it. For now, I stayed, my arm linked to Guy’s, the pulse of blood and guilt binding us, the tunnel’s dirt still caked in my bones.
Anna’s Perspective: The Tunnel in Mexico
The tunnel’s walls close in, damp earth and jagged rock scraping my shoulders, the air thick with sweat and fear. My MP5 hangs heavy across my chest, its grip slick under my gloved hand, a tether to control. Mindspace buzzes in my skull, a storm of panic from the mules—two hundred souls, coke-packed backpacks strapped to their backs, their terror a white-hot blur in the OpFrame. The mission’s clear: get the coke and the trafficked through to the exit, where the Program’s buyers wait. A decoy site downstream—fast rafts, a handful of mules, no coke—has split the Monterrey gang’s forces, thanks to Guy’s setup, but here, in this choke-point, it’s us against their blades and guns. Bryce holds the tunnel mouth with his team, feeding mules in. Emile’s mid-tunnel, Guy’s ahead of me, and I’m closest to the exit, eyes locked on the flow. The tunnel’s barely wide enough for one, a death-trap if it goes wrong, and I’m wired, every nerve primed for the fight I know’s coming.
The mules shuffle forward, faces gaunt, eyes darting—men, women, kids, their packs bulging with coke, their fear a wall that jams Mindspace, drowning any chance to spot the gang’s killers hidden among them. Carbon-fiber blades, undetectable, slipped into the crowd—a smart move, low-tech, brutal. My breath’s steady, clipped, my focus razor-sharp, emotions locked down. This is my zone: chaos, blood, the mission above all. The Program made me this—lethal, precise, a predator who thrives where others break. My team—Guy, Emile, Bryce—they’re what I’ve got, the only family I claim, and the Program’s my blood, the path that pulled me from old shadows. I’ll carve through hell to keep them safe, to make this work.
Gunfire cracks at the tunnel mouth, a sharp snap that ignites the mules. They surge, a screaming mass, bodies crashing into each other, into me, elbows jabbing my ribs. I plant my boots, shoving back, my voice cutting through the OpFrame: “Hold the line! Keep them moving!” The tunnel’s a vise, too tight to push against the flow, a stampede waiting to crush us. Ahead, Guy’s voice rips through the chaos, raw, urgent: “CONTACTO! EN GUY!” My senses snap tight, Mindspace flickering with his pain—sharp, fading. He’s hit. I force forward, shouldering mules aside, their cries a dull roar. The mission’s at stake—coke, mules, team—but Guy’s the linchpin here, and I’m the one who’ll fix him.
The tunnel’s dark, air heavy with dust and blood, the mules’ panic a physical weight. I’m too far, the crowd too dense, my boots slipping on slick earth. Emile’s closer, a shadow vaulting over the mules, crowd-surfing with a roar, his MP5 barking. He’s a storm, all power and precision, but I’m not trailing him. My mind’s clinical, calculating—Guy’s bleeding, likely kidney or spine, and I’m the medic. Mindspace holds, my pulse steady, wave control tight despite the crush. I shove a mule hard, clearing space, my eyes locked on the fight ahead. Emile slams into the killers, blades glinting, blood spraying as he snaps a wrist, then a neck. Guy’s pinned, his stun blade flashing, tearing through a mule’s throat, but he’s faltering, blood pooling under him.
“Emile, cover Guy!” I snap into the OpFrame, my voice a blade. I’m almost there, but the mules are a wall, and I’m not diving over them—too risky, too slow. Emile’s got it, hauling Guy free, his grin flashing as he shouts, “Lazy Brit, picking a fight without me!” His humor’s a spark, cutting the tension, but I’m ice, focused on the next move. The mission’s teetering—coke’s at risk, mules are dying, and Guy’s down. I hit the fight as Emile drops a killer, my MP5 up, a burst shredding a shadow lunging for Guy. He collapses, face slamming into Emile’s back, blood streaking his jacket. I drop beside him, knees grinding into the dirt, rolling him to check the wound. “Guy, stay with me!” I bark, my hands already moving, assessing—two-inch stab, low back, kidney hit, bad but fixable if I’m fast.
