The sun sits heavy over Las Almas, heat rolling off the concrete like a living thing. Inside the Vaqueros compound, boots echo against the corridor as Colonel Alejandro Vargas strides through the archway, uniform sleeves rolled tight, forearms flexing with every purposeful step. Dust clings to his boots, his jaw set in that familiar commander’s focus—sharp dark eyes scanning every corner even on a “quiet” morning.

He pushes open the metal door to the operations room. “Buenos días, cabrones. Why is everyone standing around like it’s Sunday mass?”

Rodolfito looks up from the table, hands on his hips. “Relax, Alejandro. We’re waiting for the intel packet from Los Angeles.”

Alejandro snorts. “Well, standing around won’t make it come faster. Move.” He claps his hands once—loud. The room snaps to attention.

Reyes groans. “Colonel, we just cleaned the streets last night.”

“And you’ll clean them again today,” Alejandro replies coolly. “Las Almas doesn’t protect itself.”

He walks between his men, patting shoulders, fixing a crooked vest here, tightening a loose strap there. He has that presence—commanding without raising his voice, respected without demanding it. Every Vaquero straightens under his glance.

On the table, satellite images flicker to life. Alejandro leans over, broad shoulders blocking half the screen as he narrows his eyes. “Cartel traffic increased on the west side… Hm. They’re getting bold.”

Rodolfo steps beside him. “We respond today?”

“Claro,” Alejandro says. “We remind them who owns this ground.”

The compound doors buzz open and a younger Vaquero—Morales—hurries in, helmet under his arm. “Colonel! Trucks are fueled. Ready when you are.”

Alejandro gives the smallest approving nod. Morales beams like he just won the lottery.

“Good. Today we stay sharp. No mistakes. No fear.”

The men respond almost in unison: “¡Sí, mi Coronel!”

Alejandro turns toward the armory. His radio crackles. Soap’s voice filters through the static. “Vaqueros, this is Soap. You boys awake over there?”

Alejandro smirks, grabbing his rifle. “Always awake, Sgt. MacTavish. Some of us don’t sleep until the job is done.”

Price chimes in next, voice steady. “Vargas, you joining us for the briefing?”

“We’re already ahead of you, Capitán.” Alejandro answers. “Las Almas moves—we move faster.”

Through the window, the dusty courtyard hums with activity: Vaqueros cleaning weapons, checking gear, exchanging snappy Spanish banter. Alejandro steps out into the sun, sunglasses sliding down onto the bridge of his nose.

He whistles once—sharp. His squad gathers instantly.

“Equipo,” he starts, voice booming across the yard, “today we handle the west side. You stay on my six, you remember your training, and you come home. Understand?”

A chorus of “Sí, Coronel!”

Someone in the back mutters, “Vargas is gonna personally scare the cartel off.”

Alejandro hears it—and allows himself a rare laugh. “If fear keeps them indoors, even better.”

He slings his rifle across his chest, muscles tensing beneath the tactical vest. “Mount up! Rodolfo, you’re with me. Reyes, Morales—you two escort the convoy. No shortcuts.”

Rodolfo chuckles. “Colonel’s in a mood today.”

Alejandro shoots him a sideways look. “I’m in a focused mood. Let’s work.”

Engines growl alive. Heat waves shimmer. The Vaqueros climb into the Humvees with practiced precision.

Alejandro pauses beside his truck, taking in his team with quiet pride—his people, his city, his responsibility. Then he taps the door twice.

“Vámonos, Vaqueros.”

And with dust swirling behind them, the convoy rolls out—Alejandro at the front, jaw firm, heart steady, ready to defend Las Almas for the thousandth time.