Becoming the cartel leader’s trophy

I stayed close to Carla as we approached the cluster of soldiers gathered near the highway.

They formed a tight circle, rifles lowered but ready, bodies angled inward toward the center. The air felt thick again—no longer chaotic, but tense. Controlled.

In the middle of them, restrained and forced to her knees, was a woman.

Blonde hair matted with sweat and dust. Blue eyes sharp despite the situation. She stood out immediately—her features didn't blend with the town, didn't match the landscape. Foreign.

She lifted her head when she heard us approach.

"Hija de puto..." (daughter of a whore) Carla spat, voice rough.

Her vest bore bold letters containing CJNG across the front and a skull insignia beneath them. The fabric was torn, darkened with dirt and blood. A thin line of red trailed from her temple down along her cheek, drying against skin that looked pale beneath the grime.

She looked dazed—but not broken.

Her gaze locked onto Carla with something close to hatred... and something else beneath it. Recognition.

The soldiers stepped aside just enough to give Carla space.

I felt my pulse quicken again.

The gunfire had stopped.

But this felt like the real confrontation.

Carla stepped forward, her presence alone enough to make the soldiers subtly straighten.

"Creí haberle dicho a tu pequeño grupo que se fuera a la mierda," (I thought I told your little group to fuck off) she hissed, her voice low and venomous.

She didn't raise it. She didn't need to.

I stayed silent beside her, barely breathing. The air felt charged, like something invisible was tightening around all of us.

The captured woman lifted her chin despite the blood on her face.

"Deberías estar muerta," (you should be dead) she spat back.

The words barely left her mouth before one of Carla's soldiers struck her with the butt of his rifle. A dull crack echoed, and her head snapped to the side. Her left eye squeezed shut from the impact, but she didn't cry out.

She just glared.

Carla didn't flinch.

She stepped even closer, crouching slightly so they were nearly eye level.

"Esto significa guerra ahora," (this means war now) she said.

There was no shouting. No theatrics.

Just certainty.

The way she said it made something crawl under my skin. A cold understanding. Even I knew what that meant. Not a skirmish. Not retaliation.

Escalation.

Around us, the soldiers shifted subtly, the weight of that declaration settling over them like armor being locked into place.

This wasn't over. It was beginning.

The soldier's voice cracked with raw fury as she leaned forward, spit flecking her cracked lips. 

"Los de Cartel Jalisco Nueva Generación no son pendejos," (those of the Cartel Jalisco new generation aren't stupid) she snarled, eyes wild and bloodshot beneath the harsh glare of the sun. 

"No vas a lograr ganar esta guerra... You think you can just carve up Nayarit like it's yours? You're dead already, puta. All of you."

The words hung thick on the bloody damp road— Carla stood motionless in front of her, arms crossed over her tactical vest, the sun glow catching the sharp line of her jaw. 

For a long second she said nothing, just watched her with that unnerving calm she wore like armor.

Then she bit her lower lip—slow, deliberate, the way she did when she was deciding how much pain someone deserved.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached down to her hip, drew the studded 1911 from its holster with practiced smoothness, and thumbed off the safety. The metallic click echoed louder than it should have.

"Look away, Miguel."

Her voice was quiet, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of an order that expected instant obedience.

One of her women—broad-shouldered, face scarred and impassive—stepped forward immediately. She gripped my upper arm with firm, careful pressure, not bruising but unyielding, and steered me toward one of the few trucks that remained without bullet holes. 

I didn't resist; my legs moved on autopilot, shoes scraping against the gritty road. Behind me, I heard Carla's low murmur—too soft to make out the words—followed by the soldier's defiant curse.

Then the shots came.

Three sharp, deliberate cracks—each one slamming into my eardrums like a hammer. 

I flinched hard at the first, shoulders jerking; flinched again at the second; by the third my whole body had gone rigid, breath locked in my chest. The sound bounced off the empty highway, sharp and final, then faded into ringing silence.