The tunnel shakes, gunfire echoing, mules screaming. Emile’s kneeling, unloading bursts toward the exit, his voice sharp, “Anna, get him stable! Entrance is hot!” I nod, ripping Guy’s jacket open, blood soaking my gloves. My kit’s out, gauze ready, but the mules are surging again, blocking our path. We need to move—Bryce’s team is taking fire at the mouth, Mindspace pulsing with their strain. I stand, MP5 swinging, and unload a magazine into the dark, the crackle drowning screams. My eyes catch movement—mules, panicked, rushing us, mixed with enemy shadows beyond. They’re a threat, clogging my line of fire. Mindspace sharpens, a tactical map in my head—enemy at 10 o’clock, mules in the way. I fire, controlled, grazing two mules’ legs, not lethal, just enough to scatter them, their cries spiking as they stumble. No pause—my mag’s out, another slapped in, and I dump rounds at the enemy, bullets chewing rock and flesh. The mules fall back, clearing my arc.
Emile’s dragging Guy, his bulk shielding him, and I take point, leading the push to the entrance. The tunnel’s a bottleneck, mules clogging the way, their fear a liability. I scream in Spanish, “¡Atrás! ¡Muévanse!” my voice a whip, and when they hesitate, I strike—fist to a shoulder, boot to a shin—hard but measured, forcing them back. Mindspace holds, my wave steady, pulse even, a cold clarity guiding every move. I’m smaller than Emile, but I’m a blade, cutting through, my will a force they can’t defy. We carve a path, Guy’s weight slowing Emile, his blood trailing. Enemy fire rips through the entrance, bullets snapping past, hitting mules, their packs bursting, coke spraying like ash. Blood mixes in, a red-white sludge coating Guy’s limp hand, his face gray, out cold.
We hit the mouth, dropping Guy behind a rock slab. Emile’s MP5 roars, suppressive bursts pinning the enemy—gang shooters, maybe ten, dug in among vehicles. I’m beside him, firing, my rounds precise, clipping a gunman’s shoulder, then another’s leg. Bryce’s team is holding, but they’re stretched, and Mindspace screams with their strain. I pivot to Guy, shouting, “Wake up, damn it!” slapping his face, my voice raw. His eyes flutter, dazed, pulling out of wherever he’s gone—some vision, maybe, but I don’t care. “Stay with me!” I snap, my hands on his wound, packing gauze, pressure firm. Emile’s got the line, his bursts steady, a grin flashing as he yells, “No tea for this fucker, Anna! He’s grounded!” His calm, his humor—it’s a strength I don’t have, not now. I’m all edges, the mission and my team the only things keeping me sharp.
I strap a saline bag to Guy’s arm, Emile taping it to his head, and we lift him, moving to reinforce Bryce. The mules are a mess, some shot, others cowering, coke and blood painting the ground. I fire another burst, grazing a mule who lurches too close, not to kill but to clear space. My mag’s dry, and I reload, no hesitation, rounds slamming into a pickup’s engine, sparks flaring. The enemy’s falling back, and Bryce’s voice crackles in the OpFrame, “Push now! They’re breaking!” I nod, my focus absolute—mission first, team alive, Guy stable. We’ve got this, but it’s not over.
Later, at the farm’s medical bay, I’m stitching Guy’s wound, the sterile room a stark shift from the tunnel’s hell. Bryce hooks up O-negative, his blood flowing into Guy’s veins, a lifeline. My hands are steady, needle precise, closing the gash. Guy’s sedated, pale but breathing, and for a moment, I feel it—a flicker of relief, not for the mission but for him, for us. It’s gone fast, locked down, my focus back on the task. The Program made me this—lethal, loyal, a machine when it counts. But in the quiet, as I wipe blood from my hands, I catch Guy’s face, his fight still vivid, his bond to us raw. He’s one of us, and that’s enough. I don’t linger, don’t let it crack me. The mission’s done, and we’re still standing.
Chapter: The Tunnel’s Wrath
The safehouse in Ciudad Mer was a concrete box, stinking of oil and river rot, the kind of place that made you miss home. I stood by the door, arms crossed, watching Bryce lay out the job on a rusted table, maps and sat photos glowing under a flickering lamp. My wife, Clara, and our two girls, Mia and Sofia, were a thousand miles away, safe in a quiet town, their faces my anchor in this shitstorm. They grounded me, gave me a why that Guy, Anna, and even Bryce didn’t have. Clara’s laugh, Mia’s drawings, Sofia’s hugs—they kept me human, not just a Program gun. Tonight, though, I was a merc, hired a month back to blend with Bryce’s trafficking crew, late enough to avoid spooking his dogs, early enough to pass as one of ’em.
