She didn’t answer. But as the sun rose over the burning border, she walked alongside them toward the extraction chopper—not as a contractor, not as a friend.
But at the armory door, Salem grabbed her arm. “You’re not just here for the guns. What’s your real play?” army of two the devil 39-s cartel xenia
Behind it, strapped to a chair, was El Diablo himself. She didn’t answer
Xenia didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She disassembled her rifle, cleaned it in silence, and began planning. The mission with Salem and Rios was supposed to be a one-off: destroy El Diablo’s main weapons depot south of the border. Xenia guided them through sewer tunnels she’d mapped herself, past patrol routes she’d memorized, and into the heart of the compound. “You’re not just here for the guns
Salem smirked. “You know, T.W.O. could use someone like you.”
But three months ago, El Diablo made an example of her younger brother, Mateo. He was seventeen. He’d tried to leave the cartel. They hung him from a bridge outside Ciudad Acuña with a note pinned to his chest: “La Familia nunca se va.” (The Family never leaves.)
Xenia knelt in front of El Diablo. For a long moment, she just looked at him. Then she unholstered her pistol, pressed it under his chin, and whispered: