#walt breslin x oc

[proceduralpassion]

The Oil Has Run Thin

Day 7 of Narcoctober- Make something centered around non-death dark topics (we have a specific death day already). Morally or emotionally dark topics/themes.

Characters: Walt Breslin x OC (Soraya Turner); platonic but could be more 👀

CW: drugs/intoxication/hallucinations

WC: 884

A/N: Something smol for the Walt girlies, y'know?

Was it a knock that had woken her? Or was it the screaming? So loud. Incessant shrieking. Soraya opens her eyes and they bounce around the room, looking for the source of those horrible shrieks. 

When her vision focuses, she realizes that she’s in a hospital room. Pain ricochets throughout her head as she thrashes around. Her arms and legs are sore and she finds that she’s restrained when she looks down at herself. There are scratch marks on her hands and clots of dried blood are lodged beneath her fingernails. 

There’s no one else in the room with her at the moment, but a flash of movement at the door garners her attention. It’s her partner, Walt. They’ve been partners ever since they were given their assignment in Mexico together. A kinship had arisen between the two of them, and it feels sudden how they’ve gone from complete strangers to people who’d take bullets for each other.

Her mind is rattling around with so many thoughts, so many questions. She’s able to see through the fog for a second and see the crushed look on Walt’s face. Why did he look so broken? 

It hurts her. Her heart feels cracked because she’s never seen him so shattered before. They’ve seen a lot of each other. Frustration. Anger. And yes, even sadness. But this is utter misery painted on her partner’s face right now and she can even see the fear that he lets through. Usually, she can tell when he’s scared because he has intricate little tells like a twitching of his fingers or the inability to sit down. But that’s because he hides it and hides it well. To anyone on the outside looking in, he seems impatient and maybe even pissed off, but Soraya’s always been able to differentiate when he’s scared because of how much effort he puts into making it not look like so.

But he’s terrified right now as he looks at her and she doesn’t know why.

She doesn’t know a lot of things. She’s not sure she even knows why she’s in the hospital, much less restrained.

Her whole body’s in pain and she can barely focus, but that’s not giving her any answers right now. 

Walt, himself, was still trying to come to terms with what happened. He’d been on coms the entire time during the undercover sting. The work the two of you had put in was mostly paper trails and listening to tapes, but you two were also dedicated to chasing down any and every lead possible. When you get the tip on a new low level runner within the Guadalajara cartel, you take the opportunity to create a sting and get him on charges. The hope was to get him a lighter sentence in exchange for more intel that would help them catch and fry the bigger fish.

It all happened so fast. Too fast for Walt to even realize what was happening. He’s not even sure what happens in the short time it takes for him to realize that he’s lost comms with her. As he waits for news on his partner, he reflects and tries to think back to how he missed it. How her cover was blown. When exactly it was blown. What had happened to her in the time between when her comms went out and when he was picking her up bridal style and rushing for an ambulance. 

“The cocaine was laced,” the doctor explains, “We’ve got to run more tests to get a better idea of what exactly is causing her symptoms. Until then, she needs to be in restraints. For her own safety.”

In the ambulance, Soraya had started clawing at her arms, frantically screaming that there was a chip inside and that the mad men were out to get her.” 

Her eyes were like pinballs in an arcade game, dotting everywhere with an unfocused gaze. She wasn’t making any sense as Walt held her arms and it was like she wasn’t even aware of her surroundings. 

The doctor had gone to go check on Soraya and let Walt know whether he could see her or not. As he waited, he rubbed his forehead continually before wringing his hands and pacing the floors. He was infuriated. At their perp, who was now in the wind. At himself, even more so. His plans were always failure after failure and now they had gotten someone he cared about in a dire situation. 

When the doctor gives him the go ahead, Walt knocks on her door, although he’s sure that she probably doesn’t hear it. He walks in and is stuck to his feet at the sight of her. 

He did this.

The restraints.

The deep scratches on your arm.

The crazed and scared look on your face.

Your eyes meet him and for a second, Walt thinks she recognizes him. 

But then, she’s back to wracking her body and scanning the room, looking for something, even as Walt rushes over, trying to calm her.

Soraya looks at him again, fear and inquiry coloring her features, “What is that?! Who is that screaming?!”

Walt’s breath catches in his throat as he continues stroking her arm in what he hopes is comforting.

“It’s you, Soraya.”

A/N: Def plan on writing more for them at some point, kinduva obsessed with them idk Click here if you wanna be added to my taglist. Taglist: @asirensrage @ashlingnarcos @narcosfandomdiscord @drabbles-mc

[cregan-starks]

M A S T E R L I S T

Narcos & Narcos: Mexico

House of the Dragon

[drabbles-mc]

Drabbles-MC: Walt Breslin Fics

Fic list under the cut!

👀 = smut, 💔 = angst

- A Good Time 👀

- Last Chance 💔

- Rendezvous 💔  

- Miles of Red String

- Unprofessional  👀

- The Weight of It All 👀 💔

- Looking On

- House Special

- Ninety Days

- Bad Idea

[narcosfandomdiscord]

narcos fandom smut alphabet - finished!

you know what goes really well with summer sunshine and narcos tv rewatches? SMUTTY FIC!

(they put that bisexual lighting on Isabella for a reason, after all!)

this was our first month of prompts over at @narcosfandomdiscord! for every letter of the alphabet, we had two smutty prompts that fanfic writers used for inspiration. 🥰 our group ambition was to create at least one fic per letter—26 new narcos smut fics during the month of July—and we totally smashed it, in large part thanks to prolific work from @salt-is-a-terrible-currency. happy reading!

if you prefer reading on ao3, check out our collection. all fics tagged as #nffalphabet on tumblr. and it's just that simple 🥰

if you have any questions, you can message us on tumblr or join our narcos fandom discord here!

🍰 Prompt List & Fic Masterlist 🍰

July 1 — A — angry sex, anal

Right For Once by @drabbles-mc — Steve Murphy x f!Reader, angry sex, 2.3k

Infuriating by @salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, angry sex, 1.5k

Our Man In Mexico by @hausofmamadas — Horacio Carrillo x Andrea Nuñez, angry sex, 2.5k

July 2 — B — blood, bound & begging

Final Warning by @purplesong1028 — Amado x Pacho, bound & begging, 490

Please (with your finger) by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, bound & begging, 1.2k

blood on vacation by @ashlingnarcos — David Barrón x f!Reader, blood, 1.8k

July 3 — C — cuffs, choking

If I go too far by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, choking, 737

mentirosos by @narcolini — Kitty Paez x gn!Reader, cuffs, 1.1k

July 4 — D — domesticity, “don’t make a sound or they’ll hear us.”

Taking Care by drabbles-mc — Diego Ramirez (Narcos OC) x F!Reader, domesticity, 2.1k

Lipstick's smudged by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, domesticity and “don’t make a sound or they’ll hear us", 447

A Few Moments by @purplesong1028 — Miguel Félix/Pacho Herrera, “don’t make a sound or they’ll hear us", 482

July 5 — E — edging, eldritch

The first time I felt a ghost by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, eldritch, 716

July 6 — F — fight or fuck?, friends with benefits

No relationship talk by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, friends with benefits, 422

Unbroken Rules by drabbles-mc — Horacio Carrillo x f!Reader, friends with benefits, 2.9k

July 7 — G — gag/gagging, gun play

Paper-thin walls by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader, gag/gagging, 361

Whatever He Wants by purplesong1028 — Amado Carrillo Fuentes x Miguel Félix, gun play, 416

July 8 — H — honor bondage, hatesex

Dress blues by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader x Gurney Halleck, honor bondage, 1.8k

THE DISTANCE BETWEEN US by hausofmamadas — Enedina Arellano x David Barrón, honor bondage, 2k

July 9 — I — infidelity, in public

Never meet your heroes by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, in public, 955

Don't Mention It by drabbles-mc — Javier Peña x f!Reader, infidelity and in public, 2.7k

No Strong Suit by purplesong1028 — Miguel Félix x Pacho Herrera, infidelity, 439

July 10 — J — jealousy, "just shut up already"

Unprofessional by drabbles-mc — Walt Breslin x f!Reader, jealousy, 4.3k

A bad idea by @artemiseamoon — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, jealousy, 2.3k

The ring by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, jealousy, 1.1k

July 11 — K — knotting, knocked up

Which time? by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, knocked up, 418

Secrets in the night by artemiseamoon — Horacio Carrillo x Original Female Character, knocked up, 3.5k

Someday When It's Over by drabbles-mc — Horacio Carrillo x Original Female Character, knocked up, 2.8k

July 12 — L — luxury, lingerie

Eres guapa by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, lingerie, 544

Desire by artemiseamoon — Enedina Arellano x Original Female Character, lingerie and luxury, 3.9k

Round-trip Ticket by drabbles-mc — Steve Murphy x Original Female Character, lingerie, 7.7k

July 13 — M — mirrors, "make me forget (all about him/her/it/them)"

Another brick in the wall by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, make me forget, 812

Favors Owed by drabbles-mc — Maria Elvira x gn!Reader, make me forget, 2.7k

Like Old Times by artemiseamoon — Judy Moncada x Original Female Character, mirrors, 1.4k

July 14 — N — nipple play, "no one does it like you"

No One Like You by drabbles-mc — Javier Peña x f!Reader, no one does it like you, 2k

Sore by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, nipple play, 580

July 15 — O — on all fours, one night stand

Cascade by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader, one night stand, 580

July 16 — P — praise kink, pulling hair

Dress blues, pt 2 by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader x Gurney Halleck, praise kink, 404

July 17 — Q — quiet (or trying to be), quickie

Sweet, sharp, addictive by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, quiet (or trying to be) and quickie, 464

July 18 — R — role reversal, ruined

Bad Guy Treatment by drabbles-mc — Steve Murphy x f!Reader, role reversal, 3.8k

What is she to him by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, ruined, 444

July 19 — S — submit, "say my name"

Stoke the flames by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader, submit, 387

July 20 — T — trapped together, tied up

On company time by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader, trapped together, 574

July 21 — U — upper hand, underwater

The Weight of It All by drabbles-mc — Walt Breslin x Sal Orozco, underwater, 2k

he keeps his rules. you keep him. by ashlingnarcos — Horacio Carrillo x gn!Reader, upper hand, 1.1k

Polkadots by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, underwater, 359

July 22 — V — virginity (loss or roleplay), video

Off the Backburner by drabbles-mc — Steve Murphy x f!Reader, virginity, 4.1k

In this moment of pretend by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, virginity roleplay, 435

July 23 — W — "we probably shouldn't do this", worship

Stay A Little Longer by drabbles-mc — Horacio Carrillo x f!Reader, "we probably shouldn't do this", 1.5k

Lunch break daydream by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader, "we probably shouldn't do this", 497

July 24 — X — exhibitionism, exes having sex

It's complicated by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Helena, exes having sex, 971

Not Yours Anymore by drabbles-mc — Steve Murphy x Original Female Character, exes having sex, 3.2k

no witness by ashlingnarcos — Walt Breslin x f!Reader, exes having sex, 2.4k

July 25 — Y — yearning, "you look good like this"

Superman (4) by @garbinge — Javier Peña x f!Reader, "you look good like this", 5k

Lost Time by drabbles-mc — Horacio Carrillo x f!Reader, yearning, 2.9k

If he closes his eyes by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x Original Female Character, yearning, 442

July 26 — Z — zipper, zeal

Things Like That by drabbles-mc — Danilo Garza x f!Reader, zipper, 2k

Zealot by salt-is-a-terrible-currency — Javier Peña x f!Reader and Nathan "Cable" Summers from Deadpool x f!Reader, zeal, 4k

(note: we hit the link limit on this post so from now on, links will be to fics + to authors on their first appearance.)

[artemiseamoon]

A Different Life - Finale

Walt Breslin (Narcos Mx) x Nia (ofc)

Thanks for reading! I’m glad the Walt fans were able to enjoy this offering. 💜

All chapters | Words: 1,695   | Warnings: Angst, Fluff 

Various Gif credits: 1st is mine | 2nd is by billy-crudup | 3rd @fuckyeahscootmcnairy

Miguel’s words haunted him like a ghost. A spirit taunting him, following him, whispering in his ear, and seeping its slimy fingers into the deepest parts of his brain.

Walt takes a long drag of the cigarette, he looks out at the horizon. Maybe he should have taken a plane straight back? To get the hell out of Mexico. But he was so tired his bones ached, his back was bothering him, and he had a mild headache that wouldn't go away.

Seeing as taking care of himself wasn’t his strongest skill, Walt decided to stop moving, just for a few hours. To listen to his body and book a room in a hotel for the night.

Finishing off the cigarette, he steps back into the room and slides the balcony door closed. It was a nice room, one of the best he’s ever been in, too bad he was alone.

Making a drink, Walt drops down on the couch and flips the t.v on. He only watches it for a second before his eyes move to the phone on the wall across the room.

Walt could call her, but he wasn’t sure he should. He fucked up. He couldn't deliver on his promises to his guys despite his efforts. Even worse, they were dead, the blood was on his hands. Blood he could never wash away.

Putting the glass down, Walt curses under this breath as he runs his hands over his face and through his hair. If he called her, he’d have to tell he’s been pushing papers in Sacramento for almost a month and didn’t call; she would be furious. Rightfully so.

He didn’t want any more blood on his hands. He didn’t want to fuck anyone else’s life up. It was the only reason that he stayed away from the only single thing in the world he wanted, needed; Nia.

...

Flashback ( about 3 weeks ago)

Walt's hand feels heavy as he digs in his pockets for change. Finding what he needs, Walt slips the coins in the slot and turns around, leaning into the wall as the phone rings.

Ring Ring Ring Ring

Walt sighs heavily and lets his eyes fall close. Quietly speaking to himself, “ pick up, pick up.”

Ring Ring Ring Ring

“Fuck,” on a heavy breath he waits a little longer, hoping she’ll answer. After two more rings, the phone on the other end is picked up quickly.

Nia’s comforting rich voice on the other end, “Hello?”

Walt slouches over, feeling relieved. His dry lips are parted to speak but he just listens, savoring her voice.

“...Hello? Who is this?” She sounds more annoyed now.

“Hey.” Walts voice cracks as he speaks.

“Walt! God, I thought you were some creep - are you okay?”

Licking his lips, he smiles, imagining her expression. The memory of her scent washes over him and lifts some of the pain from his heart.

“....Walt, are you still there?”

“I’m here,” he replies softly, “just, listening to your voice. I needed to hear your voice.” he clears his throat and swallows hard.

Nia hesitates, he can tell she's sensing pain in his voice. “Walt, what happened?”

He shakes his head as if she can see him, but she can’t.

Forcing himself to stand tall again, he turns to face the booth, he places one of his palms flat against the wall.

“I fucked up - " he confesses quietly, still shaking his head, he feels the tears return and sucks them back, “ I uh..nevermind. Are you okay?”

“Walt, I’m worried now.”

“Don’t be. I’m just,” he sniffles and holds the phone between his ear and shoulder as she digs in his shirt pocket for a cigarette, “tired as shit.” The pained laugh doesn’t make him sound any more convincing.

Nia is quiet, he knows she doesn’t believe him. She sighs and tries to find a response.

Walt speaks again, “It took a while, did I catch you coming in?”

“Yeah, it was my sister's birthday.”

“Fuck, yeah I forgot...tell her happy birthday.”

“I will….uh, please tell me if something is wrong.” He hears something shift in the background and the sound of a chair.

“Nia,” the cigarette pack is empty, he tosses it on the floor, “shit - I gotta go...it was good to hear your voice.”  

“Walt, I know if you don’t want to talk it’s impossible to get anything out of you so I’ll just say this. Call me, talk to me...no matter what may or may not happen with us, I’ll be here. I care, okay.”

Walt nods quickly and squeezes his eyes shut. I wish I could touch you. I wish I could look into your eyes as you speak. I wish I was there. The words linger on his tongue. But he doesn't speak them aloud.

Walt clears his throat and opens his eyes, “Thank you for picking up. Take care of yourself, alright? I love you.” Walt hangs up the phone in a rushed gesture.

If he stayed any longer, well, he didn’t know but his chest was heavy and he felt like he couldn't breathe right.

Staring at the phone he instantly feels worse for being so quick on the trigger. He shouldn't have done that. Fighting the urge to call her back, Walt walks away from the phone.

….

Nia

Nia makes her way through the crowd, returning to Mya at the bar.

“I’m surprised no one stole my seat, it’s never this busy in here!” She squeezes into the stool.

“Must be something going on, maybe some sports thing.” Mya smiles and rests her elbow on the bar, leaning her head into her palm.

Nia narrows her eyes at her sister, “What’s that look on your face, what are you up too?”

“What do you mean?” Mya gives her an innocent look.

“That is the look you would have whenever you were hiding something or up to something.” Nia leans in, examining her sister's face closely.

“I’m not hiding shit.” Mya sits up and brings her drink to her lips.

“This better not be another blind date because, ugh, “ Nia looks at the bar, scanning the bottles to see what she wants to order, “ I fucking hate dating. I'm over it."

Nia sees something she wants. As she parts her lips to order the bartender is already before her, drink in hand.

“For you.” She looks down at it, it’s her favorite drink.

“ I Didn't - “

“It’s from him.” The bartender points to the very end of the bar with a smile on her lips.

Nia looks at her sister first who is poorly trying to hide her smile. Following the bartender's finger, she spots a familiar face.

That smirk. The smirk she noticed and adored from so long ago and those puppy dog eyes staring back at her, making the full room disappear. He raises a hand and waves.

Nia feels the heat in her chest as her lips form a smile. Pressing the tip of her tongue against her teeth she shakes her head.

She nudged her sister, “Mya, were you in on this?”

Mya shrugs, but the answer is clear on her face. “He may or may not have asked me where you would be today.”

Nia was pissed at him. After the phone call, he just dropped off the face of the fucking planet and she was worried sick. Still, seeing his face brought on that weightless feeling, that silly i-can't-stop-smiling feeling.

She would tell him off later and make it clear that was not okay. But for now, she would let herself feel the happiness pumping through her veins.

…

Hours later

“I come bearing yummies!” Nia rushes back to the bed with a plate in her hand. Walt stares at her adoringly as he props his head on one of his palms while laying on his side. “Strawberries, chocolate, cherries!”

Nia picks up a piece of chocolate and presses it against Walt's lips. Walt playfully bites her fingers before eating it.

As Nia bites down on a cherry, Walt swallows the chocolate and leans forward.

“You look good in my shirt.”

“I barely got it on,” she laughs, “it’s too small for me.”

Walt shrugs, “it looks so much sexier this way.”

Rolling her eyes, Nia eats a bar of chocolate and moves the plate between them. A few seconds pass, Walt’s gaze stays strong on hers.

Nia matches his body language, “what are you looking at Agent?”

As she waits for him to reply, she can't help but notice how relaxed he looks. Walt's pale face has color again, he's put a little weight on and his eyes are bright. He looks like the Walt she remembered, like her Walt.

“I told you I’d get you back.” Walt brags.

Nia shoves him with a gentle push, “no one said we were back together.”

A flash of worry fills his face and Nia starts to laugh. Grabbing the plate she puts it on the table and pulls him into a kiss.

“You’re fucking with me, right?” He asks as their lips part, she touches her nose to his.

“Am I?” She teases.

Walt grunts, “you’re being a shit.”

“You deserve a little torture after that disappearing act.” She raises her eyebrows at him.

Laying back on the bed, Walt looks up at the ceiling, “i know I know. You tore me a good one.”

“Which you deserved.”  Nia draws out the words while poking at him.

“Damn right I deserved it. I am sorry.” He reaches out to grab her hand and kisses the back of it. “I’ll do better this time, I promise. You got me, all of me….if you want it.”

Nia rolls on top of him and plants a kiss on his chin. He wraps his arms around her.  

“Yeah, I do. And I’m going to hold you to that.” Nia replies.

Walts smile reaches his eyes, he pulls her closer. Nia rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes.

Maybe that different life they both dreamed of was possible and they only needed a second chance to get it right.

Permanent taglist

@readsalot73​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @buckysalefty​  

Walt fic

@tc-stark​ @fuckyeahscootmcnairy​ @fleurfatale89​ @ionlyjoinedforboydholbrook​ @thesolotomyhan​

[pennyserenade]

tags: nameless female oc x javier peña, nameless female oc x javier pena rating: t ( teen )  warnings: language, a smidge of angst  word count: 1.5k+ summary: a scenario in which javier finds peace at home notes: this is apart of the scenes universe, but just not in the main timeline. it’s set after the events in colombia, taking place at about the same time season 3, episode one does. this was created because i needed to see javier happy -- isn’t that wild ? gif by: @pascalsky​

A PEACE OF MIND AND A SLICE OF HOME 

The boy’s hair is light, so blonde it’s nearly white, and Javi’s in the middle of being teased about it for the umpteenth time. He grins, looking at the boy on his lap, telling his family to kindly--in the most kid appropriate way--fuck off. They ask about the mailmen in Colombia in between fits of laughter, or whether that partner of his had the same shade of hair—anything to get Javi going.

“Yeah, he did,” Javi replies, looking back at them, “But he didn’t have that nose,” he nods towards the kid. “That’s my nose.”

“Javi, don’t let them get you going—that kid has more than just your nose,” his tía says, inserting herself in the conversation. She’d been skirting closer and closer all night, but she’d been too focused on hosting to fully make her way over. It seems she’s freed herself now. “That wife of yours pushed out another little Javi.”

She puts her hands outwards and the boy reaches up, anticipating being picked up. Javi grins, letting him go. He had been worried about the way the boy would respond to the family at first, being that he’d not really had anyone in Colombia besides Steve and the two of them, but he enjoys the attention. Everyone is more than happy to give it to him, too.

“Will you watch him while I go find her?” Javi nods towards the house, “I think someone in there must be holding her up in conversation, and I think its Dad. It always is.”

She nods her head. “Go on.”

Javi kisses her cheek before making a beeline to the door. Surprisingly, no one tries to stop him and ask questions, but then again, he’s tried to walk quick enough so they’d know not to.

The house is relatively empty, with a few people scattered in the kitchen and a couple of women sitting at the couch. Javi checks multiple rooms, quiet in case there happens to be any sleeping children in any of them. Just as he thought, he finds his father and his wife in a room talking with their backs to the door. He doesn’t make a sudden intrusion. In fact, he doesn’t make one at all, lingering behind the threshold when he hears them talking.

“This was Javier when he was little,” his father tells her. He watches a photo pass between them.

“Who’s that woman?” she points to the photo, “Is that his mother?”

His father nods. “Yeah.”

She grins. “The baby looks so much like Javi did here. He’s so cute,” she laughs. She passes the photo back to his father. “Javi never really talks about his childhood and he didn’t have any photos like this in Colombia, so this is the first time I’ve seen any of this.”

His father shrugs. “Javi’s a bit odd about talking about this place. He always wanted to get away, and now that he has, I think he’s trying hard to forget it.”

His wife shakes her head. “No,” she assures. “Javi remembers this place. He’s just got a way about him, you know? Always too distracted by the future to bother with the past or the present.” She shrugs. “At least, he was. I think he’s a little more present these days.”

Javi knows he shouldn’t do this, stand here in the doorway and ease drop, but he can’t help it. The scene before him is an oddly intimate one and he doesn’t want to ruin it, but at the very same time, he can’t tear himself away from listening. He didn’t know either of them felt that way, and he didn’t even consider that they could bond over him.

“I know you probably don’t need me to tell you this, but I know you make him happy,” Chucho tells her. She smiles, and Javi can’t help but smile too. His is more bittersweet though. “He hasn’t been like this since...” His father thinks. “Since his mother passed, maybe. Maybe even a little before—maybe before she got sick.”

“What was she like?”

Javi knocks on the door. They both shift their eyes over to him. “Mijo,” his father says, “How’s the family treating you out there?”

“Oh, you know, brutally as always,” Javi says nonchalantly, looking over at his wife. “I’ve come to get her back, though.”

“You’ve had her for long enough to yourself,” Chucho quips. She laughs from beside him.

She points to the photos scattered in front of them. “He was showing me pictures of you as a baby.”

“That’s what I feared.” Javi enters the room finally.

She scrunches her nose. “Don’t be like that,” she teases. “Mira,” she holds up the photo her father had just shown her. “Pequeño bebé Javi.”

He glimpses at the photo, but not for too long. Something tightens in his chest at the sight of his mother, something he’s not ready to unpack just yet.

“You think you’ll be ready to head out soon?” Javi asks. “I think he’s gonna start getting fussy if we stay any longer.”

“I don’t think so—“ she begins, but then she sees the look in Javi’s eyes. That silent pleading. She gives him a look back, one that tells him she’s not so thrilled about the way he’s acting. He’s stubborn though.

“Maybe, actually,” she gives in. She hands the photo back to his dad. “Thank you for showing me these. I’ll have to come back sometime without Javi and the baby.”

Javi’s dad nods, but he knows. He’s kind enough to let it go though, and Javi’s ever more grateful for his wife’s presence.

“I’ll walk you out.”

Javi leads the way, slowly his pace so he can say his goodbyes on the way out. Everyone in the house wants hugs, but the people outside are too busy clutching drinks and children, or in the midst of conversation to do so. It takes longer than Javi likes, but after ten minutes or so, they find their way back to his tía. She smiles at them.

“Ah, you were the one holding her hostage,” she tells Chucho. “Javi was right.”

The baby reaches out towards his wife. She smiles at him before taking him in her arms and kissing his cheeks. “Hola, mi amor,” she coos. He nestles against her, and Javi smiles, reaching up to scratch his back before looking back at his aunt. “We’re about to head out. He’s gonna start getting fussy if we don’t go soon.”

Javi watches his father and aunt exchange looks quickly and his dare to twitch. His wife puts an arm around his back, though, pulling him close—grounding him.

His dad circles around to the baby, and Javi’s tía returns her attention back to him.

“Come back tomorrow?” she asks, leaning closer to him. “Your father needs help but he’s too stubborn to ask for it; you two are too similar in that sense.”

She affectionately grips his chin and he smiles at her. “Yeah okay, pero no big event like tonight, okay?” he requests. “I love them but I can’t stand another question about Colombia.”

“I promise,” she says. “Don’t be afraid to bring them around too.” She looks over at his wife and child. Chucho is in the middle of kissing the boy’s head and his wife is grinning wide. Javi can’t help but note how genuine it is, the smile, or the way she looks so at ease, as if this was her hometown and not his own.

He doesn’t say anything more, because the two of them know he won’t be getting out of the house without his wife and child; she’s fond of this place, and though he doesn’t love the trip down memory lane he feels as though he owes her that much. His Pop, too, bless him. Javi knows he’s too unkind, knows that the man only wants the best for him, but he can’t help but meet that with indifference.

After Chucho is done saying goodbye to his wife and child, Javi eases his way out of his wife’s hold. He leans forward, and, taking himself and his father by surprise, he embraces the older man in a hug.

Despite the way he slightly towers over his father, Javi cannot help the way he feels so small in his father’s arms. Chucho holds him tight and firm, and Javi welcomes it, closing his eyes for a minute. When they pull back, Chucho holds his face and places his forehead on Javi’s.

“I love you, mijo,” he says, “Now that you’re a father I’m sure you can understand just how much.”

Javi puts a hand over one of his dad’s. He nods. “I love you too, Pop. I’ll be back in the morning, okay?”

Chucho smiles. Javi sees the single dimple he has reflected in his father’s features. “Drive safe,” he tells Javi and his wife collectively. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Javi looks down at his wife and the baby, and he does it—he understands the way his father loves him, and what’s more, he gets why this town is a place the man hasn’t ever left. In the cracks and crevices of this town are the memories of a life they had led before, Javi and him and his mother. For all the good and the bad that they had experienced here, it would always serve as a reminder that it had happened—that life had been lived and love had been had. This was his father’s Colombia.

One day Javi will tell him this, that he understands. Today he lets it end with an affectionate pat on the man’s cheek, though, some echo of the sort of thing the man would have done to him when he was a boy.

Maybe Laredo isn’t half bad, Javi decides. Not like this, anyways. 

forever/everything tag list : @astroboots , @frannyzooey , @wyn-dixie , @rosiefridayrogersunday , @melaniermblt , @theorganasolo , @amneris21 , @honestly-shite , @over300books​

javi tag list : @wyn-dixie , @rosiefridayrogersunday , @disgruntledspacedad , @melaniermblt , @walt-breslin , @theorganasolo , @amneris21 , @hb8301 , @penajavier , @darnitdraco , @over300books , @dobbyjen​

scenes tags: @gravegoth​​ , @sarahjkl82-blog​​ , @cmonkeepmoving​​

[proceduralpassion]

Be Safe Out There

Day 31 of Narcoctober- Create a sequel or counterpart to a fanwork you posted previously this month.

Character(s): Walt Breslin x Soraya Turner (OC)

WC: 301

A/N: I soooo wanted to write more for Walt and Soraya and plan on probably doing just that but it was my goal to put out one more little ficlet of them my final Narcoctober fic. It's giving partners to lovers

“You could stay.” 

Soraya’s never heard Walt’s voice take on a demure tone, but that’s as accurate as she can describe it just now. She’s tempted to agree. Her fingers even bounce with the craving to do just that, but she also can’t deny the way her heart flushed when their supervisor asked if she was game to hop in on the joint operation going down in Cali tomorrow.

She’d been relegated to desk duty for weeks after the last undercover sting went sideways. It left her in a state of psychosis for 48 hours and self-inflicted permanent scarring on her arms from her hallucinogenic state.She felt fragile in the weeks to come with how little she was given to work on in the meantime. This was her first chance to get back in the saddle and it both energized and terrified her.

Her partner, Walt, had been by her side through the whole ordeal. The air of their dynamic was forever changed, heavier now. His nerves were even more frazzled than hers, proud of her but also now possessing a level of care that may or may not be platonic. His concern was growing tenfold, knowing that he’d be staying behind for this particular convoy.

His smile is rueful because he knows she needs this. To feel like she can do this again. He knows her answer before she even speaks it.

“If I don’t go now, I’ll never feel like I can.”

He’s already nodding before she finishes. She takes a few steps before his voice calls her back.

“Promise me one thing?”

She waits for his request, watching him sit back down and get back to his own leads. 

“Be safe out there, partner.”

Soraya knows that’s not a promise she can make. She makes it anyway.

Click here if you wanna be added to the taglist. Taglist: @asirensrage @drabbles-mc @ashlingnarcos @narcosfandomdiscord

[cregan-starks]

tagged by: my love @revolution-starter tysm!! 💝

rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! tag as many people as you have WIPs

chapter 4 of Beholden (Walt Breslin x OC)

chapter 3 of Reveries (Eddie Munson x OC)

no pressure tags: @queenofthefaceless @maharani-radha @moonlight-prose @rockstarmunson @prettyboyeddiemunson @theold-ultraviolence @

[cregan-starks]

Taquito | Beholden

Summary: Magnussen returns to Guadalajara.

Words: 3,395

Pairing: Walt Breslin x OC (not really)

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of drug trafficking, mentions of sexism, mention of communism, mentions of food, smoking, alcohol, cussing. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: As always, apologies for taking so long to update. This chapter’s lighter than the previous ones, but I hope y’all still enjoy it. 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 darlings @cleastrnge​ 💜 and @qoedameron​​ 💓 for the Mexican Spanish translations!  

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MARCH 6, 1986

GUADALAJARA, MEXICO

          Obscure fun fact: sometimes, the DEA experience involved sneaking barefoot out of a parking lot, at 1 a.m. Completely sober, too. Holding her shoes in one hand and her lit cigarette in the other, Magnussen sauntered towards her apartment building, accompanied by the sound of crickets. Against her better judgement, she stopped near a streetlamp to finish her cigarette. Bugs had flown around the top, drawn to its light. The current state of affairs did have a reasonable explanation. Barely two hours into her six-hour drive from Mexico City to Guadalajara, Magnussen’s feet had begun to hurt, so she had taken off her heels. In hindsight, it had been a shitty decision. The temperature had dropped significantly – causing goosebumps to erupt all over her skin – and the rough surface of the sidewalk underneath her feet created a slight discomfort. Magnussen took a drag from her cigarette, relishing in the view. The night sky served as a canvas for the shy, gleaming stars. A couple of blocks away, a dog barked as a car quietly drove by.

          Magnussen remembered a similar evening, sitting on the fence of the Consulate with Kiki and smoking, after he and his team had failed to lure Gallardo across the border into the U.S. and arrest him. Kiki had been so adamant about Gallardo knowing his name. He had felt exhausted, demoralized, defeated. That operation had been the closest they had ever gotten to capturing the Godfather, and he had slipped through their fingers… again. Kiki had longed to go home. It had seemed like he had finally been willing to abandon the hunt… and he should have. Back then, Gallardo had been wanted for being a notorious narco-trafficker. Now, he was also wanted for Kiki’s torture and murder. A sour reminder that a flame can transform into a wildfire.

          Worse, the men tasked with bringing Gallardo to justice didn’t even give a shit about Camarena. Magnussen gritted her teeth in frustration. She had taken Leyenda’s pulse, and she had been left rather disappointed. How was she supposed to work with them? Petski was auditioning to be a mime, Mejía was an arrogant toe, Méndez and Álvarez were yes-minions, Orozco was Breslin’s mustached parrot, Garza’s favorite hobby was waterboarding – or spitting on puppies – Palacios hadn’t developed a personality yet, and Breslin was a narrow-minded redneck. He probably wouldn’t budge on the Azul situation. Typical Yankee; loved to hear himself speak, rejected anyone else’s input. Whatever. Magnussen was too woman for her opinion to matter. Morales had been the only one whom she had genuinely liked. At least he had had the decency to introduce himself and welcome her to the team… although, as far as Magnussen was concerned, he must have had ulterior motives, too. Severe lack of trust among coworkers. Off to a great start…

          Give it time, she reasoned. Loosen some of that Eastern European pessimism. Magnussen dropped her cigarette on the ground, instinctively moving her foot to put it out before pausing in realization. Dodged a burn. She crouched and used the heel of one of the shoes that she was holding to extinguish the cigarette, mumbling “ridiculous” to herself, then headed into the complex. Magnussen peered to distinguish shapes in the dark in an attempt to not trip and fall flat on her mug as she tiptoed up the oddly dirty and sticky stairs. She cringed internally at the mere idea of navigating her apartment in this condition, already tired. Throw in hunger and an agonizing need to pee, and you could guess Magnussen’s general disposition.

          Maybe contemplating building her own network within the operation would serve as a distraction and cheer her up a bit. She couldn’t depend on her colleagues forever. In fact, she didn’t fancy relying on them at all. Administrator Lawn had gotten one thing right. Magnussen was no team player. She refused to let Calderoni off the hook, too. She demanded answers, and she was certain that the Commander was in possession of one or two of them. Calderoni had potentially upgraded to triple agent, bumping elbows with the Mexican government, the U.S. government, and the Guadalajara cartel. When Magnussen had told Breslin that Leyenda required somebody on the inside, she had meant it. Commander Calderoni was the perfect candidate for the job. Her plans didn’t end there, either. She also wanted to set up surveillance on Tómas Morlet – a DFS agent who had actually been placed at the scene of Camarena’s abduction and the man responsible for Kiki’s neighbor’s execution – and the low-ranking assholes who just so happened to be on Leyenda’s hit list. Happy coincidence.

          Magnussen curled her fingers around the handrail, for support, the sound of her rings clinking against the metal echoing. Apologies, neighbors. Unfortunately, they will have to adapt. You never knew what you were going to get, with Magnussen. Judging by the crusty sensation in the corners of her eyes, her makeup had betrayed her as well, becoming smudged. Magnussen was eager to eat, sleep… definitely drink… and wash her feet. She made it past the second floor. Almost there. So close, yet so far away. Magnussen even entertained the idea of crawling on all fours to avoid smearing the floor and carpets in her apartment. Who was she kidding? She would undoubtedly pass out immediately. Anything else belonged to the realm of speculation.

          Fuck.

          Magnussen froze in her spot, startled by a door swinging open, nearly clutching her shoes to her chest.

          ‘¡Oh, mierda!’, exclaimed the intruder, equally stunned, ‘Me espantaste.’ (Oh, shit! You scared me.)

          You and me both, honey. The apartment’s light flooded the hallway, further confusing Magnussen’s fragile state of mind.

          ‘Pérdon,’ she mumbled, discreetly studying the woman in front of her. (Sorry.)

          Big, dark eyes stared at Magnussen with concern. Her turquoise nails contrasted her smooth, brown skin, and her thick eyebrows were darker than her lengthy curls. She wore a beige cardigan over a white undershirt, her voluptuous chest distracting Magnussen only a little… as did her plump lips and curvy hips.

          ‘¿Estás bien?’, inquired the woman, visibly worried. (Are you okay?)

          Poor soul. Magnussen couldn’t blame her. She was roaming the hallway, barefoot, at one in the morning. Don’t sweat it, she could’ve seen worse.

          ‘Totalmente,’ assured Magnussen, calmly, ‘Solo tratando de llegar a mi departamento.’ (Totally. Just trying to get to my apartment.)

          ‘¿Vives aquí?’, asked the woman, surprised, perking up, ‘No te he visto antes.’ (You live here? I haven’t seen you before.)

          You shouldn’t exactly be seeing me now, either. That’s a story for… never. If you’re fortunate, you won’t run into me in the future.

          ‘Me mudé ayer,’ clarified Magnussen, hesitantly, regarding the current time, ‘O hace dos días. ¿Porqué estás sacando la basura a esta hora?’, she interrogated, referring to the trash bag that the woman was holding. (I moved in yesterday… or two days ago. Why are you taking out the trash at this hour?)

          Forget about my suspicious behavior. What about yours? The woman’s demeanor did not suggest that she was deceiving Magnussen. Alas, her investigative skills after midnight should be deemed dubious, at best.

          ‘Estaba afuera con unos amigos,’ explained the neighbor, the memory fond, ‘Ah, tú eres la que pone Judas Priest a todo volúmen.’ (I was out with some friends. Ah, you’re the one who plays Judas Priest loudly.)

          ‘Sí,’ confirmed Magnussen, unsure how to feel about the label, ‘Esa soy yo.’ (Yeah. That’s me.)

          Spotted on day one, and already effortlessly built a reputation for herself. How long would laying low have lasted, anyway? She couldn’t not talk with sentient beings.

          ‘Soy Guadalupe,’ introduced the woman, friendly, extending her free hand, ‘Llámame Lupita.’ (I’m Guadalupe. Call me Lupita.)

          ‘Bonito nombre,’ complimented Magnussen, shaking her hand, mindful of her shoulder holster peeking out from her jacket, ‘Santo. Soy Antonia. Llámame Toni.’ (Beautiful name. Holy. I’m Antonia. Call me Toni.)

          Another lie that she would have to maintain. I gotta put them on paper, eventually.

          ‘Gusto en conocerte,’ commented Lupita, offering a small smile, ‘¿De dónde eres?’ (Nice to meet you. Where are you from?)

          Shit.

          ‘Es un poco complicado,’ excused Magnussen, awkwardly, grimacing, ‘Vivo en Nueva Zelanda... pero nací en Rumanía.’ (That’s a bit complicated. I live in New Zealand… but I was born in Romania.)

          ‘No sé mucho de Rumanía,’ admitted Guadalupe, sounding disheartened, ‘Nunca he estado ahí.’ (I don’t know much about Romania. Never been.)

          ‘No te preocupes,’ enunciated Magnussen, waving dismissively, ‘No te pierdes mucho.’ (Don’t worry. You didn’t miss out on much.)

          Unless you count communist repression, minimum respect for human rights, secrecy, propaganda, occasionally hideous infrastructure.

          ‘¿Cómo es que estás en Guadalajara?’, questioned Lupita, politely curious. (How come you’re all the way in Guadalajara?)

          Attempting to bring justice to my deceased friend, who was tortured and murdered by a drug cartel, in collaboration with the Mexican government – allegedly. So, the usual.

          ‘Yo, uh, tengo un internado,’ disclosed Magnussen, mentally congratulating herself for her duplicitous reflexes, ‘En el consulado de Estados Unidos.’ (I, uh, have an internship… at the U.S. Consulate.)

          It’s a classified internship. Please, don’t press the issue. It’s a difficult period for me.

          ‘Que elegante,’ noted Guadalupe, half impressed, tugging her sweater over her chest, to keep warm, ‘Yo estoy intentando tener un título de Artes. Trabajo en un salón de uñas.’ (Fancy. I’m trying to get an Arts degree. I work at a nail salon.)

          Glancing down at her feet, Magnussen curled her toes, to prevent them from falling victim to frostbite. “Fancy” is not a word I would use to describe my “internship.” Arts are always approved of. Artists are the soul of society.

          ‘Buena suerte,’ she replied, unable to omit the most precious fact, ‘¿Salón de uñas, huh? Que suerte la mía.’ (Good luck. Nail salon, huh? Lucky me.)

          ‘Eres bienvenida cuando quieras,’ asserted Lupita, leaning against the doorframe, ‘¿Estás libre este fin de semana? Deberíamos salir.’ (You are welcome anytime. Are you free this weekend? We should hang out.)

          Despite her initial cynicism, Magnussen gradually realized that she would need to interact with people outside of her Leyenda circle, otherwise she would lose it and commit atrocities.

          ‘Aún no lo sé,’ began Magnussen before interrupting herself to address the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel that emerged from Guadalupe’s apartment, ‘Oh, hola.’ (I don’t know yet – Oh, hello.)

          Lupita quickly moved her foot to block the dog’s path. Its round, black eyes watched Magnussen with a sweet, gentle expression, and its lengthy, fluffy ears framed its face. The dog sported a silky, classical Blenheim coat – rich chestnut markings on a clear, pearly white ground.

          ‘Esta es Taquito,’ revealed Guadalupe, evidently not having anticipated the dog’s presence, ‘Debería estar dormida.’ (This is Taquito. She should be asleep.)

          Taquito – excellent name, by the way – can do whatever she wants.

          ‘Es un amor,’ countered Magnussen, affectionately, crouching to scratch the dog behind its ears, ‘Tráela contigo cuando salgamos.’ (She’s a darling. Bring her with you when we go out.)

          ‘Los perros no están permitidos en bares, Toni,’ reminded Lupita, playfully. (Dogs aren’t allowed in bars, Toni.)

          ‘Que se jodan,’ declared Magnussen, adamantly, petting Taquito’s head, ‘Iremos a un parque.’ (Fuck them. We’ll go to a park.)

          Taquito showed her endorsement by wagging her tail, excitedly.

          ‘Le encantará eso,’ chuckled Guadalupe, weakly pushing the dog back into her apartment, ‘Di buenas noches, Taquito.’ (She’ll love that. Say good night, Taquito.)

          ‘Buenas noches,’ said Magnussen, standing up and waving to Taquito. (Good night.)

          ‘Realmente tengo que tirar la basura,’ recalled Guadalupe, cautiously shutting the door once the dog was inside, ‘Nos vemos luego.’ (I really have to throw away the trash. See you around.)