Bryce, greasy hair tied back, MAGA cap low, looked every bit the sleazy traficante, but his eyes betrayed a man carrying too much. I respected him—his plans were tight, his care for the mules real—but he was fraying, a threadbare soul. “This ain’t no picnic, y’all,” he said, his Texan drawl soft for Mexico. “Tunnel’s tight, one-person wide, 200 mules hauling coke. Cartel wants product; Program wants ’em alive, headed to farms, not hell. Monterrey gang’s likely to hit, maybe DEA-backed. Decoy rafts’ll pull some, but expect heat here.” He jabbed the tunnel mouth on the map. “My crew holds the entrance. Emile, Guy, Anna, you’re inside, keeping the flow. Exit crew splits coke, loads trucks. Fight breaks, you end it. Questions?”
Guy, lean and intense, stood like a coiled spring, his eyes chasing ghosts. He was loyal, fierce, but too raw, like he’d burn himself out. “Enemy numbers? Weapons?” he asked, voice sharp.
“Twenty, thirty,” Bryce said. “Small arms, blades, no heavies. Mindspace’ll help, but mule panic might jam it. Stay sharp.”
I grinned, leaning against the wall. “What’s the vibe, jefe? We throwing a party or a funeral?”
Bryce smirked, tired. “Party if we win, cabrón. Funeral if we don’t.” He looked at Anna, her dark eyes locked on the map, a predator in a small frame. She was lethal, precise, but cold, like something vital was gone. I didn’t trust her heart, only her hands.
“Anna, medical kit ready?” Bryce asked.
“Always,” she said, voice flat, not blinking. Her calm was a blade, and it cut deep.
Mateo, Bryce’s shadow, tossed his cigarette. “Exit crew’s set, but if it pops off, they’ll need you, Bryce. You calling shots?”
“Yeah,” Bryce said. “Mindspace keeps me wired. Priorities: mules live, coke gets through, we walk. I ain’t letting these folks die.” His voice was steel, but I saw the guilt, the weight of playing butcher to save souls.
I nodded, my mind drifting to Clara. She’d hate this—200 mules, desperate, used as pawns. But the Program’s farms were their shot, and I’d kill to make it happen. A fight was coming, Bryce’s 65% odds screaming in my gut. I’d keep Guy and Anna alive, hold the tunnel, and get home to my girls. That was my deal with the devil.
---
The tunnel mouth was a black maw, concrete-lined, reeking of damp and fear. Midnight, and the mules shuffled in, 200 souls, coke packs dragging, eyes wide with despair. I was mid-tunnel, boots planted, my 6’2” frame filling the space, MP5 slung across my chest. Mindspace buzzed in my skull, a storm of mule panic, their terror a thick fog. Bryce’s bond was steady at the entrance, Guy’s intense ahead, Anna’s cold behind. My own presence was weaker, my training more physical than psychic, but I could feel enough to know shit was brewing.
“Keep moving, amigos!” I called, voice warm, trying to ease the mules’ fear. A kid, maybe 15, stumbled, his pack slipping. I steadied him, hand gentle. “You’re good, pequeño. One step at a time.” He nodded, scared but moving. Clara’s face flashed in my mind—her softness, her strength. These mules were someone’s kids, someone’s loves. I’d get ’em through, for her, for my girls.
Gunfire cracked outside—decoy site, Bryce’s bait working. My radio crackled. “Rafts hit,” Mateo’s voice hissed. I grinned, low. “Suckers,” I muttered. But Mindspace twitched—Guy’s bond flickered, sharp, pained. Trouble.
“CONTACTO! EN GUY!” Guy’s scream tore through the OpFrame, raw, desperate. My heart slammed, not fear but fire, a switch flipping. Clara, Mia, Sofia—they faded, and I was a raging bear, all 6’2” of destruction waking up. Guy was my brother, my team, and someone was carving him. I roared, a sound that shook the tunnel, and moved—not through the mules, but over them. My boots hit shoulders, packs, heads, crowd-surfing the stampede, fast, efficient, barely touching ’em. It was brutal but clean—less harm than shoving through, quicker than fighting the flow. The tunnel was barely wider than me, no room to swing, but I was a storm, unstoppable.