A heavy thud followed—the wet slap of a body slumping toward the floor.

It was over. For now.

The soldier guiding me paused just outside the truck, releasing my arm but staying close. I stood there staring at the armored door of the truck, pulse hammering in my throat, the metallic tang of gunsmoke already drifting towards me.

Behind me, I heard Carla's boots approach—slow, measured steps. She appeared at my side a moment later, holstering the pistol with the same fluid motion she'd drawn it. 

Her face was composed, almost serene, but there was a faint tightness around her eyes, the only sign the execution had cost her anything at all.

She didn't look at me right away. Instead she reached out, fingers brushing my wrist—light, grounding—before sliding her hand into mine and squeezing once.

"Let's go," she said quietly.

No apology. No explanation. Just the quiet certainty that this was the world she lived in, the one she'd brought me into, piece by bloody piece.

I nodded, throat too tight to speak, and let her lead me back to the helicopter. The echo of those three shots followed us the whole way, fading slower than I wanted them to.

——

The helicopter's side doors were sealed shut now, the heavy latches engaged with a satisfying metallic thunk at my quiet, almost pleading request. 

Carla had nodded without hesitation, no teasing, no questions—just a quick word to the pilot and the crew. 

The roar of the rotors was still deafening, but the wind no longer tore through the cabin, and the sudden absence of that icy rush made the enclosed space feel almost intimate, like a steel cocoon hurtling through the sky.

I waited until the initial shock of the execution had dulled to a low, buzzing hum in my veins before I spoke. 

My voice came out softer than I intended, barely carrying over the engine noise.

"So uh... who was she?"

I turned my head to look straight at Carla. She sat angled toward the window, profile sharp against the late-afternoon light pouring through the Plexiglas. 

Her jaw was set, eyes fixed on the distant sprawl of Culiacán emerging from afar—patchwork neighborhoods bleeding into green fields, the city glittering like broken glass under the sun.

"Head of CJNG's special forces," she answered simply, voice flat, matter-of-fact. No embellishment. No anger. Just a statement, delivered with the same calm she might use to tell me the time.

She didn't turn to face me. Her gaze stayed locked on the horizon, watching the city draw closer like a predator sizing up prey.

"We're going to war..." she said after a long beat, the words low enough that I almost missed them beneath the thump-thump-thump of the blades.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs—once, twice—then settled into a rapid, unsteady rhythm. I swallowed, tasting the faint copper tang of adrenaline still lingering on my tongue from the bunker. 

I nodded anyway, small and automatic, because what else was there to do?

"I'm confident we're gonna win this," she went on, finally shifting to look at me. Her dark eyes searched my face for a second—checking for cracks, maybe, or fear she could smother before it took root. 

"You won't have to worry, Miguel."

She reached across the narrow gap between our seats and took my hand in hers. Her palm was warm, callused in all the right places from years of handling steel and triggers, yet the way she held me was careful, almost tender. 

She threaded our fingers together, thumb brushing slow arcs over my knuckles like she could smooth the racing pulse I knew she could feel.

Then she leaned in, closing the distance until her breath ghosted across my lips. 

The kiss was soft at first—soft enough to surprise me—her mouth pressing to mine with deliberate gentleness, tasting faintly of mint and gunpowder residue. 

She lingered there, letting the contact ground us both, before deepening it just enough to remind me I was still here, still hers. When she pulled back, her forehead rested briefly against mine, eyes half-lidded.

"I've got you," she murmured, so quiet I felt the words more than heard them. "Always."

Outside the window, Culiacán grew larger, streets and rooftops sharpening into focus. Somewhere down there, lines were being drawn in blood, women arming themselves for the fight she'd just promised to win.

But right now, in this humming metal shell thirty-five hundred feet above it all, her hand stayed locked around mine, steady as stone.

And for the length of that kiss, the war felt a little farther away.

—

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