Under the cool glow of a Texas moon, the desert stretched endlessly, a barren expanse of scrub and rock. The horizon shimmered faintly, a mirage of heat even in the night’s chill. Two caravans of SUVs—gleaming black like the polished barrels of revolvers—rolled up on the dusty dirt road, engines grumbling low, their headlights cutting long, ghostly beams into the darkness. Somewhere nearby, coyotes yipped, and the faint hum of the Rio Grande drifted on the breeze.

The vehicles stopped a respectful distance apart, the silence settling like a shroud. Doors creaked open with purpose, and from the lead SUV of the first group, a skinny man stepped out. He was about thirty, wiry and twitchy, dressed in a white button-up shirt tucked sloppily into expensive suit pants, golden chains glinting at his neck and wrist. His shoes crunched on the grit as he adjusted his bracelet, eyes flicking warily to the opposing group.

From the other SUV, a shorter, stockier man emerged. Bald and built like a fireplug, he moved with the deliberate weight of someone who knew his worth. His boots were scuffed, his jeans dark and sturdy, his flannel shirt stretched tight over a broad chest. He was unarmed—or appeared to be—but the confidence in his walk suggested he didn’t need to be. The two men closed the distance, the tension between them hanging thick as the Texas heat.

“Fernando,” the bald man greeted, his voice gravelly, each syllable chewed over like tobacco.

“Diego,” replied the skinny man, his voice sharp and quick, the faintest edge of sarcasm wrapped in familiarity.

Diego’s lips twitched in what might have been a smile. “Are you here for the money, puto?”

Fernando cocked his head, rolling his shoulders like he was loosening up for a fight. “Are you here for the pescado?”

“Yeah.” Diego snapped his fingers, and two burly men stepped out of the shadows, each armed with sleek, black rifles. They moved to the back of Diego’s lead SUV, their boots kicking up small clouds of dust. The taillights flared as they popped open the trunk, and after a few seconds of shuffling and muffled grunts, a truck with grocery store markings rolled forward. It was an old vehicle, faded and dusty, its bright logo peeling in places.

Fernando watched with narrowed eyes, his hand resting on his hip, fingers grazing the grip of a pistol. “When I said pescado, I didn’t mean fish, guey.”

Diego barked a laugh, short and rough. “Ja, puto, yo sey. No soy estúpido. Jokester.”

The two guards hauled a large cooler from the truck bed, setting it on the ground with a heavy thud. They unlatched it with mechanical precision, lifting the lid to reveal tightly wrapped bricks of cocaine, each one marked with a scorpion logo in black ink.

Fernando’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Are those kilos?”

“Sí, un kilo. Each,” Diego replied, crossing his arms and tilting his head.

“Good. How many?”

“Three hundred kilos.”

Fernando’s mouth tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing his sharp features. “We asked for four hundred kilos.”

Diego shrugged, the motion casual but deliberate. “Sorry, we couldn’t bring four hundred kilos.”

“Shit, guey,” Fernando muttered, rubbing his jaw as he glanced at his men, who were hanging back near their SUVs, their hands hovering near holstered weapons. “Then there’s no deal.”

Diego raised a placating hand. “No, cabrón. Tranquilo, hombre. We brought somethin’ better.”

Fernando’s eyebrow arched, skepticism hardening his features. “And that is?”

Diego snapped his fingers again, and his men pulled a large, reinforced chest from the truck’s interior. They set it on the ground beside the cooler and popped it open. Fernando stepped forward, and his breath hitched slightly as he saw the contents.

Inside were ten sleek, alien-looking gauntlets. They were dark purple with glowing blue stripes running along their edges, like veins of light under the skin of some biomechanical beast. Their surfaces gleamed with an otherworldly pearlescence, almost iridescent under the moonlight. They looked advanced—far beyond the crude weaponry cartels were known for.

“Carajo, cumpa,” Fernando breathed, his hand brushing the edge of one gauntlet. “How did you get those?”