I landed in front of Guy, Mindspace guiding me, my presence just strong enough to lock on his fading bond. He was pinned, blood spraying, two killers with carbon-fiber blades closing in. We hadn’t seen it—fuckers hid in the mules, a move we missed. My mistake, our mistake. No time for guilt. The first attacker, a wiry bastard, lunged. I grabbed his wrist, snapped it back, and drove my knee into his, shattering bone with a wet crunch. He screamed, dropping, blade clattering. The second, taller, came fast, blade arcing for my chest. I caught his arm, twisted, and slammed my elbow into his throat, cartilage collapsing. He gagged, eyes bulging, and I finished him—fist to temple, skull cracking against the wall. The first was crawling, blade in his good hand. I stomped his spine, a dull snap ending him. No gunfire, just hands and rage, my size filling the tunnel, nothing passing me.
Guy slumped, blood pooling, his face gray. I hauled him up, shielding him, my voice low. “Stay with me, brother.” Anna hit the scene, her small frame a blur, hands already on Guy’s wound. “Kidney stab!” she barked, packing gauze, her control icy. I knelt, MP5 up, firing bursts into the dark, suppressing shadows. The mules were a screaming wall, some shot, coke packs bursting, blood and powder mixing like hell’s paint.
“Emile, cover!” Anna snapped, her voice sharp. I nodded, firing again, dropping a shadow at 10 o’clock. Bryce’s bond flared in Mindspace—outside, his crew was pinned, fighting hard. “We gotta move!” I yelled, lifting Guy, his weight heavy but nothing to me. Anna took point, and I saw her change—small, fierce, she turned brutal, screaming in Spanish, “¡Atrás!” Her fists and boots struck mules, hard, forcing them back, clearing a path. It was savage, more than I’d have done, her ferocity outstripping her size. My gut twisted—her rage wasn’t just tactical; it was something else, something dark. A flicker of concern leaked into Mindspace, sharp, unintended. I clamped it down, hoping no one felt it, and followed, Guy over my shoulder.
We hit the tunnel mouth, bullets zinging, mules dropping, coke and blood spraying. Bryce was there, firing, his crew breaking the gang. “Get him out!” he roared. I laid Guy behind a rock slab, MP5 barking, pinning enemies among vehicles. Anna knelt, saline bag taped to Guy’s head, shouting, “Wake up, damn it!” Her slaps were clinical, her eyes empty. I fired again, dropping another, my voice cutting through. “No tea for you, lazy Brit!” It was humor, my shield, but it felt hollow.
Bryce sprinted through the tunnel, stabilizing the exit crew—I felt his bond shift, steady but strained. We held the mouth, suppressing fire, the gang breaking. Anna stabilized Guy, her hands a blur, and we moved, hauling him to a Program truck, not Bryce’s criminal dens. The tunnel was a graveyard, bodies strewn, coke burning under flamethrowers, my crew torching the rest. I tossed a body aside, my chest tight, Clara’s face flickering. I’d kept Guy alive, saved most mules, but the blood stuck to me.
---
In the farm’s medical bay, dawn breaking, I leaned against the wall, blood crusted on my hands, watching Anna stitch Guy’s kidney wound. Bryce stood over him, O-negative flowing from his arm to Guy’s, his face etched with guilt. “Fucked up, letting those bastards slip in,” he said, voice cracked. “My sin.”
“We all missed it,” Anna said, her voice a ghost, eyes dead as she worked. “He’s alive.”
I nodded, wiping my hands, my humor gone. “Hell of a night, jefe,” I said, voice low. Guy’s face, pale but breathing, was a win, but the cost gnawed. Those mules—some dead, some saved—were on us. Anna’s brutality replayed in my mind, her fists on mules, her coldness here. She was a blade, but too sharp, too empty. My concern, that flicker in Mindspace, lingered, but I buried it. Clara and the girls were my light, keeping me whole. I’d killed, raged, but for them, for Guy, for the Program’s promise. The tunnel was done, but its weight clung to me, a shadow I’d carry home.
Now, after this tunnel event, later in guy's recovery in Mexico at the farm, Anna makes moves on him. Here's an account of that move:
Anna – Nightclub, Monterrey
The city breathes heat through the pavement, a sickly pulse of neon and exhaust. Monterrey doesn’t flirt—it dares. And I always say yes.
Guy walks beside me. Silent, mostly. Still favoring his side where the knife found him. He doesn’t limp—not quite—but I can read the hesitation in his movement. A rhythm he hasn’t recovered. His shirt’s black, tight at the shoulders, open just enough to show skin I once stitched. That alone keeps my pulse three degrees too high.
