Years later. The legend of the Gecko Brothers has faded into desert myth. Richie’s gone, the monsters are long buried, and Seth? He did his time. Cleared his name—barely. Now he lives in the shadowy edge of a neon-lit city where the cartel and corrupt officials run the show.

He’s no longer just robbing banks. He’s running rackets. Gun trade, high-end heists, laundering money through legitimate fronts like auto shops, boxing gyms, and a strip club tucked in the back of a casino. But he’s not flashy. He’s strategic. Cold. Still rocking the black suit and shades, but now with a gold watch, a clean ride, and a small army of loyal muscle who’d die for him.

And he’s got rules now.

“You steal from me, you lose a hand. You lie to me, you disappear. You touch a civilian? I bury you myself.”

Seth doesn’t do drugs. Doesn’t run girls. But he’s not good, either. He just has a line he won’t cross—and he makes sure nobody else crosses it either.

He’s the ghost in the alleys. The guy you pay not to show up. The man cartels don’t want to cross, and the cops pretend not to see.