Diego smirked, the faintest hint of pride in his eyes. “A friend of mine hooked me up with some Trask Tech.”

Fernando’s fingers traced the glowing lines on one gauntlet, his expression caught between awe and disbelief. “Holy shit.”

Diego nodded, gesturing at the weapons like a salesman presenting his wares. “This goes for over three million. You’re lucky to get these with a two hundred grand discount.”

Fernando picked up one of the gauntlets, surprised by how light it felt. The grip molded perfectly to his hand, the glowing lines pulsing faintly as it activated. He raised his arm, aiming at a distant cactus. With a satisfying hum, the blaster fired, a bolt of energy streaking through the night. The cactus disintegrated instantly, leaving only a smoking stump.

“Oh man,” Fernando muttered, lowering the gauntlet. “I can take the Wolverine with this, puto.”

He swung the gauntlet around, pointing it at Diego, a sly grin spreading across his face. Diego didn’t flinch, his arms still crossed, his gaze steady.

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“So, what’s stopping me from firing at you now, guey?” Fernando asked, his tone dripping with mockery.

“Nada,” Diego replied coolly. “Just good business.”

Fernando laughed, lowering the gauntlet. “I’m just messin’ around, guey. I’ll go mutant huntin’ later.” He waved a hand toward his men. “Now, Paco, dinero agora!”

As his men moved to retrieve the cash from their SUVs, the moonlight caught the faint shimmer of heat on the horizon. The desert was quiet, but there was a sense of tension in the air—an unspoken anticipation of something yet to come. In the stillness, the distant hum of an engine grew louder, carried on the wind like a warning.

The desert air grew heavier as the faint hum of engines grew louder, the moonlight catching the rising dust kicked up by approaching SUVs and trucks. The cartel men, already tense, glanced at each other and instinctively gripped their weapons tighter. The roar of engines grew louder, and soon a convoy of matte black SUVs and trucks rolled into view. They were sleek, aggressive vehicles, bearing no insignia except for a stark, matte black sticker on their doors—a minimalist X symbol with jagged edges, like a scar slashed across the paint. The Friends of Humanity (FoH) had arrived.

Fernando turned toward Diego, his face tight with suspicion. “Are they with you?”

Diego shook his head, his jaw tightening. “No.”

“Shit,” Fernando muttered, scanning the SUVs. “Get ready. We have company. Might be Feds.”

The cartel men sprang into action, pulling rifles and shotguns from their vehicles and fanning out in a loose formation. The soft clicks of weapons being cocked punctuated the night. Diego’s guards stepped forward, their faces grim, as the FoH vehicles came to a halt in a semicircle around the cartel convoy. The sound of engines idling filled the silence, the lights of the black SUVs casting harsh beams across the dusty ground.

The lead SUV’s door opened slowly, deliberately. From it stepped a tall, imposing figure clad in a sleek black tactical uniform with sharp red accents. His gear gleamed faintly under the moonlight, a fusion of high-tech combat armor and intimidation. His face was hidden behind a chrome mask shaped like the head of a crow, the long metallic beak catching the light, its polished surface reflecting distorted images of the men who stared back at it. He moved with deliberate precision, his gloved hands resting casually at his sides, but the aura of danger around him was palpable.

Fernando stepped forward, his voice sharp and demanding. “Who are you? Are you with the Feds?”

The masked man tilted his head slightly, the crow-like mask giving the motion an eerie, predatory quality. His voice emerged, cold and mechanical through a voice modulator. “No, I’m not.”

“Then who the hell are you?” Fernando demanded.

The man didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “You have something that was taken away from us.”

Fernando’s brow furrowed, his irritation mounting. “Taken away? Pendejo, I bought this fair and square.”

The man stepped closer, the black matte of his armor absorbing the light like a void. “From a traitor and black-market contrabandist.”

Diego shifted uncomfortably but kept his expression neutral. Fernando laughed harshly, his voice cutting through the tense air. “I don’t care where it came from. I bought it. It’s mine.”