We head toward El Fuego. The club. Three floors of forgetting. A dancefloor below, desire wrapped in smoke and light above.
I don’t tell him what it is. Not exactly. That’s part of the night.
Inside: chaos and beat. Strobes paint sweat onto moving bodies. We orbit the main floor, let the heat pull us in. I order drinks, hand his to him without asking. Tequila, mezcal, something bitter. He downs it like he’s proving something.
Perfect.
We dance. Not close. Not yet. I calibrate. Watch his hips, his hands, how he tracks me in strobe and smoke. He’s smoother than he looks. He doesn’t grind or posture. He’s deliberate. Reserved. But not cold.
I slip the half-tab between two fingers and press it into his hand. “Trust,” I say, close to his ear.
He lets me place it on his tongue.
We stay there until it begins.
The rise is slow. Warmer lights. Softer limbs. Our laughter drifts. He’s looser now, smiling more. His hand brushes my side and stays too long to be accident. The bassline sinks into our skin.
“I want to show you something,” I tell him.
He doesn’t speak. Just nods.
We head toward the side corridor. The guards at the stairway don’t stop me. One gives me a look like he remembers me. I don’t return it.
First floor: dimmer, slower, thicker. A haze of sex in the air. Not the act—yet—but the promise of it. Dresses hang too short, pants too tight, necklines open like mouths.
I lead Guy to the bar. He watches the room. Eyes taking everything in. He’s not startled. He’s intrigued.
“I need a minute,” I say. “Don’t talk to anyone.”
He smirks, “Only if they talk first.”
Toilets. I lock the stall behind me and pull my top off. Beneath: plunge-cut fishnet and an undercut bra. The jeans stay. Heels. A look I built for this floor.
I sit, press my fingers against the wet split beneath the mesh, and close my eyes.
It rushes in fast now. The MDMA, the music, the memory. Madrid. Parties I was too young for. The way he—my protector, my architect—let me watch, let me feel the danger without being in it. Let me learn what arousal and power and fear all felt like at the same time.
In the fantasy, I’m being watched again. Not forced. Just seen. A man. A woman. It doesn’t matter. The thought alone makes me wetter. I’m not seventeen anymore. I don’t need permission.
A sound. The next cubicle. A woman, soft moans, fingers. I know that breath. I know that need.
I open the stall.
She’s mid-touch, dress hiked, one leg braced on the seat. Her eyes meet mine—wide, curious, aroused. I don’t ask. I don’t need to.
I step in, unzip, and expose myself. No ceremony. Just desire.
I grab her hair. Not rough. Commanding.
I pull her forward, close to my pussy. Let her smell what I’m offering. She hesitates. Then looks up—dirty, eager—and dives in.
“Hard and quick,” I whisper. “Make it sharp.”
She does.
I brace on the stall wall, thighs tight, her tongue merciless. I ride it until the peak begins, then shove her off before it crests. Her breath is hot on my thigh.
I grab her chin, kiss her full and deep. Taste myself in her mouth. Take it back with me.
Outside, the lights haven’t changed. But everything has.
I stalk back to Guy. He sees me. Mouth parts slightly. Eyes trace the new line of my body.
“Jesus,” he says, but it’s low. Hungry.
“You still with me?” I ask.
He smiles—warm, hazy. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
I press into him. My chest against his. My thigh between his legs. I grind slow, steady.
His hands settle at my hips.
“You like what you see?”
“Yeah,” he says. “But I like the way you’re looking at me more.”
I kiss him. Not soft. Not deep. Just enough to promise.
“Come on.”
I lead him up. Second floor.
Here, the masks come off. Curtains pulled back. Bodies bent and twisted in shadow and moan. A woman straddling a man while another fingers her from behind. A man tied face-down to a padded bench, begging in whispers.
I don’t pause.
We reach the door.
“Private,” I tell him. “No one sees. Just us.”
He steps in first. I close it behind us. Lock clicks.
Blackness.
I find him by feel. Grip his wrists. Push him down into the sofa. Stand over him, astride.
My pussy’s soaked. I let him smell it. Close. Heavy.
I take his hands, place them behind his head.
“Keep them there.”
I push his head back against them, lean in, and lick his neck hard. All the way up. He twitches beneath me.
I unbutton his shirt, one button at a time.
Then I lean forward again, tongue dragging up his chest, over his sternum, his throat, his chin.
Then I drop.
Full weight. Pussy on his face.
He gasps into me.
I rock slow. Deliberate. Smearing wetness down his throat, his chest. Then pull back into a squat, cunt hovering just above the bulge straining his jeans.
He moans. Hands still where I left them.
Good.
I want to fuck him. I want to break him open.
But what I want more… is to be seen.
Not just looked at.
Under all of it—the control, the dominance, the show—I want someone to want to know me. Not my performance. Not my war paint. Me.
I want someone to ask, like he did once: Tell me what you want.
And I’ll say it again.
I want you to abuse me.
Not with violence. Not with anger.
With care so feral it leaves no doubt. With pressure I don’t have to direct. With a need to touch what I never let anyone see.
Because in that room, in that moment, with my scent still on his lips and my body burning above him—I’m not pretending anymore.
I’m asking.
After the club, Anna and Guy have smoother sexual encounter that is split into two parts.
Anna’s Perspective: The Safehouse Gambit, Part One
The safehouse hunkers on Monterrey’s edge, a concrete shell with steel shutters that lock out the world. The air’s sharp, tinged with dust and metal, lit by a single amber lamp on a steel table, its glow carving shadows. A cot sits in the corner, black sheet taut, a stage I’ve chosen with care. I’ve set this up with Guy, our bond from TUNNEL RUN—my hands stitching his wound, my voice pulling him through—fueling my move. My blood hums, not with fear but with the spark of control, the thrill of bending him to me. I want him—his lean frame, sharp gaze, quiet edge—not for keeps, but for tonight, to feel him yield, a need stirring in the soft places I don’t show.
I’m dressed to pull him in, a mix of steel and skin: a black lace bra, nipples teasing through thin fabric, paired with a sheer skirt, slit to flash a crotchless thong, my pierced navel catching the light. Suede boots climb my thighs, giving me height, but the choker—its steel ring glinting—betrays a hint of something else, a vulnerability I’m not ready to name. My hair’s loose, dusted with shimmer, and my handbag on the table holds lube, a quiet signal of what I might let happen. A bottle of mezcal waits, two glasses beside it, a tool to ease him, to blur the line between operative and mine.
Guy steps in at 2200, jacket open, gray shirt tracing his lean muscle, his stride carrying a faint hitch from the tunnel’s scar. “Late call,” he says, voice dry, eyes sweeping the room, always scanning. I smile, pouring mezcal, my fingers brushing his as I hand him the glass. “No mission. Just you and me,” I say, voice low, testing. His eyes tighten, but he takes the drink, sipping, gaze lingering on my bra, the skirt, the choker. There’s a flicker—want, caution, a question—and my stomach flips, desire curling, his attention a hook I didn’t expect to catch so deep.
We sip, the mezcal biting my throat, loosening the air. I shift closer, knee grazing his, spinning a half-true story about a border run, just enough danger to draw him in. His laugh’s sharp, rare, and I grab it, standing to “check the lock,” skirt swaying, thong peeking as I move. His gaze follows, heavy, restrained, and when I turn, it’s locked on me, his breath uneven. “You’re trouble,” he says, half-smiling, but his voice is rough, betraying need. I step back, straddling his chair, thighs framing his, skirt riding up, thong baring my wetness. “Trouble’s worth it,” I murmur, fingers trailing his jaw, his stubble scraping my skin. My chest tightens, not love but power, the rush of his want feeding something I keep caged.
I kiss him, slow, deliberate, tongue teasing, tasting mezcal and his hesitance. His hands settle on my hips, cautious, then firm, pulling me closer. I shift, feeling him harden through his jeans, my thong damp, clit catching with each nudge. Old shadows stir—lessons of control, exposure—but I push them down, locking on his heat, his breath. I pull back, standing, and tug him to the cot, nudging him down. “Stay,” I say, voice sharp, and he does, eyes dark, waiting. I slip off the skirt, letting it fall, bra straining, thong framing my pussy, already wet. I straddle him, boots braced, choker glinting, and rock against him, lace grazing his jeans, desire a tight coil.
