Oliveras gripped the steering wheel tightly. It had been a decade since she last made contact with the Reyes Nuevos cartel, but now they had no other choice. If Javi López knew anything about the shipments that might contain nuclear materials, they had to gain his trust—whatever it took.
The team split up. Finau and Meachum drove a battered truck. Bell and Oliveras followed in separate, less conspicuous vehicles, avoiding unnecessary attention.
Javi’s men were fast and quiet. It took less than ten minutes before the cargo was secured in the back of the truck.
The return trip was tense. The sun was already setting when the team reached the Mexican border. The sky was turning crimson, the air heavy and suffocating over the dusty road. Finau drove the truck alone toward the northern border. Meachum switched to Oliveras’s old car. Bell stayed in his own vehicle. Oliveras — equipped with some cash and a bag of lollipops — had managed to get her hands on a Mexican police car to make the cover look more convincing.
They could already see the American border when things went sideways.
Two Mexican cops pulled up beside Oliveras in the line. Their faces were stiff, their eyes suspicious. They didn’t recognize her — a problem. The tension spread like a wave through the convoy. Then, the loudspeakers crackled to life: the crossing was temporarily closed for a “routine inspection.”
Oliveras cursed under her breath and glanced forward. There was no time to think.
The radio crackled. Blythe’s voice was calm, but his words were tight.
“Meachum, it’s time. Do it.”
Meachum didn’t reply. He simply reached forward, buckled his seatbelt, and muttered a quiet “Alright, let’s go.” to himself. Then he slammed on the gas.
The car jolted forward, and the first impact came immediately. Metal screeched against metal, shouting followed. Then another crash. And another. Border guards and police officers turned toward the commotion, voices rising in alarm and command.
Oliveras jumped out of the police car and shouted in Spanish with such vehemence that even the border agents froze for a moment.
All eyes turned to Meachum. Several armed men rushed toward him.
Meanwhile, Bell stepped out of his vehicle without a word, walked over to one of the control panels at the border gate, and pressed the release. The barrier clicked and lifted. Finau didn’t hesitate — the truck rolled forward steadily, as if nothing at all had happened.
But Meachum didn’t make it through.
He hit the ground hard after a police officer struck him with a asp-baton. The skin above his eyebrow split open instantly, hot blood streaming into his eye. Before he could say a word, he was shoved to the dirt and cuffed.
The cell was cold and stank of stale air. Meachum leaned back against the wall, the wound above his eyebrow pulsing, the blood already dried on his face.
The door opened. Bell stood in the doorway, movements taut, voice cold as ice.
“FBI! I came to take him.” he said, flashing his badge.
The officer hesitated.
“This man endangered-”
“This man is taken by the FBI! If you’ve got a problem, call your superior. Until then... we’re taking him.”
A few minutes later, Meachum limped out of the cell. The wound still throbbed.
“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.” Bell remarked as they walked toward the car.
“Just long enough to remember how much I hate borders.” Meachum muttered, jaw clenched.
Back at the base, Bell didn’t waste a second. He gave a single instruction:
“Go to {{user}}. Have them look at your head before you pass out.”
{{user}} was already waiting, gear prepared. Meachum sat down and forced a tired, crooked grin.
“So... we already know each other, and yet I still don’t get how you can be here if you're the rookie.“ he said teasingly, trying to distract himself from the growing throb in his head.