American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop

Jack opened a can of beer, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. Even though this was a military dormitory, and he had checked for any potential eavesdropping devices, it didn't hurt to be cautious, especially when dealing with the CIA.

Alessandro's story wasn't particularly complicated. As a prosecutor in Colombia, he lived a comfortable life with a successful career, a loving wife, and an obedient daughter. The only regret in his life was that his daughter had lost her hearing due to illness.

This idyllic life turned into a nightmare after Alessandro prosecuted several Mexican drug dealers.

To be fair, Alessandro wasn't known for being a particularly righteous prosecutor. In countries like his, anyone who openly declared war on drug cartels would usually find their entire family wiped out. Alessandro had merely maintained a basic level of integrity, showing some sympathy for the country's suffering underclass. Yet, even this small amount of moral decency made him a target for certain people.

One sunny afternoon, a group of Mexican drug dealers stormed into Alessandro's home. In front of him, they violated his wife and his daughter, who was not yet ten years old. Then they beheaded his wife and threw his daughter into a barrel of sulfuric acid.

From that day forward, Alessandro abandoned his humanity and became an assassin, living only for revenge.

He wandered between various factions—drug cartels, corrupt cops, dirty politicians, the CIA, or anyone who could use him to eliminate their rivals.

Anyone could cooperate with him or hire him, but not for money. The only currency he accepted was opportunities for revenge.

This time, their target was Fausto Alarcón, the third-ranking member of the Sonora Cartel, known as "The Executioner," who happened to be one of Alessandro's revenge targets.

The tragic story made Jane shudder. She understood now why Jack had previously warned her that Alessandro wasn't someone who cared about others' opinions and wouldn't hesitate to eliminate anyone who knew his secrets.

"He sounds like the kind of person you'd find in the Mexican Marines or Brazil's BOPE Special Police," Jane commented.

After reading the files Jack had given her, Jane had spent some time researching the drug trade situation in Latin America, primarily through online searches. The two forces she mentioned were at the forefront of the fight against drugs in their respective countries.

Members of Brazil's BOPE often had personal experiences of being affected by drug traffickers, leading them to dedicate their lives to defending their homeland. They carried a natural air of tragedy.

When fighting drug dealers, they were extremely ruthless, caring little about the risk of stray bullets hitting innocents.

The Mexican Marines were considered the last glimmer of hope in Mexico's war on drugs. In that country, local police had long been corrupted, and while the federal police were slightly better, they weren't much different. The Navy, stationed at sea and largely untouched by the drug cartels, became the only place young men who had lost family to drug traffickers could go for vengeance.

This was why an old military sergeant had emphasized that anyone they encountered after crossing the border could be an enemy.

Jack shook his head. "Alessandro is different. He'll even work with some drug cartels if it means getting revenge on their rivals. Right now, his true identity is that of a hired assassin for the Medellín Cartel."

"What the f?" Jane blurted in disbelief. "How could the CIA work with a drug cartel?"

Jack chuckled dryly. "The Medellín Cartel isn't the untouchable drug empire it once was. Who do you think backs them now? Since Pablo Escobar's death, the cartel has been nothing more than a dog on a leash, and the other end of that leash is held by Langley (CIA headquarters)."

Jane pouted, looking frustrated. "Is it too late to quit now?"

Jack rolled his eyes. She wasn't dumb—she was finally starting to realize the danger. But it was too late.

"Don't worry too much. To the CIA, we at the FBI are nothing more than a tool to clean up after them. The only reason they even bring us along is so we can sign off on the final report, ensuring the operation's legality, just like always."

He paused and then added seriously, "But after this is over, you should request a transfer. Border work isn't for you. There are plenty of other ways to advance your career."

Jane was smart enough to take the advice. After dealing with the unexploded bomb the other day and everything she'd seen since, she realized that even if she had to face gunfights in the streets daily, it would be safer than dealing with drug traffickers on the border. After all, everyone had someone they cared about.

With the story finished, Jack crushed the empty beer can, tossed it into the trash, and lifted Jane onto the bathroom counter before leaning in for a kiss. The story hadn't been told for free, after all.

——

The next morning, a convoy of six Suburbans drove onto the highway from El Paso to Juarez. Jack was driving the armored Suburban that Emily had arranged, leading the convoy.

Matt sat in the passenger seat, with Alessandro and Jane in the back. Matt's partner, Michael, rode in the rear car with two veteran marshals.

Half an hour later, the border crossing was in sight. There was no need for inspections when entering Mexico from the U.S., and a Black Hawk helicopter followed them until they crossed the bridge and passed through the border checkpoint, at which point the helicopter turned back.

The scenery wasn't much—just desert with patches of green from hardy plants scattered here and there. From Arizona and New Mexico to Texas, the U.S.-Mexico border looked much the same.

Besides the highway and power lines, the most noticeable feature was a long border wall made of four- to five-meter-high chain-link fencing.

On both sides of the border crossing were checkpoints, but Jack barely slowed down as they smoothly entered Mexico. Less than a kilometer past the checkpoint, the road suddenly became rough.

"Watch your speed," Matt finally spoke, breaking the silence in the car.

Jack didn't need the reminder; he had already slowed to 40 miles per hour. Any faster, and he worried the bumpy road would make him hit his head on the roof.

Two police motorcycles, sirens blaring, caught up with the convoy. Then, about a dozen navy blue police pickup trucks, which had been waiting by the roadside, moved in to surround the convoy, providing an escort.

Jack gently tapped the brakes, allowing two of the trucks to pass him and take the lead. He took the opportunity to observe the masked, seemingly well-trained Mexican federal police officers in pairs in the trucks' beds.

Each pickup had a heavy-duty roll bar, which was fitted with a machine gun mount holding an M249 SAW light machine gun.

By now, the convoy had entered the city. Buildings started to appear along the route—old, two- to three-story structures with peeling paint, standing close together. The scene gave Jack a sense of déjà vu, reminding him of the rundown urban-rural fringe areas of small cities in 1990s China.

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