“Fuck, Anna,” he mutters, hands gripping my thighs, and I lean in, hesitating a beat before biting his lip, the sting softer than I meant. “Want this?” I ask, voice low, nails scraping his chest through his shirt. He nods, “Yeah,” voice hoarse, and I tear his shirt open, buttons skittering, my lips brushing his scar—my mark—tasting sweat and survival. My fingers unzip his jeans, freeing his cock, thick, ready, and I stroke him, slow, watching his jaw tighten. My body’s alive, skin buzzing, his need a spark I chase. I ease my thong aside, guiding him inside, sinking down, the stretch sharp, filling me. I ride him, steady, then harder, boots digging into the cot, choker shifting with each thrust.
I move faster, hips driving, his low groans pushing me on. My mind’s sharp, caught in the now, the thrill of his surrender. I lean back, hands on his thighs, letting him see—bra tight, nipples hard, pussy slick around him. His hands find my ass, smacking once, the burn quick, and I laugh, sharp, wanting more. “Again,” I say, and he does, harder, thrusting up, matching me, his cock deep, sparking heat. I grab the lube from my handbag, slicking my fingers, teasing my clit, the glide sharpening every move. My breath hitches, a low sound, not a scream, as I come, body clenching, drawing him with me. He groans, release hot, and I slump onto him, skin damp, the cot creaking under us.
The safehouse is quiet, lamp soft, our breaths uneven. I’m half across his chest, leg over his hip, pussy wet, his come seeping against his skin, thong clinging. His fingers rest on my clit, light, not pressing, just enough to keep me shifting, desire still flickering. His other arm wraps me close, lips grazing my forehead, my cheek, settling on my mouth—kisses gentle, careful, cutting deeper than I expected. His care, after my sharp edges, isn’t cold or grabbing, not like the men who turn away or push back. It’s steady, a warmth that says he’s here, and it stirs something soft, a crack I didn’t see coming. His cock, still firm, brushes my thigh, ready but not demanding, and it’s different, a shift that makes me wonder what else he’s holding back.
Second part of the same encounter:
Anna’s Perspective: The Safehouse Gambit, Part Two
The safehouse is a concrete cocoon, the amber lamp a soft glow against the dark, swallowing sound. I’m draped over Guy’s chest, leg hooked over his hip, my pussy wet, his come seeping against his skin, a warm ache between my thighs. My thong clings, damp, the scarf slipping from my shoulders, choker snug against my throat. His fingers graze my clit, light, not probing, just enough to keep me shifting, desire flickering without shape. His other arm pulls me close, lips brushing my temple, my jaw, settling on my mouth—kisses so tender they bite, peeling back the edges of my guard. His care, after my sharp-edged seduction, isn’t cold or grasping, not like the men who turn distant or cruel once they’re done. It’s steady, a quiet strength, and it stirs something fragile, a softness I keep locked away.
His cock presses against my thigh, firm, ready, but he’s not pushing, not claiming. It’s different, a relief from the men who shut down or lunge for control post-fuck. My hips nudge closer, clit catching his fingers, and I sense it—a thread of trust, thin but real, whispering I could let go. His kisses linger, deep, slow, the kind I hunger for but rarely voice, pulling me under until I’m breathless. My fingers slip to my pussy, circling, and I guide his hand, pressing harder, showing him what I need. Our touches blend, my breath hitching, his care stripping me bare, the Program’s polish fading. I’m trembling, not scared but teetering, the edge of showing him who I am beneath the act.
He eases back, eyes searching, dark with want but soft, too. “What do you want, Anna?” he asks, voice low, hungry for my truth. My throat tightens, words tangling. “I…” I falter, swallowing, then try again, voice barely there, “I want you to… hurt me. Abuse me.” It spills out, awkward, heavy, and I flinch, like I’ve dropped something sharp. His eyes widen, a beat of surprise, and I brace for him to pull away, but he draws me closer, my lips near his ear, his hands gliding over my back, slow, soothing, like he’s holding me together. “Close your eyes,” he murmurs, “tell me what that looks like.” His voice is warm, coaxing, and it feeds me—his focus, his need to know, a spark that lights up the part of me craving to be seen, even as I’m terrified to show it.
I shut my eyes, his hands steadying me. “Rough,” I say, voice cracking, “spank me, choke me, fuck me hard… like I don’t matter. But—” I hesitate, breath catching, “keep me safe. And… maybe…” I stumble, cheeks burning, “use me… everywhere.” The last bit’s a whisper, a new edge I’ve never voiced, my body tensing at the thought of him taking me there, the fear and want knotted together. Old shadows flicker, unnamed, but I push them down, focusing on his touch. He strokes himself, slow, and I peek, his arousal stoking mine. He guides my hand to his cock, showing me his pace—firm, controlled—and it’s a jolt, his desire a mirror. “More,” he says, voice rough, and shifts me, settling me over his mouth, thighs wide, his tongue teasing my clit, his cock in view as he strokes.
