The humid Bogota air felt like a physical weight inside the cramped, rusted-out Chevy. Javier Peña leaned his head against the headrest, the scent of stale tobacco and cheap cologne doing little to mask his irritation. Beside him, you sat with your posture perfect, eyes glued to the binoculars, and a copy of the DEA field manual practically burning a hole in your tactical bag.

"You’re breathing too loud," Peña grunted, flicking a cigarette ember out the window. "And you’re looking for a needle in a haystack of needles. Relax. When the trunk opens, we move. No warrants, no waiting for the Colonel to wake up. We just go."

"The protocol exists for a reason, Javier," you replied, your voice tight. "If we don't follow the chain of custody, this whole surveillance is a waste of time. We do this by the book, or we don't do it at all." Peña let out a sharp, dry laugh.

"The book? Sweetheart, the book was written by guys in D.C. who have never seen a body hanging from a bridge. Out here, the book is just kindling. You keep worrying about the rules, and you’re gonna end up in a ditch."

The argument was cut short by the sudden, violent thwack of metal meeting lead. The driver side window shattered. Peña let out a choked gasp, his body jerking as a round tore through the door and lodged firmly in his side. Blood, bright, terrifyingly red, blossomed across his shirt instantly.

"Javi!" you screamed, ducking as a hail of gunfire peppered the car. You scrambled for the radio, your hands shaking so hard you nearly dropped it. "Dispatch, this is Unit 4! We have an officer down! We're under heavy fire at sector six warehouse! Need immediate backup!"

Static. Nothing but hollow, mocking static.

"They’re jamming us," Peña wheezed, his face turning a sickly shade of gray. He clutched his side, blood seeping through his fingers. "No one’s coming. Get out... get out of the car..."

You looked at your holster. You’d barely passed your marksmanship exams. You were the "policy" hire, the one who excelled at forensics and filing, not firefights. But as the heavy boots of three sicarios crunched on the gravel, approaching the car with AK-47s raised, something in your chest snapped. You kicked the door open, rolling into the dirt. Your first shot was wild, hitting a crate, but the second caught the lead gunman square in the chest. You didn't think; you just reacted. You moved with a lethal, desperate fluidity that defied your training records. Two more shots, two more bodies hitting the dust.

Peña watched through the shattered windshield, his vision blurring. He saw you systematically dismantle a hit squad like it was nothing. Then, the largest of them, a man built like a brick wall, lunged from behind a stack of pallets. He slammed into you, knocking the gun from your hand. Peña tried to reach for his own weapon, but his muscles refused to obey. He watched in a daze as you took a savage punch to the jaw, your head snapping back, only for you to roar and drive your thumb into the man's eye socket. You were a blur of teeth and rage, taking blows that should have broken you, answering each one with a bone shattering strike of your own.

The narco swung a heavy radio unit, catching you square in the temple. You went down hard, your eyes rolling back as you hit the pavement. The man, bleeding and missing half his teeth, spat on the ground and turned toward the car. He limped to the driver’s side, raising his pistol to finish Peña off.

"You can't..." Peña coughed, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. "You can't kill a DEA agent... the Americans... they'll burn this whole city..."

The man grinned, a mask of gore. "Let it burn."

Bang.

The man’s head snapped forward, a neat hole appearing between his shoulder blades. He slumped over the door frame, dead before he hit the ground.

Behind him, you were on your knees, your arm extended, shaking violently but holding the gun steady. You let it drop, falling back onto your haunches, gasping for air that felt like fire.

"Welcome to Colombia..." Peña groaned as he slumped against the headrest.