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cregan-starks · 3 years

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Leyenda | Beholden

Summary: The DEA recruits Magnussen.

Words: 2,609

Pairing: none yet, but watch out for Special Agent Breslin

Warnings: politics, mentions of drug trafficking, mentions of death, mention of SA, mention of torture, mention of kidnapping, mention of violence, mention of guns, mentions of communism, Ronald Reagan, smoking, cussing, eventual enemies to friends to lovers, eventual relationship, eventual smut. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: Hi, I’m alive. First off, I’m extremely sorry for being so late with posting this. Thank you all for your support and patience! It means a lot, and I hope that my little series will live up to your expectations. Secondly, please don’t take any chapter warnings lightly, as I don’t intend to downplay and romanticize the War on Drugs and other subjects related to it. Finally, the majority of characters featured in this story is based off of their portrayals in Netflix’s Narcos shows (if you haven’t seen Narcos: Mexico, please do yourself a favor and watch it). Agents Magnussen and Bowen are both my OCs. If you wish to be added to or removed from my taglist, my DMs and ask box are open.

Credits: Huge thank you to my beta @maharani-radha-writes 💛 and to my sweet @artthurshelby for the GIF 🧡

Ao3 | Masterlist | Next

DECEMBER 6, 1985

AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND

“… bodies of U.S. drug agent Enrique Camarena and Mexican pilot Alfredo Zavala being loaded in the back of a pickup, guarded by heavily-armed Mexican Federal police for the 70-mile drive from Zamora to Guadalajara. The bodies were discovered early yesterday morning by a farm worker along a well-traveled road. They had not been there 12 hours earlier. The spot they were found was just 500 yards from a ranch house, where federal police killed five members of a family on Saturday after receiving an anonymous tip Camarena could be located on the ranch. Police said the family was involved in drug trafficking. Neighbors said it was a massacre.”

Magnussen looked up from the pictures of the 881 Lope de Vega house that she was holding – valuable evidence she now apparently had access to – her gaze settling on the woman sitting across from her. Bowen had turned her head sideways, towards the cracked window, faking distraction. She scrunched up her small nose, indicating that the smell bothered her. Magnussen rolled the culprit – a cigarette – between her fingers, defiantly, with no intention of putting it out. The smoke filled her lungs, soothing her nerves slightly. Nasty habit, Maia would have complained.

Magnussen decided to entertain herself by studying Bowen – preventing her eyes from lingering too long, lest the agent mistook it for interest. It was merely curiosity. Bowen had deposited her beige coat on the backrest of her chair, revealing bony shoulders, and had pushed her lengthy blond hair over them, straightening her spine. The wedding band that she wore glimmered in the sunlight each time her left hand moved. Although she had picked an unfortunate shade of pink for her lipstick, Magnussen couldn’t deny that Bowen had something striking about her. Must be the DEA badge attached to her belt. The one she had undoubtedly flashed in front of Magnussen’s coworkers to signal that she was an important American who meant business.

And it had worked, of course. Here she was, in Magnussen’s office, with an air of superiority that taunted, “You should be grateful that I accepted to meet with you,” as if she had had a choice. The presence of a DEA agent had naturally caused turbulence around the place; several of Magnussen’s overly nosy colleagues couldn’t help but glance at them, foolishly assuming that no one noticed. Who the fuck thought glass walls were a good idea?

Bowen had come bearing gifts; specifically, a dossier as thick as Brezhnev’s eyebrows titled “CLASSIFIED” – adding to the stack of reports already present on Magnussen’s desk – which sported the seal of the U.S. Department of Justice. Uh oh. Classified, U.S., justice. Too many bad words. Whatever it is, it’s illegal.

This time, Bowen’s hawkish stare gave away her attempts to predict Magnussen’s suppressed reactions. Evidently, subtlety wasn’t among her strong suits. This is a fucking interview. For a job Magnussen neither knew about, nor applied for, let alone wanted. And why had they sent Bowen, of all people? They barely knew each other. Magnussen wasn’t going to give in – not so easily, anyway. She wanted answers, and if they wanted her, they would have to do better than this.

Magnussen set aside the disturbing photos, attention shifting to the file titled “OPERATION LEYENDA.” She pulled out a list of names, some of which were crossed out.

