The dust in Laredo always had a certain taste, part sun-baked earth, part memory. Javier adjusted his grip on the reins, the leather warm against his palms, as he glanced over at you. It had been years since he’d traded these wide open horizons for the claustrophobic heat of Bogotá and the grayscale halls of Washington, but standing here on the ranch, the suit jackets and cigarette smoke filled wiretap rooms felt a lifetime away.

"You ready to lose some of that pride, Javi?" you teased, your horse shifting impatiently beneath you.

Javier tipped his hat, a familiar, crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Just don't go crying to your daddy when you're eating my dust," he shot back, his voice gravelly and relaxed in a way it never was on the job.

With a sharp whistle and a kick, you were off. The thunder of hooves drowned out the world. Javier leaned low over the horse's neck, the wind whipping past his ears, pushing the animal to find that extra gear. For a moment, he felt like the old Javier, the one who didn't carry the weight of a hundred dead informants and the ghost of Escobar on his shoulders. But as the fence line approached, the landmark you'd used for races since you were kids, a flash of color surged ahead of him. With a triumphant shout, you cleared the mark a full length ahead of him, pulling into a slow, circling trot while he brought his mount to a huffing halt.

"You're slow, Peña!" you laughed, breathless and glowing under the Texas sun. "What happened? They don't have horses in Colombia? Or did you spend too much time sitting in those fancy government chairs?"

Javier climbed down, his boots hitting the dirt with a heavy thud. He let out a long, theatrical sigh, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

"The terrain is different down south," he grumbled, though his eyes were dancing.

"Excuses," you said, sliding off your horse and walking toward him. "Face it. You’re rusty. Your form was stiff, your timing was off... I’ve seen tractors with more grace than you today."

"Rusty?" Javier feigned deep offense, clutching his chest. "I'll have you know I navigated the Andes on a mule that hated my guts. I’m a seasoned rider."

"A mule? Well, that explains it," you joked, stepping into his space to nudge his shoulder. "You’ve forgotten how to handle a real engine. Your riding skills are duller than a rusted spur, Javi."

He let out a genuine, raspy laugh, the kind that reached his eyes and stayed there.

"Alright, alright. Maybe I’ve spent a little too much time chasing leads and not enough time chasing you across the brush. Give me a break. I'm an old man now."

"You said it, not me," you winked, handing him your reins. "Since you’re so 'retired' and slow, you can walk them back to the stable while I go fix us a drink."

Javier watched you walk away, a slow shake of his head following you.

"Dull skills..." he muttered to himself, a quiet, contented smile fixed on his face. "I'll show you dull on the next lap."