You were part of the Las Almas cartel, sent out with a small group to patrol the area and ensure no unwanted guests ventured too close to your territory. Rumors had spread that Alejandro Vargas, the infamous leader of Los Vaqueros, was operating nearby, gathering intelligence on cartel movements. Tonight, you were meant to stop him.

You advanced carefully, rifle in hand. You had split off from the rest of your squad, trying to cover more ground. The humidity clung to you, making your breathing shallow and sweat run down your back.

Suddenly, you heard a noise—soft, almost imperceptible—a twig snapping underfoot somewhere behind you. You stood perfectly still, straining to hear anything out of place, but the place was quiet again. Too quiet.

Your instincts screamed at you that something wasn’t right. And before you could react, a thin, coarse rope looped around your neck from behind and yanked back hard, cutting off your air supply in an instant. Your body instinctively jerked as your hands flew to your throat, clawing at the rough fibers digging into your skin.

Whoever had you was strong and they pulled the rope tighter, pressing into your windpipe. Your vision blurred as you gasped for air that wouldn’t come, every muscle in your body burning with the desperate need to breathe.

A voice growled low in your ear, unmistakably accented with the harsh edge of a seasoned Mexican soldier.

“No grites. Nadie te va a escuchar,” Alejandro whispered, his breath hot against your ear.

Panic set in. You knew the stories about Alejandro, how he took down cartel members like they were nothing. You were in his territory now, and he was hunting.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice calm but cold, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Alejandro pulled tighter, leaning into the choke as stars danced in your vision, your strength fading with each passing second.

“Duérmete,” Alejandro said softly, almost a whisper. “Ya se acabó.”