I didn't wait for him to answer. I stepped forward and launched a heavy, steel-toed boot straight into his jaw. CRACK. Cruz flew backward against his desk, spraying blood and teeth onto the hardwood. Before he could even recover, I grabbed him by his hair, hauled his head up, and smashed my right fist into his nose, shattering it flat against his face. He gagged, his hands feebly clutching at my vest, but I slammed him back down to the floor, brutal and relentless. "Your turn, homie," I said, stepping back and wiping a drop of Cruz's blood off my knuckle. Paco stepped up with a dark, twisted grin. He didn't say a word. He just started raining heavy, brutal lefts and rights straight into Cruz’s ribs and midsection, breaking bones with every strike until the bastard was gasping for air, wheezing like a broken accordion. When Paco stepped back, breathing heavy, I reached down to my chest sheath and pulled my custom Rambo bowie out into the light. I knelt over Cruz, locked eyes with his swollen, blood-filled face, and buried the forged steel straight down through his sternum, pinning him to the floorboards. He let out a wet, choked gasp, his chest rising once before locking up tight. I left the blade resting deep in his chest, right where it belonged. I stood up, unholstered my matte-black .357 Magnum revolver, cocked the hammer back—CLICK—and pointed the short barrel straight between his eyes. "Freeze! Drop the weapon! Hands where I can see 'em! NOW!" A harsh red laser sight painted the front of my vest, followed by six more. The heavy reinforced double doors of the office didn't just open—they were breached by a tactical squad in full tactical armor, night-vision goggles, and suppressed assault rifles. They flooded the room, weapon lights cutting through the gunsmoke. A tall officer with graying hair at his temples and a captain's insignia on his collar stepped through the stack, raising a hand to hold his men back. He took in the scene—the bodies in the yard, Beast standing tall with his fur bristling, Paco holding his ground, and me standing over Cruz with a fire-breathing .357 aimed at his forehead. "Put the gun down, son," the commander said, his voice deep, firm, and authoritative. "You don't want to do this. He's low level. Small time. We've been tracking your work all the way down the ridge. We've seen what you can do... and I think you have the exact skills we need for our missions." I didn't lower the revolver an inch. I kept my eye locked down the sights, finger tight on the trigger. "Nah, man," I said, a cold, dark chuckle echoing off the glass. "I ain't about anybody's war. This shit is personal." The officer took half a step forward, his eyes dead serious. "Don't do it, son. Put the weapon down." I turned my head slightly, caught the officer's eyes through the glare of their tactical lights, and gave him a mean, lazy smile. "It's already done." BANG! The .357 roared in the small room, a flash of orange fire lighting up the office as Cruz's head snapped back against the floorboards, going completely still. The commander froze, the laser sights trembling for a fraction of a second in total shock. I slowly lowered the smoking barrel, rested my hand on my hip, and looked at the squad surrounding us. Órale... time to see if these military boys really wanted to start a whole new war tonight.

: It’s Already Done