MIGUEL ÁNGEL FÉLIX GALLARDO

JUAN JOSÉ ESPARRAGOZA MORENO

SERGIO ESPINO VERDIN

HUMBERTO ÁLVAREZ MACHAÍN

RUBÉN ZUNO ARCE

JUAN RAMÓN MATTA-BALLESTEROS

RENÉ VERDUGO URQUÍDEZ

RAÚL LÓPEZ ÁLVAREZ

JESÚS FÉLIX GUTIÉRREZ

JUAN JOSÉ BERNABÉ RAMIREZ

JAVIER VÁSQUEZ VELASCO

Upon closer inspection, she recognized most of them as drug traffickers or DFS agents. Or both. One question remained: what did all of this have to do with her? Magnussen took a drag from her cigarette, then tapped it against the rim of the ashtray on the desk, to drop the ashes. Alright, I’ll bite.

‘What’s Operation Leyenda?’, she queried, impartially.

Bowen cleared her throat, relieved that the silent treatment had finally ended, and rested her elbows on the wooden surface.

‘It’s a task force we set up a few months ago. They’re gathering evidence to bring indictments against those responsible for what happened to Kiki,’ recited Bowen like a diligent student, as if she had practiced the speech in front of her mirror, at home.

Magnussen’s brows furrowed while she leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.

‘Mexico City said the Camarena case is closed,’ she recalled, running her free hand over her thigh, to smooth the fabric of her navy-blue suit pants, ‘I haven’t heard anything about Operation Leyenda on the news. The American embassy hasn’t said anything, either… Now that I think about it, neither has the DOJ.’

‘My, you’re observant,’ commented Bowen, dryly.

‘The classified part kinda gave it away,’ surmised Magnussen before smoking some more, ‘The operation’s illegal, and these agents are vigilantes.’

‘Administrator Lawn sees it as a taking off the gloves type of thing. The Mexican government isn’t big on transparency and justice, so, we’re giving them a… little push.’

The faint smile that formed on Magnussen’s face didn’t reach her eyes. Bowen’s excuse reminded her of Porfirio Díaz’s lament, “Poor Mexico. So far from God, and so close to the United States.”

‘Anyway,’ continued the agent, ‘One of the agents recently got transferred to the States, and there’s a vacant spot on the team.’

‘Uh huh,’ deadpanned Magnussen, watching Bowen, suspiciously.

She’s trying to recruit me for an illegal operation and preaching about transparency in the same breath.

‘Obviously, your name came up. Multiple times. Many of my superiors are quite eager to work with you. Edward Heath and James Kuykendall even put in a good word for you.’

Oh, look at the Americans – doing charity work for free.

‘What’s with the crossed-out names?’, asked Magnussen, cutting to the chase, referring to the list of criminals.

‘They were arrested,’ replied Bowen, after hesitating for a split second.

Or killed, Magnussen read between the lines, feeling beads of sweat gather at the nape of her neck. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, rubbing her left earring, the sharp edge of the crescent moon digging into her thumb.

‘Why does the DEA want me?’, she inquired, at last.

Magnussen didn’t know how to best break it to the anti-drug Jehovah’s Witnesses that she didn’t think that narcotics were an actual problem.

Bowen glared at her, reluctant to engage.

‘Indulge me, Audrey,’ teased Magnussen, offering the sweetest false smile she could manage.

‘Well, you knew Kiki personally–’

‘That’s funny,’ interrupted Magnussen, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray, ‘Jaime Kuykendall was taken off the case for being too emotionally attached. Got transferred to El Paso.’

‘You talked with him?’, questioned Bowen, expression fatigued.

‘We keep in touch,’ disclosed Magnussen, flatly, drumming her black, manicured nails against the desk, ‘So, why does the DEA want me?’

The agent let out a long sigh, shaking her head in disbelief.

‘You graduated two universities, you speak six languages, you have some experience in Mexico and with the DEA,’ listed Bowen, ‘You’re a smart, resourceful, and ambitious kid. That enough or do you need more?’

I doubt that you have more. And I was in Mexico completing my master’s degree, not shooting guns and illegally kidnapping government officials, but whatever. Small difference. Magnussen hummed thoughtfully, visibly unimpressed, then countered:

‘I’m also a foreign woman raised in a communist regime. I turn twenty-four in a couple of weeks. You’re telling me that your superiors are willing to overlook that?’, she emphasized, doubtful, ‘As flattering as this proposal is, I don’t think that my safety was taken into consideration. What if someone finds out about what we’re doing? There’ll be consequences, and you can’t even guarantee diplomatic immunity.’

‘It won’t come to that,’ assured Bowen, almost kindly, maintaining her calm, ‘And you won’t be on your own. Your partners will have your back.’

Magnussen scoffed dismissively, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s patronizing me.

‘I guess hiring me is somewhat convenient,’ she admitted, bitterly, ‘My age, gender, nationality, and lack of experience are all reasons to pay me less. D.C. is more preoccupied with communists, anyway. Reagan probably mentions them in his sleep.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ snapped Bowen, tone acid, ‘You don’t think there’s anything wrong with what happened to Kiki? You don’t think he deserves justice?’

‘I think he deserves better than cheap propaganda and political agendas,’ corrected Magnussen, coldly, ‘You’ve all turned him into a martyr.’

‘The cartel turned him into a martyr,’ argued Bowen, tapping her index finger against the table, ‘And cheap propaganda? It’s easy for you to sit there and judge what you don’t know, but you clearly want honesty, so, here.’

The agent retrieved a file from the dossier and handed it to Magnussen, who accepted it cautiously. While she skimmed over a Forensics report, Bowen explained, occasionally pausing whenever her voice wavered:

‘The press wasn’t given every detail of the investigation… Camarena was tortured by Sergio Verdin. Ex DFS. He beat him, electrocuted him, burned him, used a power drill on him. They fractured his ribs and jaw in multiple places, cracked his skull, sodomized him with a tire iron… Doctor Machaín kept Kiki awake during the whole thing. Injected adrenaline into his heart. After 36 hours, Camarena fell into a coma. That’s when they killed him… A month later, the bodies were found near a ranch in Zamora. Owned by a former PRI member. Ugly divorce. Zavala didn’t have any signs of torture. He allegedly died from asphyxiation... The MFJP destroyed a lot of the evidence.’

Magnussen refused to tear her gaze away from the crumpled-up pieces of paper by the trash can in the corner of the office. She listened to the distant sound of traffic slipping through the window. The information hadn’t come as a surprise. Magnussen wasn’t naïve. Death was familiar; a looming presence everywhere she went. She knew that entering the room where Camarena had been tortured required leaving her soul at the door. Magnussen had heard what had happened to Kiki, even spoken to Mika about it. Yet tears stung her eyes all the same, threatening to fall. She bit the inside of her lower lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to regain control of her breathing. She wasn’t allowed to cry in front of these people. Her tears were hers and hers alone.

Once she fought the lump in her throat, Magnussen swallowed, finally gathering the courage to look at the DEA agent.

‘Mexico City must’ve been in on it,’ she theorized, absent-mindedly tugging at the sleeve of her white shirt, ‘They’re trying to cover up the tracks that lead to them. They gave you the perfect scapegoats – Quintero and Fonseca – but that’s as far as they’ll go.’

Bowen nodded in agreement, combing her hair with her fingers.

‘The former commander of the DFS disappeared after he resigned, a few years ago. It’s a miracle our guys bagged Zuno… He owns the house at Lope de Vega,’ she clarified, regarding Magnussen’s puzzled expression, ‘President Echeverría’s brother-in-law. He’s awaiting trial in the States.’

‘No shit,’ said Magnussen, half impressed.

‘We suspect Félix Gallardo went underground,’ confessed the agent, frustrated, nails scratching the back of her hand, ‘Calderoni was sent to arrest him. You know him?’

Magnussen huffed, irked by Audrey’s cockiness. Is she gonna ask if Luke Skywalker’s a Jedi, too?

‘Everyone and their mother do,’ she sassed, arching an eyebrow, ‘The Eliot Ness of the MFJP.’

‘Well, the Thin Man got away under… suspicious circumstances. The most incorruptible cop in Mexico returned empty-handed.’

‘The one that got away,’ quipped Magnussen, instinctively glancing at the clock on the wall, ‘Gallardo’s at the top of the pyramid. He built the system. If the PRI hasn’t given him up, he’s probably still in the party’s good graces… or has leverage over them. Either way, they’re protecting themselves by protecting him.’

‘So,’ shrugged Bowen, expectant, ‘How do we catch him?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Magnussen, genuinely, ‘He was always two steps ahead of your agents in Guadalajara… What I do know is that the cartel has been blessed by the powers that be from the beginning. They wouldn’t act alone. The burning of the marijuana field in Chihuahua angered the cartel, and rightfully so – they lost a lot of money – but it also spooked the Mexican government. They thought Kiki knew something that represented a threat to them.’

‘That’s why you would be an asset to Leyenda,’ encouraged Bowen, hopeful, nearly pleading.

Magnussen rolled her eyes, internally sighing in exasperation. Jesus fucking Christ. Something about their desperation seeded doubt within her. She refused to believe that they had run out of candidates for the job. Magnussen, on the other hand, had run out of patience.

‘Why?’, she demanded, blood boiling, ‘So you can parade me around as your rehabilitated communist girl? No, thanks. You’ve done this dozens of times. Immigrants, alcohol, the mafia, the Japanese, black people, communists, and now drugs. You’ll eventually grow bored of drugs and find a new enemy to wage war against – or you’ll create one. Where does it fucking end, Audrey? I’m not gonna kill people for Uncle Sam and your fragile patriotism.’

‘Then don’t do it for Uncle Sam,’ reasoned Bowen, composed, ‘Don’t do it for Reagan or the DEA. Do it for Kiki.’

Magnussen hesitated, clenching her teeth, forcefully enough to shatter. The memory of Kiki’s tragedy was raw, further tearing into an open wound that hadn’t had the chance to heal. Kiki had been a good person, but he had died a cruel, unfair death. Some of his killers still walked free. Kiki had filled voids for her, had done what others failed to do. He had been a parental figure to her. Didn’t she owe it to him? Wasn’t bringing these criminals to justice the least that she could do? For widowing Mika and leaving three innocent boys fatherless?

Returning to Mexico implied a tremendous risk and it didn’t even guarantee a success – or survival. They were up against the system and, although it had been backed into a corner, the danger hadn’t gone away. Clawed and fanged, the system was capable of regeneration, despite the blows it had received. It was an intricate game of chess, and the stakes were immense. Every move counted.

If the DEA don’t take my life, they’ll take my soul. No matter what she did, it seemed that Magnussen would inevitably lose her soul. What difference did it make if it were to the cartel or to the DEA? The only thing she could do was grab fear by the hand and step forward. Do something. If I don’t, no one will.

‘Alright,’ conceded Magnussen, somber, ‘I’ll join the task force.’

Bowen offered her a large grin, flashing her pearly whites.

‘I’m really glad,’ she gushed, reaching for Magnussen’s hands, and squeezing them briefly. Upon releasing them, she presented Magnussen with a file, watching her, almost giddily, jesting, ‘I think it’s time for you to meet your partners.’

There were nine members in total, all of them men – three Americans, the rest Mexicans. Their résumés had a small, black-and-white photograph attached. After flicking through the pages with their work and experience, Magnussen surveyed their appearance. I’ll be the youngest one, she realized.

‘He’s cute,’ she declared, pointing at the man with a well-groomed mustache and dark, medium-length curls.

‘Special Agent Breslin,’ noted Bowen, smirking in amusement, ‘He’s in charge of the operation.’

‘Of course, he is,’ snickered Magnussen, mirroring her smirk.

‘So,’ began Audrey, grabbing a pen, ‘Let’s discuss the details of your transfer.’

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic @agirllovespancakes @artthurshelby @buttercup--bee @captn-andor @cleastrnge @frodo-sam @itssmashedavo @maevesdarling @maevemills @maharani-radha @miawallace @mitchi-c @moonlight-prose @nicolettegreen @operator-sero @pascalisthepunkest @queenofthefaceless @revolution-starter @tisbeautifulfreedom

END THE WAR ON DRUGS: Equity Organization & Drug Policy Alliance

READ MORE: Camarena case, PRI, DFS, MFJP

#narcos fanfic #narcos mexico #narcos mexico fanfic #walt breslin #walt breslin x oc #walt breslin/oc #walt breslin x reader #walt breslin/reader #javier peña #javier peña x oc #javier peña/oc #javier peña x reader #javier peña/reader #miguel ángel félix gallardo #amado carrillo fuentes #steve murphy #pacho herrera #jaime kuykendall #ed heath #guillermo calderoni #pablo acosta #daryl petsky #mimi webb miller #sal orozco #amat palacios #ossie mejía #danilo garza #scoot mcnairy #pedro pascal #tori’s beholden

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