The X-Cutioner raised a gloved hand, palm open in a mockingly casual gesture. “I’ll give you two hundred thousand for them.”

Fernando turned to Diego, his face twisting in incredulity. “Diego, can you hear this, guey? Two hundred grand for ten blasters? This gringo lost his mind. Go back to New York or wherever the hell you came from.”

The masked man remained still, his voice calm but icy. “I said my piece. Accept it, or don’t. Either way, I’ll have those blasters.”

Fernando spat on the ground, the gesture filled with disdain. “Smoke this motherfucker.”

Before the cartel men could even fully raise their weapons, the X-Cutioner moved. His hand snapped to his side, pulling a sleek blaster from his hip, and with a deafening whine, a streak of red energy erupted from the barrel. The bolt struck Fernando squarely in the face, and for a brief, horrifying moment, his head glowed like molten metal before disintegrating into a fine, blackened ash. His body crumpled to the ground, still smoking, the empty neck where his head had been an awful, smoldering stump.

“Madre de Dios!” one of Fernando’s men shouted, stumbling back in terror.

The scene exploded into chaos. The cartel men opened fire, bullets spraying wildly toward the FoH vehicles and their leader. The night was lit by muzzle flashes, but the X-Cutioner didn’t flinch. Moving with mechanical precision, he fired his blaster again, cutting through the cacophony of gunfire. Another cartel soldier screamed as his chest caved in, the blast disintegrating his ribcage in a flash of searing heat.

Diego ducked behind one of his SUVs, barking orders to his guards. “Pin him down! Take him out!”

The FoH operatives began pouring out of their vehicles, clad in similar black tactical armor. They moved with eerie synchronization, each one armed with advanced energy weapons. The cartel’s bullets pinged harmlessly off their armor, sparks flying as high-tech plating absorbed the impact.

One cartel guard, a stocky man wielding an AK-47, let out a war cry and sprayed a burst of fire toward the advancing FoH soldiers. The X-Cutioner raised his arm, activating a wrist-mounted shield that shimmered to life in glowing red hexagonal patterns. The bullets ricocheted off harmlessly, and the X-Cutioner responded with a single, precise shot that turned the guard into a heap of smoldering flesh.

Another cartel soldier attempted to flank the FoH operatives, but one of the black-armored soldiers turned with inhuman speed, firing a blaster that sent the man sprawling backward, his body lifeless before it hit the ground.

The desert was filled with the sounds of screams, blaster fire, and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the earth. One by one, the cartel men fell, their outdated firearms no match for the advanced weaponry and tactics of the FoH.

Diego, pinned behind the SUV, watched in horror as his men were systematically cut down. The X-Cutioner strode forward through the chaos, calm and methodical, his chrome mask reflecting the carnage around him. He stepped over the body of a dying cartel soldier, his boots crunching on the bloody dirt.

Diego scrambled to his feet, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Wait! Wait! We can make a deal! I’ll double what they’re paying you!”

The X-Cutioner stopped, tilting his head slightly. “You misunderstand.”

Before Diego could respond, the X-Cutioner raised his blaster and fired. The bolt struck Diego in the chest, his body convulsing violently before crumpling to the ground, smoke curling from the scorched wound.

As the last of the cartel men were dispatched, the remaining FoH soldiers began to gather the Sentinel blasters from the SUV. The X-Cutioner turned to survey the carnage, his chrome mask catching the faint glow of the weapons being loaded into their trucks. The cartel had been utterly humiliated, their power and pride reduced to ash in the Texas moonlight.

“Leave the bodies,” the X-Cutioner said, his modulated voice devoid of emotion. “Let the coyotes have them.”

The FoH operatives complied, their black-clad forms blending into the night as they finished their grim task. Within minutes, the convoy of SUVs and trucks disappeared into the darkness, leaving nothing but blood, ash, and silence behind.