Chapter 7 - Ambush at the Grand Horizon
The heavy oak double doors of the executive suite splintered into hundreds of sharp wooden shards as high-caliber bullets shredded through the entryway.
"DOWN!" Andrés shouted, hauling Esteban by his collar and throwing him behind the reinforced concrete corner of the bar area.
Major Vargas and his tactical operative instantly drew their suppressed sidearms, taking defensive positions behind the marble pillars lining the suite. Dust and drywall filled the air, blinding and choking everyone in the room.
Three men wearing tactical helmets, black body armor, and unmarked military-grade submachine guns swept into the suite with practiced, lethal precision. These were not street thugs or amateur hitmen—they were highly trained professional mercenaries.
"Eliminate all targets! Retrieve the drive!" the lead mercenary barked in a sharp, disciplined voice.
Andrés didn't hesitate. Resting his back against the bar, he unholstered his custom tactical pistol, leaned out, and fired two precise shots. The lead mercenary collapsed instantly, hit squarely through the neck gap in his armor.
"Suppression fire!" Vargas yelled, firing a rapid burst that forced the second gunman to dive behind a heavy leather sofa.
The third mercenary raised his submachine gun, spraying a hail of bullets directly toward the desk where Andrés’s evidence folder lay scattered. They weren't just here to kill Andrés—they were here to destroy every piece of evidence linking them to the Robles family estate.
Andrés vaulted over the bar, sliding across the polished marble floor under a spray of plaster dust. He grabbed the third mercenary’s weapon barrel, forcing it upward as a stream of bullets chewed into the ceiling. Andrés drove his elbow viciously into the helmeted mercenary's throat, following up with a sweeping kick that sent the armed man crashing hard onto the glass table, shattering it into thousands of pieces.
The second mercenary attempted to flank Andrés from the left, but Major Vargas stepped out from cover and neutralized him with two clean shots to the chest plate, rendering the body armor useless.
In less than forty-five seconds, the heavy firefight was over. The luxury suite was transformed into a smoke-filled warzone, the heavy odor of cordite and burned carpet hanging thick in the air.
Andrés walked over to the unconscious mercenary he had thrown onto the glass table. He ripped off the attacker's tactical mask, revealing a harsh, scarred face. On the man's right shoulder was a distinct, branded tattoo: a striking cobra wrapped around a dagger.
Major Vargas walked over, staring at the tattoo in complete disbelief. "Captain... that's the insignia of the Vanguardia PMC. They're a high-end private military contractor operating out of Mexico City."
"They don't work for small-time fraudsters like Esteban," Andrés said grimly, turning his gaze back to where Esteban was cowering under the bar, his face white as paper, shaking in uncontrollable terror.
"You see?!" Esteban shrieked, clutching his broken wrist to his chest. "I told you! They want the cipher key! The moment we failed to secure the estate documents, they sent a cleanup crew to kill us all!"
Andrés grabbed Esteban by his jacket lapels and dragged him out into the open suite. "Who gives the orders to Vanguardia, Esteban? I won't ask you again!"
"I don't know his real name!" Esteban sobbed, tears streaming down his face. "We only dealt with a middleman calling himself 'El Archivero'—The Archivist! He promised us fifty percent of the general's offshore accounts if Renata found the cipher key in your father's estate!"
"And where is 'El Archivero' right now?" Andrés demanded.
"He's... he's in Mexico City! At the Reforma Financial Tower!" Esteban stammered. "He runs a shell intelligence firm on the top floor!"
Andrés released Esteban, letting him drop back to the floor. He turned to Major Vargas. "Vargas, call in our military transport. Secure Esteban, lock down this hotel floor, and brief the local federal authorities. Tell them this is a national security operation under my direct command."
"What about your wife... Renata?" Vargas asked.
"She's still at the house," Andrés said, his voice dropping into a dark, murderous register. "And it's time she answered for my father's murder."
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Andrés strode out of the ruined suite, his boots crunching over broken glass and spent shell casings. The betrayal ran far deeper than a greedy wife trying to steal an inheritance. This was a dark military conspiracy that reached into the highest corridors of power—and Andrés was going to burn it all to the ground.
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