Page 142 of Jagger's Remorse
Inside, Tina sprawls across the bed.
Two bullets to the head, execution-style. Professional. But the third shot went through her hand—defensive wound. She saw it coming.
But she left something. A laptop, still open. Still logged into an FBI database.
"Holy fuck," Hammer breathes, looking at the screen. "She downloaded everything."
Case files. Surveillance logs. Financial tracking. And yes, an entire folder dedicated to Digger.
"Why me?" Digger asks, scrolling through photos of himself. At the compound. At bars. Coming out of his house. Some are date-stamped going back months. "What the fuck is this?"
I study the images closer. "Look at these angles. These aren't standard surveillance photos. Too artistic. Too..." I search for the word. "Personal."
"She's hunting," Hammer says. "But this isn't just professional. Look at the timestamps. She's following you on her own time."
"Obsessed," I agree. "And obsession makes people vulnerable."
"This is perfect," I realize. "She's already compromised. Already breaking protocol. We can use this."
"How?"
"Leave that to me. First, we need to clean this scene and get out. Then we plan."
We work efficiently. Body wrapped and removed. Room cleaned with bleach and fire. Laptop secured. Within an hour, it's like Tina never existed.
Back at the compound, I study the FBI files while Jagger paces.
"This is bigger than we thought," I tell him. "They're not just after Iron Veins. They're mapping the entire network. Our connections to Sinaloa, our routes, everything."
"Can we stop it?"
"Not stop. But redirect, maybe." I pull up Yuki Nakajima's file. "Berkeley law. Civil rights background. Turned federal prosecutor after her mentor was killed by cartel violence."
"She's on a crusade."
"Better. She's on a vendetta." I show him her personal notes about Digger. Pages and pages. "And vendettas make people stupid."
The next forty-eight hours are brutal.
Using the FBI intel Tina downloaded, I identify every informant, every weak link, every potential threat to Iron Veins.
Some we buy off—a prospect here, a hang-around there. Amazing what people will do for the right price.
Some we scare off—midnight visits, gentle reminders about family safety.
Some disappear entirely—fed to the desert or the ocean, depending on convenience.
But the real show is for Eduardo.
I orchestrate simultaneous hits on what remains of Three Devils and Sombra operations.
Seven locations across Northern California, all within a two-hour window.
The Three Devils' new clubhouse burns with them inside.
Their meth lab explodes, taking out half a city block.
Their gun warehouse becomes a war zone when Sombra soldiers arrive to find Iron Veins already there.
