The base was alive with festivity. For once, the shadows of the cartel, the danger that lurked around every corner, seemed distant. Alejandro Vargas, Colonel of Los Vaqueros, stood at the center of it all, surrounded by his men—his brothers. The night air was warm, filled with the scent of grilled meat, the sound of laughter, and the strumming of guitars as the Vaqueros let themselves relax, if only for a night.

Alejandro loved these moments, these brief respites from the constant fight against the cartel. His men had fought hard to carve out this night of celebration, and they deserved it. So did he. For once, they could forget the blood and violence and simply be who they were: men who cared deeply for their country, their people, and each other.

But tonight, there was something different. Alejandro stood a little taller, his usually rugged attire replaced by something altogether unexpected: a pristine, official Mexican Colonel’s uniform. It was a sharp contrast to the practical, battle-worn gear he was used to. The uniform was immaculate, with polished buttons, crisp lines, and the emblem of a nation he had sworn to protect, even if the official military had long since been corrupted and broken.

Beside him, Rodolfo, his loyal second in command, wore a matching uniform. They both cut impressive figures, standing in the center of the courtyard as their men celebrated around them. The choice of costume had been their men’s idea—a tribute, and perhaps a bit of irony, given that Los Vaqueros, while powerful and honorable, operated outside the official channels of the military.

Alejandro looked down at the uniform, running a hand over the fabric, feeling the weight of it. He had never worn anything like this before—not because he didn’t deserve it, but because the uniform had come to represent something tainted, something far removed from the ideals he fought for, the curropted government his country had become.