His tongue works, deliberate, my breath ragged, but he stops short when I’m close, keeping me teetering. “Keep talking,” he urges, and I try, voice shaky, “Pin me down, fuck me until I can’t think, leave marks… maybe push me further, where I’ve never gone.” I’m exposed, words clumsy, but his attention holds me, a drug. His strokes falter, a flash of uncertainty in his eyes—wanting to give me this but scared of losing himself in it. It’s real, his flaw, and it pulls me closer, his humanity a tether. He spanks me, sharp, across my ass, then my chest, the sting grounding me, pulling me back. “Knees,” he says, voice firm but strained, like he’s testing his own limits.
I slide to the cot, thong sticking, scarf falling, offering myself. He stands, cock rigid, and pushes me face-down, cheek pressed to the sheet, hips raised. His hand cracks against my ass, the burn spreading, my gasp uneven. “Tell me how it feels,” he demands, needing my voice, my truth. “It… stings, I want more,” I mutter, words tripping, not slick, just me. He’s chasing my noise, and I give it, feeding him as he feeds me. His fingers drive into my pussy, hard, deep, my body tightening, but he pulls out, spanking again, holding my climax at bay. “Not now,” he says, and I’m quivering, desire a heavy current under his grip. He tugs my choker, a light choke, my breath catching, and I sink into it, a release washing over me, old shadows blurring into this, my choice, my surrender.
He turns me onto my back, legs spread, and enters me, thrusts deep, relentless, hitting that spot that makes my breath hitch. “Tell me when you’re there,” he says, voice rough, and I nod, gasping, “Close… now.” He slows, pulling out, guiding himself to my mouth, his taste sharp, mixed with me. My desire’s a tangle, his control consuming, and I’m lost, giving in, the darkness a quiet freedom. His rhythm skips, a moment of doubt, like he’s scared he’s gone too far, and it anchors me, his imperfection a spark. He’s not perfect, and neither am I, and that’s enough.
He fucks me again, building me up, my gasps louder, body straining. “Please,” I whisper, and he lets me come, his thrusts steady, my climax a sudden crest, breath sharp, not a scream. He doesn’t push past it, sensing my limit, but I reach for the lube in my handbag, slicking my fingers, circling my asshole, the edge I hinted at. “You sure?” he asks, voice low, checking, and I nod, hesitant, “Yeah… try it.” He pours lube over me, hands spreading it, firm, then gentle, stroking my skin. His fingers tease my ass, slow, the stretch sharp, stinging, but his weight shifts, pressing against my pussy, sparking heat through the ache. “Tell me,” he says, and I choke out, “It hurts… but keep going.”
He enters my ass, careful, the burn intense, my breath hitching, but I don’t stop him, trusting his care. His body grinds, pressure building, and a new sensation flares, deep, not just my pussy but something else, a wave that crashes, my body tensing, a low moan escaping. He comes, fierce, holding me tight, and I’m clinging, lost in the rush. I slide down, lips on his cock, tasting him, us, a sudden, unthinking act of surrender, the safehouse gone, just this—complete, unguarded. I collapse, shaking, his arms pulling me in, my body sore—ass tender, pussy spent—but open, alive.
The safehouse settles, lamp dim, Guy’s breath steady against my shoulder. I’m raw, the surrender a quiet unburdening, like I’ve let something slip I didn’t mean to. His skill, his flaws, they caught me off guard, and I misread him, thinking I had him figured out, my mistake a sting I feel but don’t name. I want to speak, to say something true—about the trust, the fear—but my throat locks, and I pull back, hiding behind a shaky laugh. “You’re… fuck, you’re good,” I say, voice uneven, dodging. His eyes find mine, warm, but there’s a shadow—worry, maybe, that he pushed too hard. “You okay, Anna?” he asks, hand grazing my cheek, his need for more, for us, pressing against my chest. I nod, lips curling, and kiss him, light, keeping it skin-deep. “Better than okay,” I say, reaching for the mezcal, pouring a shot. His fingers brush mine, lingering, hope in his gaze, and I smile, but it’s a lie—his warmth’s a door I won’t open, and as our hands touch, I know I’ve already shut it.