          ‘Cuídate,’ quipped Magnussen, amused, observing her depart down the stairs. (Take care.)

          Alright. Scram, Scout. Forth, on to your lair.

          Magnussen kicked off her slippers and leaned back against the couch – mindful of her filled wine glass – stretching her legs before resting her feet on the edge of the coffee table. Fleetwood Mac’s Spare Me a Little of Your Love started to play quietly on the stereo. She sipped her beverage, the spice inundating her taste buds, urging her nerves and muscles to finally relax, since the immediate burdens had been lifted off her chest; she had relieved her bladder, washed her feet, removed her makeup, changed into her pyjamas, and eaten… dinner? What meal do people have at two a.m.?

          Her eyes lingered on the telephone laying on the table, conflicted. She should have dealt with this yesterday… or two days ago. She itched for another cigarette, but that would require getting up, walking into the bedroom, retrieving the pack, and cracking a window to get rid of the smell and smoke. Open windows at night were a no-go. Magnussen was on her own. She downed her wine – setting the glass aside – and grabbed the telephone. Magnussen checked her wrist watch as she dialed the number, estimating that it must have been eight in the morning in New Zealand. Here we go.

          A few seconds passed, and the prolonged dial tone seemed to be in sync with her heartbeat. Magnussen absentmindedly pulled on the loose thread of one of her fuzzy socks, hoping that the noise would cease – though she was unsure about her preferred outcome. One where I don’t get shamed for suffering from chronic hesitancy.

          When the dial tone abruptly stopped, the words died on her tongue, her throat dry. A funny feeling settled in her stomach. Anxiety butterflies.

          ‘Hello?’, answered Maia’s robotic voice, casually.

          Any trace of thoughts vacated Magnussen’s mind. She glanced around the living room, fixating on nothing in particular.

          ‘Uh, hey,’ she greeted, stiffly, scratching the nape of her neck, ‘It’s me.’

          ‘Well, well, well,’ articulated Maia, and Magnussen braced herself for the upcoming snark, ‘La Llorona didn’t find you yet. I hear you’re serenading me.’

          Magnussen involuntarily looked at the stereo. The song neared its end.

          Spare me a little,

          Spare me a little,

          Spare me a little of your love.

          ‘Compensating for my silence,’ she huffed, the corners of her mouth tilting upwards, ‘Sorry about that, by the way. What’re you up to?’

          ‘In the kitchen,’ informed a grumpy Maia, ‘Drinking coffee before work.’

          ‘First cup?’, inquired Magnussen, smugly proving that she knew Maia’s morning routine.

          ‘Second,’ corrected Maia, apparently fumbling with cutlery in the background.

          ‘Oh, so, I caught you at a good time,’ joked Magnussen, leaning over the couch arm to turn off the stereo.

          ‘That depends,’ teased Maia, flirtatiously, ‘What’ve you got for me?’

          ‘I just got back to Guadalajara,’ droned Magnussen, the reminder causing her to feel tired again.

          ‘Isn’t it late there?’, checked Maia, confused, the frown in her tone palpable.

          ‘Early, according to some,’ countered Magnussen, humorously, producing a small piece of paper from the pocket of her pyjama pants, ‘I had a meeting with the team.’

          Morales’ note. She scanned the neatly written names and numbers, barely paying attention.

          ‘And how was it?’, interrogated Maia, evidently curious.

          ‘I’m not,’ began Magnussen, carefully, searching for the appropriate term, ‘Too impressed. They seem like a bunch of yes-men. In it for a medal and a few bucks. Only Morales talked to me afterwards. Genuine or not…’

          ‘There’s that pessimism, alive and well,’ observed Maia, fondly.

          ‘It’s not that,’ grumbled Magnussen, shoving the note in her pocket, ‘Breslin’s already stepping on my tail.’

          Romanian saying. Maia would get it. She always does.

          ‘Who could’ve anticipated that?’, falsely lamented an amused Maia.

          ‘He has ego cramps because of the airport thing,’ dismissed Magnussen, sinking into the couch.

          ‘Do tell,’ encouraged Maia, interested.

          An opportunity to complain? She would be a fool not to seize it. Maia proceeded to sip her coffee, loudly, forcing Magnussen to briefly remove the telephone from her ear, annoyed by the noise. Maia was doing it on purpose.

          ‘I randomly saw him struggling to light his cigarette,’ explained Magnussen, feigning innocence, ‘So, I offered him my lighter. Made small talk.’

          ‘You didn’t tell him who you were,’ concluded Maia, incredulously.

          ‘Of course, I didn’t,’ scoffed Magnussen, offended by the implication, ‘Said my name’s Sofia, faked an accent. He was probably suspicious, but I doubt he figured out what was really wrong. We met a second time in Heath’s office.’

          ‘Gross,’ deadpanned Maia.

          Magnussen wholeheartedly agreed.

          ‘I didn’t know Breslin was gonna show,’ she clarified, placing the telephone between her ear and shoulder to reach for the DEA badge on the coffee table, ‘He didn’t know I was gonna show. It was funny. He was so pissed.’

          ‘Barbie’s boyfriend must have been confused as hell,’ posited Maia, chuckling, ‘What did he do?’

          ‘Nothing,’ shrugged Magnussen, bitterly, ‘It’s not in his job description. He still pretends to have a spine. He didn’t stay long. I can’t tell if he feels any guilt over what happened.’

          She studied the pretentious-looking object, attentively, her nail lightly digging into the eagle – the U.S. – proudly sitting atop the badge’s sunburst-shaped body, grasping an olive branch and arrows – the federal government’s authority over peace and war. Atrocious.

          ‘It’s not in the job description,’ echoed Maia, somber, ‘He doesn’t have to.’

          ‘Hopefully, D.C. will be merciful, and I won’t have to deal with Bureaucrat Ken’s existence moving forward,’ claimed Magnussen, gloomy, tossing her badge on the table, ‘Anyway, I bumped into one of my neighbors. Lupita. She has a dog named Taquito.’

          ‘Congratulations on socializing,’ jested Maia, condescendingly, ‘A reason for you to go out more. Don’t forget to smuggle Taquito into New Zealand when you come back.’

          ‘If I come back,’ corrected Magnussen, reflexively, then subtly attempted to change the subject, ‘I thought we were getting a cat.’

          ‘Hey, don’t talk like that,’ scolded Maia, refusing to take the feline bait.

          Magnussen provided no response, instead shifting into a more comfortable, apathy-compatible position, lying down on her side, balancing the telephone over her left ear.

          ‘How’re you holding up, so far?’, murmured Maia, concerned, as if she were reaching out to tenderly squeeze Magnussen’s shoulder.

          A lump formed in her throat, preventing the truth from bursting past the surface. I wish things hadn’t been like this. I wish Kiki would still be alive. I wish I had been a child for a little longer. Lying to Maia would be pointless. Magnussen swallowed hard and counted the seconds, pondering when would be the right moment to say something. She sniffed, gradually sobering up.

          ‘I don’t know,’ confessed Magnussen, at last, voice wavering, ‘It’s strange, being here, not having him around… The city hasn’t changed much, but everything feels different. I’m starting to understand what Jaime meant.’

          ‘You need time,’ offered Maia, compassionately, ‘Going back was never going to be easy. You’re probably not going to like this, but I think you’re doing this for yourself as much as you’re doing it for Kiki… Take it easy.’

          Historically unsustainable for me.

          ‘You might be creating problems where there aren’t any,’ continued Maia, surprisingly civil, ‘Heath, Breslin, Morales, whoever the fuck. You’ll be fine. You can handle them. They have no idea what’s coming.’

          ‘The cartel or the DEA?’, quipped Magnussen, managing a smile.

          ‘Both,’ replied Maia, decisively.

          ‘Okay, enough about my bullshit,’ interjected Magnussen, her allergy to compliments manifesting, ‘How’s everything on your side of the world?’

          ‘Long version?’, recited Maia, aggressively setting her mug in the sink, ‘Up to my neck in work. O’Connor is driving me up a fucking wall. I don’t know who hired him, and I don’t know why they won’t fire him… Short version? I can’t wait for the weekend.’

          ‘Amen, sister,’ yawned Magnussen, stretching her legs that didn’t remotely touch the opposing arm of the couch.

          ‘Alright, I have to go to work,’ announced Maia, adopting her Mom Tone, ‘And you need to sleep.’

          ‘Mmmyeah,’ mumbled Magnussen, drowsily, rubbing her eye, ‘I miss you.’

          ‘I bet you do,’ sassed Maia, readily.

          ‘Mahuika,’ warned Magnussen, vaguely threatening.

          ‘I miss you, too,’ reassured a sly Maia, ‘Call me at more decent hours.’

          ‘Attempts will be made,’ bargained Magnussen, doubtful, ‘Good… morning.’

          ‘Good night, honey,’ chirped Maia.

          Magnussen lazily shifted on her back, allowing the telephone to fall next to her, on the couch cushion. She stared at the ceiling for a couple of minutes, contemplative, before she realized that the unwashed dishes awaited her, in the kitchen. From the bottom of her being, Magnussen released a deep, heavy sigh.

          Fuck.

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic​ @amidalaraan​ @artthurshelby​ @buttercup--bee​ @cleastrnge​ @dameronology​ @frodo-sam​ @itssmashedavo​ @kalondarling​ @ladygangsters​ @maevesdarling​ @maevemills​ @maharani-radha​ @mitchi-c​ @moonlight-prose​ @nicolettegreen​ @pascalisthepunkest​ @queenofthefaceless​ @revolution-starter​ @sullho​ @themangolorian​ @tisbeautifulfreedom​ @qoedameron​

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

READ MORE: Mahuika, DEA badge, to step on someone’s tail = to annoy/upset them

[cregan-starks]

Rookie | Beholden

Summary: Magnussen meets her teammates.

Words: 8,036

Pairing: Walt Breslin x OC (not really)

Warnings: politics, mentions of drugs and drug trafficking, mentions of death, mentions of communism, mentions of alcohol, mention of claustrophobia, mention of food, guns, sexism, Magnussen fights a fly, smoking, cussing. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: Firstly, Happy New Year! May 2022 be easier on all of us! Secondly, I apologize for taking so long with this chapter. Life and writer’s block got in the way. But, as always, thank you for your patience! 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 darling @cleastrnge​ (to whom this chapter is dedicated in honor of her birthday)​ for the Mexican Spanish translations 💜

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MARCH 5, 1986

CIUDAD DE MÉXICO, MEXICO

          Edward Heath’s clean-shaven face, ironed grey suit, and impeccable posture made him the embodiment of a true bureaucrat. His large, chimpanzee ears prevented Magnussen from taking him seriously, and his bushy eyebrows resembled those hairy caterpillars that she had seen on TV, in nature documentaries. By comparison, Magnussen looked like a hippie student protesting the Vietnam war, in her T-shirt with a cow wearing sunglasses. Not that she cared about any opinion that Heath might have. Her black leather jacket concealed her arm tattoos, watch, and the shoulder holster that carried her Beretta 92. At least Heath had been productive in that regard, handing her the DEA badge, phone, gun, and car keys, shortly after she had arrived. He had even joked that he would offer her a drink if it weren’t so early.

          ‘That never stopped me,’ Magnussen had commented dryly, no longer interested in the conversation, now that she knew that alcohol wouldn’t be involved.

          But Heath couldn’t just leave things there and spare her of a further tête-à-tête. He started rambling about Leyenda, claiming that she would be an appropriate choice for the team. Fucking hell. Admittedly, Magnussen needed a drink. Although her bed had been more than cozy, it hadn’t felt entirely welcoming, and she hadn’t slept well. New place curse. She had woken up at 8 a.m. to catch her flight to Mexico City, dragged her ass out of bed, eaten in a hurry – unable to savor her breakfast – yawned approximately 20 times on the plane, waited in line at the U.S. embassy – where she hadn’t been allowed to smoke – lied about having to renew her tourist visa, and had been escorted by an employee down a set of stairs to the “passport office” – code for Heath’s lair.

          The half-closed blinds forced her to squint her eyes in order to study her surroundings as she walked into the claustrophobia-inducing room, her heels clicking against the floor. The smell of cologne was intoxicating, much stronger than the one of coffee. Documents, pens, and staplers decorated the desk in the middle, and a couple of chairs rested on either side of it. To her left, a printer and a computer shared an old table that would probably break if somebody deposited a mug on it. When Heath had invited her to take a seat, Magnussen had declined, opting instead to examine some shelves, on the wall. She gently ran her fingertips over the files marked “August 1975”, “September 1975”, “October 1975”, dust collecting on them. Wonder how many war crimes are in here… They wouldn’t fit in this damn building.

          ‘That why you recommended me?’, questioned Magnussen, indifferent, tilting her head to peer at Heath, who was peeking out of the window, seemingly avoiding her glare.

          Sensing another bullshit speech coming her way, Magnussen took precautions and distracted herself with admiring the agent’s features. She despised almost everything about Heath, yet she had to concede that his prominent jaw must have been sculpted by Greek gods. His piercing, icy blue eyes could put Lake Baikal to shame on a bad day. Magnussen was uncertain whether to call those redeeming qualities. This man has none.

          ‘You lived in Mexico for two years,’ reminded the agent, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers, his wedding band glimmering in the light, ‘You know the territory. You worked alongside the team in Guadalajara, so you’re already familiar with the cartel. You’re multilingual.’

          Funny. Three years ago, these were the exact reasons why everybody disregarded whatever she had to say. Americans’ beliefs change like piss in the wind. The U.S. was an exhausting toddler – enjoying its toy one minute and discarding it the next. And if shit doesn’t go the way you want it to, throw a nuclear fit… Literally.

          ‘I also play the piano,’ bragged Magnussen, a hint of irony in her tone, ‘And I’m twenty-four. Old enough to be the granddaughter of most of your agents.’

          She was actually fascinated by Heath’s self-control abilities. No matter the number of times she poked him with a stick, he maintained his composure and did his best to act diplomatic. Magnussen repeatedly dangled the bait in front of him and he refused to engage. Hot.

          ‘We think you could provide a fresh perspective,’ explained Heath, turning to her slightly, shadows dancing across his figure, ‘Modern methods. You received the necessary training–’

          ‘Yeah, yeah,’ interrupted Magnussen, irritated, counting on her fingers while she listed, mockingly, ‘Written assessment, panel interview, drug test, medical exam, physical task assessment, polygraph test, psychological screening, full background check–’

          ‘I’m aware of the DEA’s requirements, Agent Magnussen,’ assured Heath, sounding fatigued, lifting a hand to signal her to stop, ‘I was subjected to them myself. Everything was considered once your candidacy was submitted.’

          ‘And who submitted my candidacy?’, demanded Magnussen, arching a skeptical eyebrow, moving to casually sit down at the desk.

          Sure as hell wasn’t me. Bowen had successfully dodged that question for months, as if her career had depended on it. Maybe it had. Magnussen had a creeping suspicion that it had become classified information. Nevertheless, she had the right to know. Someone had gone through the trouble of bypassing the majority of the DEA’s bureaucratic procedures to get the poor communist girl a job. Heartwarming, if it weren’t so damn frustrating. Magnussen could at least order a bouquet of flowers for the person. She would scribble “(no) thanks” on the note.

          ‘Camarena,’ declared Heath, watching Magnussen’s reaction, attentively.

          Her expression fell, the unexpected answer temporarily disarming her. She averted her gaze, rather ashamed, giving in to the instinctive urge to rub her jacket’s sleeve, inside which the Camarenas’ bracelet safely hid.

          ‘He always spoke highly of you,’ added the agent, approaching Magnussen, hesitantly, ‘Said you were a good kid. Ambitious. Smart. Thought you had a bright future ahead, so he insisted that we had to persuade you to work for the Administration.’ Heath gestured around, rectifying, ‘I doubt this is what he meant… Camarena saw something in you. You’re telling me he was wrong?’

          I wasn’t a good kid. And now, I’m not a good adult. Magnussen’s nails persistently scratched at the table’s edge, unaffected. Wood shreds floated in the air before landing on her thighs. She found the DEA’s sudden interest in hers and Kiki’s relationship disturbing; their bond had never been complicated.

          That night, Magnussen had stayed at the Consulate to finish her research. She had decided to read on the floor, since she had the whole room to herself, her peers having deserted hours ago. The place was unusually quiet, leaving Magnussen to conclude that it was past 6 p.m. Late, according to some.

          ‘You’re still here?’, asked a voice she recognized as Camarena’s.

          ‘Clearly,’ acknowledged Magnussen, slyly, ‘I’d say I’m almost done, but I’d be lying.’

          ‘It’s Friday,’ emphasized the agent, bewildered.

          ‘Exactly,’ she agreed, setting aside a report to look at Camarena, ‘No one to bother me.’

          Camarena was in the doorway, coat on, holding a suitcase; undoubtedly itching to go home. He nodded in understanding, a small smile forming on his face. Magnussen hadn’t seen him smile at all. They had barely interacted, yet he appeared to be the antithesis of Kuykendall.

          ‘Magnussen, no?’, checked the agent, pointing a finger at her, ‘Well, I’m pretty sure your buddies went to the Babel.’

          ‘You’re telling me to fuck off?’, quipped Magnussen, amused, then corrected, ‘They’re not my buddies.’

          ‘You do got a roommate, though, right?’, inquired Camarena, tone implying that a “no” would not be accounted for.

          ‘I guess,’ grumbled Magnussen, beginning to gather her papers.

          The base of her spine complained when she tried to reach for the folder, farther away. Shit. Did I age 50 years? Shockingly, chairs had been invented to serve a virtuous purpose.

          ‘Oh, she’s alive,’ clarified Magnussen, upon noticing Camarena’s perplexity, ‘And probably inebriated.’

          ‘So, you’re on your own tonight?’, speculated the agent, supposedly solving a complex geometry problem in Sumerian.

          ‘I’m on my own most nights,’ stated Magnussen, nonchalant, ‘I don’t mind it.’

          Judging by the prolonged deadly silence that settled while she packed her possessions, Magnussen assumed that Camarena had fucked off. She imagined that the rest of her evening would proceed as it normally did: take the bus, eat supper, shower, call Maia–

          ‘You could come over for dinner,’ blurted Camarena, surprising them with his suggestion, and startling Magnussen.

          ‘You sure?’, she muttered, furrowing her brows, scolding herself for genuinely contemplating his proposal.

          ‘Yeah,’ confirmed the agent, jingling his keys, ‘My wife thinks we don’t socialize enough.’

          ‘Been told the same bullshit,’ confessed Magnussen, annoyed.

          They both chuckled.

          Camarena had nicknamed her “Scrooge”, a feat that seldom failed to stir laughter among his sons – Huey, Dewey, and Louie. Mika would often remark that Kiki and Magnussen were “two grumpy peas in a pod.” Magnussen had spent increasingly more time with the family; she assisted Kiki in the hunt for the Guadalajara cartel and Camarena’s insight proved to be useful for her dissertation.

          Following Kiki’s demise, the DEA – who had loathed their attachment – did a 180° turn and milked their friendship beyond decency. Magnussen wouldn’t be fooled, despite their shallow attempts to rewrite history and convince her that they had always been on her side. She hadn’t forgotten her curriculum vitae, in the words of the great narc-clowns themselves; Ambassador Gavin had labeled her a child, Administrator Lawn had deemed her “hotheaded” and “not a team player,” and Heath had privately referred to her as a “hormonal teenager” to Jaime.

          The busy chatter of people filled the hallway, outside, tearing Magnussen from her spiraling thoughts. Digging up these grudges would achieve nothing. The mission wasn’t about her, nor was it about those who had mistreated her. She had learned long ago to save little hope for herself. Fall in line and you’ll survive.

          Magnussen stood up and patted her striped palazzo pants until they were clean of the timber fragments.

          ‘Why was Kuykendall taken off the case?’, she challenged, masking her festering anger, ‘Seasoned agent. Knew Kiki better than I did.’

          Opposite from her, Heath leaned forward, planting his palms on the desk, as if he were in an intense board meeting. I wonder what new flavors Coca Cola will release.

          ‘Jaime had seen too much and done enough,’ he recited, defensive, out of the blue. He paused and glowered at Magnussen while she propped her ass on the table, her upper body invading his personal space. ‘He was transferred after Camarena was recovered. Mexican authorities launched a homicide investigation. We had no jurisdiction. Our hands were tied… Jaime’s a fine agent and stepping back was what was best for him.’

          Heath retreated, fixing his suit jacket as an excuse. Poor dude’s intimidated. Magnussen made herself comfortable, crossing one leg over the other to keep her balance, and absentmindedly rolled a pencil across the desk’s surface.

          ‘And Calderoni?’, she pressed, twisting the blade deeper into Heath’s exasperation, relishing in pushing his buttons, ‘He was part of the investigation. Did anyone consider contacting the commander who neglected to arrest Félix Gallardo?’

          ‘We believe the cartel got to him,’ disclosed Heath, progressively sour, ‘Approaching him would be dangerous and might compromise our operation… I expected you to understand the gravity and sensitivity of the issue.’

          Bite me, motherfucker. You probably use a different shampoo for your pubic hair.

          ‘Wasn’t that your job?’, retorted Magnussen, defiance etched into her features.

          Heath visibly deflated, letting out a brief sigh, and stroked his forehead. He had been through this before. He was perfectly aware of what she was hinting at; his delayed response to Camarena’s disappearance, which had attracted consequences of its own.

          ‘We made mistakes,’ admitted Heath, almost regretfully, ‘Underestimated the potential repercussions coming from the drug traffickers… But we’re trying to mend some of these wrongs. That’s why Leyenda was created… My brother was killed in 1973, working undercover. I know what it’s like to want justice. To be incapable of getting it. To feel powerless.’

          A couple of knocks on the door halted their discussion, simultaneously causing Magnussen to gladly pull the plug on whatever answer she had devised. In a perverted way, she was relieved. Comforting folks wasn’t her forte. In fact, she sucked at it, and offering consolation was the last thing that she would do to Heath.

          ‘Come in,’ encouraged the agent, amiably, without bothering to check who the intruder was, drawing Magnussen’s wandering attention.

          The door opened and Walt Breslin walked in, evidently not anticipating Heath to have company. He greeted “ma’am”, courteously, nodding once, initially clueless… then he froze, gaze lingering on her impassive face, his suspicion gradually followed by sheer confusion. His expression was priceless; worth framing. The man was so stunned that he didn’t even acknowledge Heath’s presence. Magnussen bestowed upon him a wicked, nearly imperceptible smirk. Yeah, it’s me. PhD in Diplomacy.

          ‘Walt,’ droned Heath, clearing his throat, gesturing him invitingly to enter the office.

          It took Breslin several seconds to snap out of it and reluctantly shut the door behind him. This should be interesting. Magnussen figured that he wouldn’t be particularly delighted with the new kid at the Leyenda playground.

          ‘This is Agent Magnussen,’ continued Heath, oblivious to – or actively ignoring – the scornful glares being exchanged, ‘Agent Moss’ replacement.’

          Heath must’ve expected them to shake hands and be cordial, yet neither moved a muscle, nor showed any intention in that regard. Breslin seemed to be fuming in the subtlest way that Magnussen had ever witnessed somebody fume. He stood a few meters away from Heath, opposite from where she sat on the desk, quietly chewing gum, his thumbs tucked in his brown belt. Cornered by wolves and weighing his options.

          ‘We’ve met before,’ revealed Breslin, detached – though his gruffy voice gave the impression that he was containing his acidity – addressing Heath, his eyes glued to Magnussen, ‘Yesterday, at Guadalajara Airport.’

          Heath’s quizzical look didn’t solidify into further questions on the subject. Meanwhile, Magnussen tried to pick apart Breslin’s cryptic demeanor; she envisioned that he assumed that he was stuck in some elaborate trap designed and set up by her in order to trick him and make him appear like a fool, which was far from the truth. Besides, the guy ought to have a shred of sense of humor, right? Magnussen herself hadn’t predicted Breslin’s arrival, since Heath had failed to notify her. So, Heath summoned both of us here and coincidentally omitted to tell us about each other? Two birds, one stone.

          ‘Well,’ began Heath, licking his lips, ‘Magnussen’s one of the most gifted women we’ve encountered in our international students’ program… She worked with Camarena and helped obtain valuable intel on the Guadalajara cartel. Magnussen knows the criminal mind like the back of her hand.’

          Magnussen whipped her head around, her heart drumming in her chest, when the door violently flung open, interrupting Heath’s speech. Jesus fucking Christ. At least Breslin had knocked.

          ‘Sorry,’ babbled a tall man in glasses, his fingers squeezing the doorknob, ‘Toft’s on the phone for you, sir.’

          Heath’s face mimicked something akin to satisfaction after receiving the news. Magnussen couldn’t determine whether to rejoice over the fact that the agent was put out of his misery. It was getting good. I enjoyed the line about the criminal mind.

          ‘Thank you, James,’ replied Heath, dexterously buttoning his suit, ‘Apologies. You’ll have to excuse me. I believe you two have a lot to catch up on. Walt, could you brief Magnussen on Belize and the latest lead?’

          Belize, huh? That part was excluded from her reports. Heath accompanied James out of the room, leaving Breslin and Magnussen to metaphorically circle one another like birds of prey. If he offered his condolences or dared pity her, she would scream. Breslin tilted his head to the side slightly, his curls falling over the wrinkles on his forehead. The agent’s hawkish stare locked on her in an ineffective attempt to intimidate her. For a long time, they sized each other up, silently. The collar of a T-shirt peeked from underneath the blue checkered flannel that hugged his slim form, similar to the grey one that he had sported the previous day. Magnussen wondered why the hell Breslin wore an additional layer in Mexico’s heat. Self-consciousness? His rolled-up sleeves exposed a silver watch on his left wrist. Magnussen couldn’t help her puzzled frown upon spotting a crumpled rag shoved in the pocket of his dark jeans. The fuck?

          ‘So, you’re the rookie,’ accused Breslin, at last, bitterly, crossing his hairy arms over his chest, his lower back resting against the computer’s table, ‘You’re younger than I thought.’

          Magnussen scoffed shamelessly loudly, already hearing the complaints about her behavior being “grossly unprofessional.” Still, she considered it basic human decency to inform someone whenever they uttered stupid shit. Teach them early or they’ll end up president.

          ‘Bet you were expecting a toothless fossil,’ she theorized, wryly.

          ‘Harvard educated, too,’ joked Breslin, the corners of his mouth inching upwards. The fleeting moment passed, and he suffocated Amusement in its cradle, growing condescending, ‘DEA ain’t in the habit of doing favors for people like you.’

          What kind would those be? Left-wingers?... And how is recruiting me for the War on Drugs beneficial?... Mental gymnastics.

          ‘Oh, they’re not doing me any favors,’ corrected Magnussen, brazenly, ‘I think they’re doing Leyenda a favor.’

          Her response had clearly struck a nerve, if Breslin’s clenched jaw were any indication. She shifted, adjusting her position on the desk, unfazed. Bring it, cowboy. Magnussen’s reasoning – her being the training wheels on the DEA’s slow, classified bicycle – actually had more plausibility.

          ‘You’re getting off on the wrong foot with your boss, sweetheart,’ warned Breslin, maintaining his calm, despite the venom dripping from his tone and his darkening glare.

          ‘Should I try the other foot, then?’, suggested Magnussen, innocently, ‘And you’re not my boss.’ She pushed a pencil, watching it spin on the table’s surface as she calculated her next step. ‘For the record, I didn’t seek you out or anything like that. I recognized you from your photo in the Leyenda documents. Figured I’d say hello.’

          ‘You lied your ass off,’ contradicted Breslin, immediately, borderline offended, ‘I mean, even your accent’s gone.’

          Getting nostalgic, buddy? Magnussen was pleasantly surprised; she hadn’t pegged him as the type to be into accents, let alone treat them with respect. Hell, the guy was from Houston. Fucking Texas.

          ‘I could keep it for you,’ she teased, flirtatiously, twisting the ring on her middle finger, ‘And I didn’t lie about everything. Out of the Blue is my favorite Electric Light Orchestra album. Sofia’s my middle name. I’m not Italian, but I know the language. I did my Criminology master’s in Mexico–’

          ‘I’m aware,’ grumbled Breslin, rudely interrupting her enumeration, earning an irked sigh from her, ‘I’ve read your file.’

          They mention my music taste in there? Dope. No pun intended. If he were impressed, Breslin didn’t convey it. Tough crowd. Magnussen herself wasn’t faring much better; her bona fide reactions were a breed on the brink of extinction. The DEA doesn’t want authenticity from me… or anyone else.

          ‘Oh, I love it when a man takes an interest,’ she jested, sardonic, lifting her chin.

          ‘Cops ain’t allowed to show their tattoos,’ lectured Breslin, implicit expression insinuating that Magnussen had to be in possession of all of the facts, which she absolutely wasn’t.

          After she arduously wracked her brain for a clue as to what the hell he was referring to – briefly panicking that he had seen something that he wasn’t meant to – Magnussen deduced that Breslin must have been alluding to yesterday’s interaction. Oh, please.

          ‘I’m not a cop,’ she pointed out, smiling falsely, ‘And I didn’t show you anything. It’s not my fault that you were looking where you weren’t supposed to.’

          The audacity. Magnussen tapped her heel against the floor, petulantly, chewing the inside of her bottom lip – mindful of her lipstick. She paused, suddenly recalling Heath’s instructions, astonished that she had paid attention to his words.

          ‘What’s in Belize?’, she interrogated, narrowing her eyes suspiciously to regard Breslin, who cocked an equally doubtful eyebrow at her.

          For fuck’s sake. He hesitated, understandably distrustful of her. Magnussen didn’t trust him, either. They were mere strangers, forced to collaborate. Sure, she could be demanding sometimes, but if the two of them were to work together, they would have to at least share intel. So, by withholding information, Breslin was actively preventing her from doing her job, and Magnussen would not tolerate that.

          ‘Amado Carrillo Fuentes,’ provided Breslin, cautiously, ‘He was sent to Juárez to manage Acosta. Bought a bunch of planes at an auction in Belmopan. We put transponders on ‘em so we could track his movements.’

          Federation’s expanding. Soon, they’ll purchase the U.S. Air Force… if they haven’t already. Magnussen found the usage of “manage” intriguing. Acosta’s causing trouble in paradise?

          ‘That’s why you were at the airport yesterday,’ she alleged, solving the mystery.

          ‘Well done, Rookie,’ jeered Breslin, derisive, ‘You’re catching up.’

          Magnussen rolled her eyes, a blasé snort escaping her, yet she decided to be merciful and let his insolence slide. She had other urgent businesses to tend to.

          ‘What about Calderoni?’, she insisted, admiring her black manicured fingernails, ‘He reached out at all?’

          Although pressing the issue could prove futile, Magnussen refused to accept that she was beating a dead horse. As they had done in many cases, the Americans had been quick to prematurely dismiss the inconvenience – namely, Calderoni. Magnussen, however, reckoned that there was more to that story and to the commander, and she was willing to clash with the DEA over it. She had to exhaust all of the resources.

          ‘What for?’, retorted Breslin, with an indifferent shrug, ‘He made his choice. Doesn’t seem like he’s on our side.’

          Ugh. Kindergarteners’ Guide to Law Enforcement: Us v. Them.

          ‘Neither is the United Nations Commission on Human Rights,’ sassed Magnussen before emphasizing, ‘This is Mexico, Agent Breslin. You need somebody on the inside.’

          ‘We’ve been getting along just fine without him,’ affirmed Breslin, stubbornly.

          ‘Because illegally kidnapping a gynecologist is so damn difficult,’ argued Magnussen, harshly, nostrils flaring.

          ‘The fuck d’you know about it?’, deadpanned Breslin.

          ‘I know that when you start moving furniture around, people stub their toes and get mad,’ she elaborated, matter-of-factly.

          That’s what had happened to an ambitious Kiki. Go knocking on enough doors asking for the devil and eventually he may answer. Magnussen wasn’t keen on repeating past mistakes; not with such high stakes.

          ‘That’s the Leyenda playbook, Rookie,’ explained Breslin, oddly patient, ‘You put guys in custody, use leverage to get them to flip on the next asshole, and you move up the chain.’

          The same chain that strangles everyone who makes too much noise? Yeah, right. Breslin’s misplaced optimism was a bit endearing. A bit.

          ‘You bagged a few shrimps,’ commented Magnussen, smirking triumphantly, ‘How do you plan to bag the barracuda? Pry him from the PRI’s claws?’

          ‘One day,’ confirmed Breslin, foolishly confident, ‘Someone always talks.’

          Or gets eaten. The system had all kinds of medicine for one’s conditions. Admittedly, the Americans’ naïveté was entertaining; they honestly thought that they could go against a political party that had adapted and stayed in power for decades. Politics chews people alive and spits them out. It takes a special sort of asshole to survive in that environment. Magnussen straightened her spine and stretched, impatient to get the hell out of Heath’s office. Lovely chat, Special Agent Breslin. We disagree on… probably everything.

          Oh, one last thing.

          ‘Why do you carry that rag with you?’, she queried, nodding at the object in question, ‘You got hyperhidrosis, like Nixon?’

          It’s been bugging me for a while. Roughly ten minutes.

          Breslin released a quiet, amused huff, attempting to conceal what appeared to be a genuine smile, then headed for the door, which he opened with a soft squeak. Once he was in the doorway, he turned to face Magnussen, abruptly.

          ‘The team’s meeting at five for a surveillance briefing,’ he revealed, fishing in the pocket of his flannel, ‘Derelict building on Paseo de la Reforma, 707, near the indigenous museum.’ He retrieved an item and tossed it at her, adding, ‘Don’t be late, Rookie.’

          Magnussen reflexively caught it and studied it, rather curious. Her golden Colibri lighter, its metal cool to the touch. Nice. She checked her watch, to see how long she had left until the gathering. 2:36. Plenty of time to explore the capital. When she glanced back up, Breslin was already gone.

          Magnussen smiled to herself, pleased.

          Magnussen had not only been the first person to show up at the location, but she had also managed to arrive fifteen minutes earlier, despite taking several lengthy detours. The culprits for her “rush” had been her raging desire to always have the upper hand – even over her soon-to-be-coworkers – and the damn British punctuality, which she could deny all she wanted; Magnussen had grudgingly acquired it while living in London, the same way that one catches the flu.

          The hide and seek mission required parking her car farther away from the busy boulevard, sneaking between buildings in order to find the place, and frequently looking over her shoulder to ensure that nobody followed her. Magnussen hesitated at the skeletal complex’s entrance, where the missing door introduced a long, humid hall. As she advanced, the bright, natural light behind her and the darkness ahead began to feel like an ironic metaphor for her return to Mexico.

          The eerie appearance initially led Magnussen to suspect that she had landed in the wrong “derelict building.” Must, mold, and cobwebs covered the flakes of orange paint on the walls, bare lightbulbs hung from the ceiling, and the damp cement floor – whose small cracks were an ordeal for her heels – forced Magnussen to crinkle her nose. The cigarette butts on the ground, half a dozen scattered chairs, and a corkboard were the sole indication of human life. Most of the thick pillars looked like they might collapse if somebody stomped their feet. I won’t do that ‘cause it’ll fuck up my shoes. The sounds of cars honking and dogs barking outside slipped in through square windowless holes. Charming. What had Magnussen expected, anyway? Leyenda was a classified operation. They wouldn’t meet in the U.S. consulate’s offices.

          Or, Breslin had lied about the gathering and pulled a ridiculously petty prank on her to avenge his injured ego after her daring stunt at the airport. Magnussen wasn’t familiar enough with the man to determine whether he would stoop that low. He works in law enforcement, so… probably. Still, her trip to Mexico City hadn’t been entirely useless. Once she had parted with the embassy, Magnussen had eaten lunch – consisting of grilled octopus with lemons and roasted potatoes – at La Corriente Cevicheria Nais, successfully avoided alcohol, savored her watermelon ice cream from Joe Gelato while she walked around Plaza Washington, and her last stop had been at the Museo de Cera. Magnussen had visited the capital a couple of times before, and she had been eager to explore more of it, especially now that she had a new, albeit temporary vehicle.

          Mexico City, aka CDMX, had been the illustrious capital of New Spain; the oldest in the Americas and one of two established by indigenous people. According to legend, the Mexicas’ primary god Huitzilopochtli revealed the site where they would build their home by showing them a golden eagle devouring a rattlesnake, perched on a prickly pear. The Aztecs originally constructed the city on a group of islands in Lake Texcoco as “Tenochtitlan”, in 1325. After the 1521 siege, which almost annihilated it, it was redesigned and rebuilt conforming with Spanish urban standards. And who completed all of the heavy labor? The indigenous people, of course. Tenochtitlan also earned a new name – Mexico – because it was easier for the colonizers to pronounce. In the 19th century, Mexico City became the center-stage of the country’s political disagreements, witnessing countless coups before the victory of the Liberals following the Reform War. The city was the target of one of the two French invasions to Mexico, and it was occupied for a year by U.S. troops during the Mexican-American War. Akin to Jalisco’s Guadalajara, Mexico City thrived under Porfirio Díaz’s rule, developing modern infrastructure – schools, hospitals, factories; Colonia Roma and Reforma Avenue represent the durable results of this period’s transformation. Throughout the Mexican Revolution, the city’s center suffered artillery attacks, causing numerous civilian casualties and the loss of trust in Francisco I. Madero’s government. The Tlatelolco massacre of students ahead of the 1968 Olympic Games took place in the capital. Its landmarks include Ángel de la Independencia, Zócalo, Chapultepec Castle, Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, Estadio Azteca, Torre Latinoamericana, and Monumento a la Revolución.

          Some folks may have viewed her interest in Mexico’s history and culture as peculiar at best – even inappropriate, considering her current job – but she had actually applied for the DEA’s program largely because she had wanted to see Mexico… and because her professor had nagged her about it. The downsides to her stay in Mexico had been, in no particular order, Maia’s absence, her obnoxious roommate – whom she had made great efforts to tolerate – having to wake up early, and having to deal with American bureaucrats on a daily basis. Alas, Magnussen chose to give Breslin the benefit of the doubt and wait for her beloved colleagues to materialize. Worst case scenario? The display of benevolence would delay her drive to Guadalajara by twenty minutes. Breslin would pay for his imprudence.

          Better make myself at home. Magnussen claimed her territory by dragging a chair to one of the columns, cringing internally at the deafening, metallic noise it produced. Elegant. She plopped down, sagging, carefully adjusted her shoulder holster, fished in the pocket of her leather jacket for the solution to all of her problems, and lit a cigarette with her recently returned Colibri. She inhaled deeply, allowing her eyes to fall shut. Finally. Magnussen had been itching for a cigarette for hours. She blew the smoke through her slightly pursed lips, watching it fill the air. She lifted her feet to rest them against the pillar and examined her shoes. Hmm… Should’ve worn sneakers.

          Maybe she was just being dramatic, and the situation wasn’t that dire. It’s been known to happen, occasionally. Magnussen had somewhat enjoyed Heath’s compliment-improvisational skills; probably the roughest five minutes of his whole life. Breslin’s intimidation fiasco with his special agent rank, Texan accent, and mustache hadn’t been terrible, either. Magnussen hated to admit that she had contemplated his lesson. You put guys in custody, use leverage to get them to flip on the next asshole, and you move up the chain. His methods evidently diverged from Kiki’s and his partners’ – not that they were an example to follow – and even from Magnussen’s. For one, she preferred to capture criminals alive; it had been scientifically proven that they were much more useful with a pulse… and intel.

          Breslin and Camarena weren’t that dissimilar; sharp, stubborn, ambitious, naïve. She had seen where ambition led in this job. Or was death simply an occupational hazard? Magnussen ought to remind herself that she was assessing two different agents. She and Kiki had been close friends. With Breslin, she was barely at an offered-a-lighter level. If things had been complicated before, for the Guadalajara team, then they were worse now, for Leyenda. How could they dismantle a powerful cartel protected by the government and law enforcement agencies? The perfect conspiracy, with Félix Gallardo at the top of the pyramid, untouchable. What guarantee did Leyenda have that they wouldn’t end up like Camarena? Gallardo was as captivating as he was dangerous; distinct from other drug traffickers. In fact, given his intriguing evolution, he wasn’t a typical narco at all. Graduated high school, studied business in college, ex MFJP, former bodyguard for the governor of Sinaloa, godfather to his son, the brains behind the most notorious drug trafficking organization in Mexico, and the last cartel leader standing. Quite the résumé.

          Magnussen also had her skepticism about the Mexican cops in the task force. No hard feelings. Mexican police were infamous for their corruption. She was unsure about who had recruited them; her money was on Breslin. Speak of the devil… She and Mejía had passed by one another at the airport; Magnussen wondered whether he would recognize her. She yawned, unnecessarily covering her mouth with her left fist. Oh, well. She wasn’t too preoccupied by the answer to that question. She would sleep fine at night, once the new place curse had vanished. Damn. The homecoming of Magnussen’s cynicism. Positive aspects, positive aspects… She was genuinely keen on meeting Petski, since he had worked with Kiki in Calexico, prior to his transfer to Guadalajara.

          Magnussen didn’t have the vaguest idea where to begin. The entire mission seemed like an impossible maze. Her instinct told her to start with the guards that had been present at the 881 Lope de Vega house; they must have seen and heard more than anybody else had. Easier to blackmail, usually underestimated by the capos… Okay, pause. Magnussen needed to hit the brakes and reacquaint herself with Mexico. She was still unclear about the amount of independence that she had within the operation. With Breslin calling the shots? Little chance of her escaping being handcuffed to a desk. Not to mention that she was young, foreign, and inexperienced. Nails in the coffin.

          Magnussen quietly hummed the tune of Depeche Mode’s Puppets, longing for her stereo. We’ll be reunited soon, my love. The band was releasing their fifth album in less than two weeks; something to look forward to. My neighbors will despise me… unless they know what good music is. She would not accept any Depeche Mode slander in her atheist household… Well, apartment.

          The distant sound of footsteps and the chatter of people caught her feeble attention. She innately tensed, setting her feet down and crossing one leg over the other, and turned towards the source of the noise, eyes fixed on the hall entrance, in anticipation. A group of four individuals emerged, comprised of men she gradually identified as Mejía, Garza, Álvarez, and Méndez. The gang froze in confusion upon noticing her. Magnussen had immediately recognized Mejía; his stupid mustache was hard to miss. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it. She concluded that the pictures in the Leyenda file were misleading. The mass of muscles on Álvarez’s body rivaled that of the gel in his hair. Méndez was still bald, yet shorter than she had assumed, and sported the beginning of a beer belly. Garza pointed his prominent nose in her direction, as if to sniff her like a bloodhound. He also had a bit of stubble. Is that on purpose? The ex MFJP cop must have been as dangerous as he appeared – a stark contrast from Mejía, whose cocky attitude radiated like a nuclear powerplant. Jalisco State Police shit.

          ‘Bienvenidos, chicos,’ greeted Magnussen, dramatically raising her arms in the air, flashing a sarcastic smirk. (Welcome, boys.)

          Mejía let out a patronizing chuckle. Judging by the reception, the others didn’t find anything comical. Truthfully, neither did Magnussen.

          ‘¿Estas pérdida, cariño?’, inquired Mejía, flirtatiously. (Are you lost, sweetheart?)

          So, he didn’t recognize her. Kinda embarrassing for a guy in law enforcement. What is it with these dudes and “sweetheart”, anyway? Universal ape brain.

          ‘Espero que no,’ droned Magnussen, wryly, faking disappointment. (I sure hope not.)

          After all of the trouble that she had gone through… That would be unfortunate. She took a drag from her cigarette while Palacios and Morales joined the party, equally confused. Garza subtly moved his hand behind his back, to rest it on the weapon that he undoubtedly had tucked in his jeans.

          ‘I got one, too,’ informed Magnussen, playfully, opening the lapel of her jacket to show them the gun nestled in her shoulder holster.

          Garza’s grip visibly tightened, in warning. Álvarez crossed his burly arms over his chest, on guard, glaring daggers into her. His biceps were the size of her head, and they could probably easily squash it. How macho. Magnussen didn’t flinch.

          ‘What the fuck is going on?’, demanded an alarmed Palacios, whose innovative contribution to the team was a goatee.

          Morales, the second youngest member of Leyenda and the second clean-shaven one, lowered his sunglasses on his nose, to take a better look at her. He was handsome and… wore a light blue shirt with black polka dots? Fascinating. Magnussen calmly concealed her weapon, as a sign of peace, having no intention of shooting anyone… yet.

          Breslin’s messianic arrival, followed by Orozco’s and Petski’s, interrupted the ensuing gun measuring contest. Orozco physically resembled a kitten and had a finer mustache than Mejía did. Petski seemed to be the tallest and the only blonde. Breslin walked past the guys, unperturbed, his aviators hanging by the neck of his red T-shirt.

          ‘I see y’all met the rookie,’ he commented, indignantly, side-eyeing Magnussen.

          Someone’s holding a grudge… and nothing else. A wave of incredulous, flabbergasted reactions erupted, and Magnussen felt like she was in middle school.

          ‘Bullshit!’, dismissed Méndez.

          ‘This is the new kid?’, checked Mejía.

          ‘No fucking way!’, protested Palacios.

          Breslin remained silent, continuing to pin photographs of drug traffickers to the corkboard. Félix Gallardo, Esparragoza Moreno, Carrillo Fuentes, Acosta, Palma, two Arellano Félix brothers. Interesting choices for foreplay. The Leyenda boys scattered, either occupying chairs or leaning against columns, ingesting the information, and maintaining a reasonable distance from Magnussen.

          ‘Alright,’ announced Breslin, spinning on his heel to face the audience, fumbling with a lighter.

          A fit of jealousy shot through Magnussen at the sight of it. He had replaced her so swiftly and cruelly. She was utterly devastated, so she resumed her favorite unhealthy activity. Wound licking disguised as smoking.

          ‘Intel was solid,’ he went on, tone rising a quarter of an octave, supposedly to indicate contentment, ‘Carrillo Fuentes bought six 727’s at the auction in Belize. Thanks to our lock-picking artist, we put transponders on all of them. If we’re able to track Fuentes’ movements, it could lead us to the Federation’s distribution hub.’

          Petski’s congratulatory slap on Mejía’s shoulder enlightened Magnussen as to the identity of the “lock-picking artist.” In her expert opinion, Breslin didn’t deserve the voice that he possessed. She figured that he had already been kicked out of the curly hair community for exceeding the limit of conservatism accepted.

          ‘Does this tie into the intel about Gallardo meeting with the Cali cartel in Panama?’, speculated Morales, rubbing his chin, reflective.

          Wait, what? Magnussen swatted away an annoying fly, tsking in frustration at the distraction. Fuck off. You traded the smell of shit for the smell of cigarettes?

          ‘Sure, they could be related,’ conceded Breslin before civilly addressing Álvarez, ‘Mat, you wanna fill us in?’

          ‘Sorry, chief,’ replied Álvarez, using the privilege of sitting down to stretch his legs, ‘Gallardo’s underground again. No one is keeping the plazas in check. Tijuana and Sinaloa have been executing each other’s men for weeks, but… Esparragoza Moreno, alias El Azul, is allegedly wanted by the DFS.’

          Magnussen scanned the room and found herself staring at Morales, who was insistently scribbling on a small piece of paper on his thigh, uncomfortably hunched over. Everybody else was immersed in the details being fed to them. Depressing.

          ‘No shit,’ chided Breslin, his surprise mirrored by most of the chaps’ expressions.

          ‘DFS eating one of their own?’, articulated Orozco, suspicious.

          A smug Álvarez nodded in confirmation. Jesus fucking Christ. It’s a façade. Magnussen discarded the butt of her cigarette on the ground and crushed it under her shoe, miraculously suppressing the urge to intervene.

          ‘The Feds can’t get their hands on him,’ declared Breslin, sternly, ‘Moreno’s gotta be taken into American custody and interrogated, same as Zuno.’

          Okay, hit the brakes, cowboy. Carrillo Fuentes buying planes, Acosta rebelling in Juárez, tensions between Sinaloa and Tijuana, Gallardo vacationing in Panama… Something’s up. The Thin Man’s scheming right under our fucking noses. Magnussen nervously wiped her sweaty palms on her pants, gathering the courage to speak.

          ‘My informant says Moreno is going to be in Mexico City next week,’ added Méndez, backed by the team’s murmurs of approval.

          ‘Good,’ emphasized Breslin, ‘We’re gonna bag the fucking asshole.’

          Incapable of restraining her candidness, Magnussen involuntarily snorted at the sheer absurdity of the discussion. She was starting to understand why Leyenda’s progress had been slow and scarce. Planning abductions over lunch in abandoned buildings granted the operation filibuster potential. Forget the corrupt Mexican system. The U.S. had an immense management issue. Alas, her act of defiance didn’t go unnoticed. How could it?

          ‘Got a problem, Rookie?’, asked Breslin, sounding like a disgruntled teacher.

          All eyes turned to her, gazes varying. A sane person would have shut up. Well, not Magnussen. Her heart hammered against her ribcage as she hesitantly glanced at her colleagues. The shift in the atmosphere was palpable. I’ll be crucified… but when did that ever stop me?

          ‘I think you’re overestimating Azul’s role in the Camarena story,’ objected Magnussen, coolly.

          ‘Oh, really?’, jeered Breslin, impassive.

          ‘Not a single witness placed him at the scene of the kidnapping,’ she elaborated, adamantly, ‘His voice isn’t on the tapes, either. He is in the DFS, and it’s not the first time the DFS engages in cannibalism. Their former commander Miguel Nazar Haro was corrupt. He’s still at large. Are we just going after everyone associated with the DFS?’

          ‘Why not?’, retorted Álvarez, snickering.

          ‘Fine by me,’ decreed Breslin, shrugging, ‘Moreno was arrested twice for drug trafficking in the past, and he’s been linked to the Guadalajara cartel. That’s good enough for me.’

          ‘Maybe I got the wrong memo,’ reiterated Magnussen, audacious, ‘Leyenda’s purpose is to bring to justice those involved in the Camarena case, not to imprison every drug trafficker in Mexico–’

          ‘You’re lecturing us–,’ interrupted Mejía, offended.

          ‘I wasn’t done talking,’ she snapped, harshly, then proceeded, stolid, despite the startled reactions, ‘Azul won’t rat out anybody, especially from the government. If the DFS want to arrest him, let them. Interfering will cause a shitstorm and blow whatever cover we have left… I think subtlety would be wise. He ends up in jail? He’ll probably escape. Díaz-Parada and Sicilia Falcón proved it’s possible… Moreno’s not a gynecologist. He’s an active-duty intelligence officer.’

          ‘So was Verdin,’ recalled Garza, indifferent, ‘And he talked.’

          ‘Because you shot him,’ argued a pragmatic Morales, ‘Not one of our best moments. Verdin definitely put us on the cartel’s radar.’

          ‘Arrive at your point,’ ordered Breslin, impatiently.

          Magnussen briefly lost track of the conversation, too stunned by the fact that Morales sided with her. They fucking shot their prisoner? She released a long, exasperated sigh. Here we go. Cops famously respond positively to brutal honesty.

          ‘Moreno’s a diversion,’ she affirmed, warily, ‘The reports I read mentioned Gallardo paying a visit to Juan Nepomuceno Guerra in Matamoros… That can’t be a coincidence. The Gulf is the only independent cartel in the country. If he lured them into the Federation, Gallardo would have a monopoly on the Mexican route and could outmaneuver the Colombians. He’s not ignoring the conflict between the Tijuana and Sinaloa plazas. He's intentionally focusing on Juárez. That’s why Carrillo Fuentes is buying planes.’

          ‘Interesting theory, Rookie,’ concluded Breslin, condescendingly, lighting a cigarette.

          ‘We don’t have sufficient intel to back this up,’ reminded Palacios, skeptical, scratching his goatee, ‘We act, we get burned.’

          Inquisition trauma. Bad for business. Although, the Mexicans in the operation were exposed to greater risk than their American counterparts.

          ‘Gallardo’s not a stupid man,’ stressed Magnussen, stubbornly.

          ‘He did kill a U.S. federal agent,’ challenged an obnoxious Orozco, earning an eyeroll from her.

          Extremely debatable. The Mexican government was a more plausible candidate.  

          ‘That’s a… gross oversimplification,’ scolded Magnussen, increasingly irritated.

          Whoever disagrees is a narrow-minded moron. Some of her coworkers clearly couldn’t see the forest for the trees.

          ‘What are you proposing?’, taunted Méndez, cutting to the chase, ‘That we go after Guerra, too?’

          ‘Fuck no,’ scoffed Magnussen, scowling, ‘Guerra’s experienced; been in the opium game since the Prohibition, so… when most of you were born.’ She smirked mischievously at the choir of groans and chuckles. ‘Guerra has political connections on both sides of the border. His brother was head of the state district attorney’s office in Tamaulipas during Balboa’s administration in the 1960s. His nephew is the mayor of Matamoros… Guerra won’t spend a day in prison… However, the ex Interpol chief is currently on the run and he’s been tied to the Camarena case… and there’s extradition rumors for Arturo Durazo Moreno; another former DFS commander.’

          Silence finally settled, and Magnussen pondered whether the team was considering her input. She used the opportunity to ruffle her bangs – careful with her brows – and to check her watch. Hurry up, lads. I got a 6-hour drive to Guadalajara.

          ‘Well, you did your homework, Rookie,’ remarked Breslin, whose tone fueled a creeping impression within Magnussen that her efforts had been in vain, ‘Can’t argue with that. I’ll make sure to write your opinions in the suggestion box.’

          Mejía burst into exaggerated laughter, clapping his hands. Easily entertained… or he wants to fuck Breslin.

          ‘Unless Agent Magnussen has other conspiracies that she would like to share,’ bargained Garza, foxily, flaunting a shit-eating grin that Magnussen desired to scrub away with insecticide.

          ‘Last one,’ assured Magnussen, feigning gullibility, ‘You get laid regularly.’

          Orozco, Morales, Álvarez, and Méndez joined Mejía’s louder and louder laughing fit. Garza’s grin gradually disappeared. Even the corners of Breslin’s mouth inched upwards.

          ‘Alright, fellas,’ jested Breslin while the chaos steadily died down, ‘Let’s wrap this up. Back to Guadalajara tomorrow. We’ll update you on any developments on the Carrillo Fuentes lead. Mat, stay on Moreno. Esparragoza, that is. Hopefully, we’re gonna bag him soon.’

          ‘Got it, boss,’ acknowledged Álvarez, obediently.

          The gang took that as a sign to start packing. What a bummer of a convention. Magnussen’s expectations hadn’t been high, anyway. As far as first briefings went, this one had been decent. Morales headed directly to Breslin and Petski, who were unpinning pictures and removing the corkboard from the wall. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Classified gossip. Palacios, Garza, and Méndez gathered the chairs – including hers – chatting among themselves.

          In less than five minutes, the majority of members vacated the room. Magnussen cocked a curious eyebrow – bracing herself for impact – when Morales walked towards her. Tall and in shape, he had a confident stroll and dimples in his cheeks. His sunglasses now rested atop his wavy, brown hair.

          ‘Hi, I’m Manny,’ he greeted, friendly, stopping in front of her and extending his hand, ‘Welcome to Leyenda.’

          ‘Thanks,’ muttered Magnussen, reluctantly shaking his warm hand, ‘Did you lose a bet, Manny?’

          ‘No, I haven’t,’ he chuckled, offering her a walkie and a note, ‘Here’s your station and a list of everybody’s number.’

          Oh. That’s what he had been writing earlier. Awfully kind. Magnussen deemed it as youth solidarity.

          ‘Thanks,’ she droned, gaze softening, ‘Pretty useful.’

          ‘How has Mexico been treating you?’, inquired Manny, politely.

          ‘Can’t complain,’ admitted Magnussen, contemplative, her arms half circling her waist, ‘Still adjusting… Indulge me for a second. How the hell did you become part of the operation?’

          ‘Graduated ITESO,’ he informed, proudly, ‘Networks and Telecommunications Engineering.’

          ‘You’re overqualified for this job,’ quipped Magnussen, peering at him from underneath her lashes.

          ‘No, no,’ chortled Manny, evidently flattered, ‘But for what it’s worth, I think you were right about Gallardo. Impressive analysis.’

          ‘What is it worth?’, she teased, inclining her head.

          ‘Nothing,’ he stated, sincerely, ‘Walt is in charge. It’s difficult to get him to backtrack… He has good calls, too. The system is tough.’

          ‘Tell me about it,’ huffed Magnussen, wryly.

          ‘We should hang out sometime,’ he invited, jovially, ‘Go for a drink.’

          ‘Hell yeah,’ she approved, nodding eagerly, ‘I like drinking.’

          ‘That’s the Mexican spirit!’, extolled Manny, grinning, beginning to depart, ‘I’ll see you around, Agent!… Cool T-shirt, by the way!’

          The ghost of a genuine smile lingered on Magnussen’s face.

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic​​​ @agirllovespaghetti​​​ @amidalaraan​​​ @artthurshelby​​​ @buttercup--bee​​ @cleastrnge​​ @dameronology​ @frodo-sam​​ @itssmashedavo​​ @ladygangsters​​​ @maevesdarling​​​ @maevemills​​ @maharani-radha​​​ @mitchi-c​​​ @moonlight-prose​​ @nicolettegreen​​​ @pascalisthepunkest​​ @queenofthefaceless​​​ @revolution-starter​​ @sullho​​ @themangolorian​​ @tisbeautifulfreedom​​​ @qoedameron​​

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

READ MORE: Magnussen’s T-shirt, DEA employment requirements, Nixon’s hyperhidrosis, Mexico City, La Corriente Cevichería Nais, Museo de Cera

[cregan-starks]

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

[cregan-starks]

Beholden ch3 sneak peek

Words: 466

Warnings: mention of kidnapping, mention of death, implied sexism, smoking, cussing. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: Life’s busy, but I am, in fact, working on the third chapter. Thank you for your patience.

          Worse, the men tasked with bringing Gallardo to justice didn’t even give a shit about Kiki. Magnussen gritted her teeth in frustration. She had taken Leyenda’s pulse, and she had been left rather disappointed. How was she supposed to work with them? Petski was auditioning to be a mime, Mejía was an arrogant toe, Méndez and Álvarez were yes-minions, Orozco was Breslin’s mustached parrot, Garza’s favorite hobby was waterboarding – or spitting on puppies – Palacios hadn’t developed a personality yet, and Breslin was a narrow-minded redneck. He probably wouldn’t budge on the Azul situation. Typical Yankee; loved to hear himself speak, rejected anyone else’s input. Whatever. Magnussen was too woman for her opinion to matter. Morales had been the only one whom she had genuinely liked. At least he had had the decency to introduce himself and welcome her to the team… although, as far as Magnussen was concerned, he must have had ulterior motives, too. Severe lack of trust among coworkers. Off to a great start…

          Give it time, she reasoned. Loosen some of that Eastern European pessimism. Magnussen dropped her cigarette on the ground, instinctively moving her foot to put it out before pausing in realization. Dodged a burn. She crouched and used the heel of one of the shoes that she was holding to extinguish the cigarette, mumbling “ridiculous” to herself, then headed into the complex. Magnussen peered to distinguish shapes in the dark in an attempt to not trip and fall flat on her mug as she tiptoed up the oddly dirty and sticky stairs. She cringed internally at the mere idea of navigating her apartment in this condition, already tired. Throw in hunger and an agonizing need to pee, and you could guess Magnussen’s general disposition.

          Maybe contemplating building her own network within the operation would serve as a distraction and cheer her up a bit. She couldn’t depend on her colleagues forever. In fact, she didn’t fancy relying on them at all. Administrator Lawn had gotten one thing right. Magnussen was no team player. She refused to let Calderoni off the hook, too. She demanded answers, and she was certain that the Commander was in possession of one or two of them. Calderoni had potentially upgraded to triple agent, bumping elbows with the Mexican government, the U.S. government, and the Guadalajara cartel. When Magnussen had told Breslin that Leyenda required somebody on the inside, she had meant it. Commander Calderoni was the perfect candidate for the job. Her plans didn’t end there, either. She also wanted to set up surveillance on Tómas Morlet – a DFS agent who had actually been placed at the scene of Camarena’s abduction and the man responsible for Kiki’s neighbor’s execution – and the low-ranking assholes who just so happened to be on Leyenda’s hit list. Happy coincidence.

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic​ @amidalaraan​ @artthurshelby​ @buttercup--bee​ @cleastrnge​ @dameronology​ @frodo-sam​ @itssmashedavo​ @kalondarling​ @ladygangsters​ @maevesdarling​ @maevemills​ @maharani-radha​ @mitchi-c​ @moonlight-prose​ @nicolettegreen​ @pascalisthepunkest​ @queenofthefaceless​ @revolution-starter​ @sullho​ @themangolorian​ @tisbeautifulfreedom​ @qoedameron​ 

[cregan-starks]

Colibri | Beholden

Summary: A stranger offers Walt a light.

Words: 5,459

Pairing: Walt Breslin x OC (not really)

Warnings: politics, Ronald Reagan, Christianity, mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of blood, mentions of drug trafficking, mentions of guns, mentions of communism, implied nudity, one innuendo, sexism, alcohol, smoking, cussing. Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: This chapter totally didn’t take ages ‘cause I had to figure out Magnussen’s apartment on my own. 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 darling @cleastrnge​ for the Mexican Spanish translations 💜

Previous | Ao3 | Masterlist | Next

MARCH 4, 1986

GUADALAJARA, MEXICO

          The trip to Belize had been an unforeseen but welcome win, with Calderoni’s intel on Amado Carrillo Fuentes actually turning out to be useful. Federation’s building its own air fleet. Carrillo Fuentes had bought six Boeing 747s at the auction, and Ossie had successfully planted transponders on all of them. Walt hoped that this would give them a new lead to pursue. Progress had been slow in the past few months, so he expected Heath to be satisfied with the latest achievement. He hadn’t taken it well when Walt had shown him the list of the expensive equipment that their Belize mission would require. The positive aspects pretty much ended there. Calderoni would inevitably come to demand updates and, although Walt didn’t entirely trust the commander, he had to admit that he hadn’t steered them wrong, yet. Besides, Calderoni was the most valuable informant that they had. He wasn’t exactly disposable.

          Oh, and on top of that, Heath had notified him that another agent would replace Kenny, which Walt considered suspicious. What the fuck’s that about? He had selected his colleagues himself, but, for some reason, the DEA wouldn’t allow him anywhere near this guy. Walt despised being kept in the dark. He had been assigned to head the operation, and he firmly believed that Leyenda didn’t need an additional team member. Worst case scenario? They would send a rich asshole’s Ivy League prick of a son.

          Walt lightly kicked Danilo’s bag with his foot, to move it away, releasing a yawn that he shamelessly didn’t hide. He felt exhausted – having not rested the previous night – and despite his efforts, Walt couldn’t rub the sleep out of his eyes. He put his aviators on his nose, further sinking into his seat before lifting his wrist to check his watch. His partners had abandoned him roughly fifteen minutes ago; Ossie had gone to the bathroom, and Danilo had left to grab food. Based on their prolonged absence, they were both stuck waiting in endless queues. The Guadalajara airport seemed particularly crowded today; people stood in line at counters to purchase tickets, boarded their planes, dozed off in their chairs, and the security personnel supervised everyone like teachers at a playground. If the smell of cheap coffee weren’t overwhelming enough, the place was loud, too – from the chatter of the staff and tourists to the sound of squeaky wheels sliding across the tiles. Occasionally, a woman announced in Spanish the departures and delays on the speakers.

          A couple of rows in front of him, a kid insistently tugged on her grandfather’s sleeve, to get his attention. The elderly man continued to read his newspaper, unfazed, causing the girl to cross her arms over her chest and pout. Walt smiled fondly at the sight. Looks like we’ll both be here a while. With napping off the table, the last resort appeared to be indulging in his favorite vice, so he started to fish in the pocket of his jeans for a cigarette.

          When he attempted to light it, however, Walt failed spectacularly. Second time, third, fourth, fifth, same result, testing his thinning patience. That kinda day, huh? He eventually gave up on the endeavor with a heavy sigh, running his hand through his curls, in frustration. Maybe he should call Sal and ask him where the fuck he was, since he was supposed to pick them up.

          ‘Need a light?’, quipped a smooth, feminine voice, next to him.

          Fuck. Walt turned towards the intruder, slightly startled. He hadn’t even noticed the woman’s presence until then. Shit. I’m getting old. Or she sneaked up on cops for a living. She held out a lighter, expectantly, and her own already lit cigarette in the other hand.

          ‘Uh, thanks,’ muttered Walt, accepting the offering, hesitantly.

          ‘You are welcome,’ she chirped, in a thick European accent.

          A passenger plane landed on the tarmac, outside the immense windows, temporarily distracting Walt, but a custodian dutifully mopping the floor blocked his view. Great. He took a drag from his cigarette, pushing his aviators back on his head, to study his companion more meticulously. Her young features attested that she couldn’t have been older than thirty. The sunlight reflected in her eyes – remarkably green – yet Walt found them unsettling. Her dark hair fell in waves, framing her oval face, ending above her shoulders, and her bangs revealed her full, arched eyebrows. She tittered, averting her gaze, shyly, fiddling with the key ring attached to the luggage trapped between her knees. Walt glanced at the dark red lipstick stains on her cigarette.

          ‘You are staring,’ she commented, practically murmuring, leaning a bit closer.

          Walt remained silent, unsure what to add. What can I say? Guilty as charged. To his knowledge, staring hadn’t been criminalized… and, honestly, she wasn’t unpleasant to look at. He unclenched his fist to examine her golden lighter. Colibri. How fancy. Because “smoking” and “pretentious” were mutually exclusive.

          ‘You’re not from here,’ guessed Walt, casually; he could tell from the everything about her, mostly her peculiar accent that he couldn’t pinpoint on the global map – not that he encountered many Europeans.

          ‘Neither are you,’ she teased, flirtatiously, wide lips flashing him a charming grin, ‘So, where are you from?’

          The fuck’s it to you? His disorientated radar didn’t help much. Walt blew the smoke away from her direction as the corners of his mouth tilted upwards. A harmless piece of information, undoubtedly. What if she were a stranger, simply making small talk? Walt ought to loosen up. Not everybody was a narco with ulterior motives.

          ‘Houston,’ he provided, truthfully, stroking his mustache, ‘You?’

          ‘Napoli,’ she acknowledged, then paused in contemplation before curiously inquiring, ‘What brings you to Guadalajara?’

          State secrets, so, mind your business, sweetheart. A Texan in Mexico wasn’t uncommon, but a young Italian woman on her own? Definitely a rarity. Worse, she didn’t strike him as Italian.

          ‘I’m on vacation with my buddies,’ lied Walt, automatically.

          Surely, tracking down Carrillo Fuentes to Belize counted as a vacation. Working for the DEA permitted agents to travel more than the average bureaucrat. Dream job, if one overlooked the shootings, illicit drugs, and shitty salary.

          ‘Well,’ she began, kindly, ‘I hope you enjoy your stay. It is a beautiful city.’

          And an oasis for drug traffickers, but they don’t include that in brochures and leaflets. Judging by her phrasing, it wasn’t her first time in Guadalajara.

          ‘What about you?’, prodded Walt, nodding once, ‘Why are you in Guadalajara?’

          Her answer might’ve been the only highlight of his day – or of the next weeks. This better be good.

          ‘I am doing my PhD,’ she declared, smugly, crossing her arms over her chest, careful of her cigarette.

          Bullshit. Who picks Guadalajara for their PhD? Anyhow, every student had an inner peacock, and Walt might have just discovered how to ruffle this one’s feathers.

          ‘PhD, huh?’, repeated Walt, impressed, ‘What’s your field?’

          Dibs on Arts. If her eccentricity weren’t a testament to it…

          ‘Diplomacy,’ she replied, her half smirk anything but subtle.

          PhD in Diplomacy. What the fuck does that even mean? Walt recalled having a conversation with Heath about the consequences of Leyenda’s actions, following Machaín’s abduction. Heath had warned him about diplomatic repercussions, among others. It’s a good thing we’re not diplomats, Walt had sassed. Miss Napoli here could fit the bill, though.

          ‘That’s rough,’ he snorted, downright patronizingly.

          Walt grew increasingly wary of her, yet he couldn’t identify the major flaw. The polite stranger narrative checked out… until it didn’t. Two gabachos at the airport, and she somehow managed to find him. Strength in numbers, right? Unfortunately, Walt didn’t believe in coincidences.

          ‘I do not mind,’ she admitted, shrugging, ‘I quite like it.’

          ‘Yeah, I bet you do,’ huffed Walt, tone unintentionally implicit.

          They peered at each other, both amused by the innuendo, her eyes flickering with mischief. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, biting her bottom lip. Walt fought the urge to smile. So, she has a sense of humor.

          ‘You haven’t told me your name,’ reminded Walt, spreading his legs to sit comfortably.

          ‘Sofia,’ she disclosed, extending her hand for him to take, ‘What about you?’

          Fair enough. Pretty name for a pretty girl.

          ‘John,’ he introduced himself, dryly, shaking her hand and simultaneously inspecting it.

          She had long, slender fingers, several decorated with rings. Walt noticed the tattoo on her inner wrist; a cat sitting on a crescent moon. Interesting choice. Too bad that the DEA’s policy strictly prohibited him from showing his own tattoos.

          ‘I like your sunglasses, John,’ complimented Sofia, chuckling.

          Was she hitting on him? At this point, Walt couldn’t tell, and he didn’t have time to find out, either. Try again in ten years, sweetheart. After I’ll retire, and you’ll… have a doctorate in Diplomacy or whatever the fuck.

          ‘I like your T-shirt,’ he asserted, referring to Electric Light Orchestra’s colorful spaceship, ‘What’s your favorite album?’

          Walt couldn’t decide what stunned him more: her toned biceps – unusual for a PhD student – or her firm, confident grip – unlike her demeanor. Bit by bit, her alibi fell apart. Or she was an odd character. Convenient excuse.

          ‘Out of the Blue, obviously,’ she claimed, playfully, ‘Mr. Blue Sky is a masterpiece.’

          ‘I prefer Secret Messages,’ grumbled Walt, flicking his cigarette in a nearby trash can.

          Their discussion ended abruptly when a middle-aged man burst into an angry rant in Spanish, at Customs. He seemed to be having problems with his passport. Walt shifted his attention to the screens that displayed flight numbers and cities, despite the blending of colors making him feel dizzy. He craved to lie down and close his eyes, just for one minute. Meanwhile, Sofia used the opportunity to take her leave. She was shorter than Walt anticipated, though the size of her hand compared to his should’ve been a sign.

          ‘Someone is in trouble,’ she observed, nonchalantly, putting out her cigarette with the heel of her shoe, ‘Well, it was nice to meet you, John.’

          ‘Thanks for the lighter,’ said Walt, intending to return the item, after its owner had finished gathering her bags.

          ‘Keep it, cowboy,’ encouraged Sofia, sending him a wicked wink.

          Walt’s breath hitched involuntarily, his response having died on his tongue, promptly followed by panic. He spotted Ossie in the crowd of people, heading their way, his facial expression indicating confusion. Fuck. Seriously? Now? Walt was prepared to jump out of his seat and do damage control, but Ossie and Sofia walked past one another, blissfully unaware – until the former caught the latter turning her head and smiling warmly at Walt. Shit.

          ‘Who was that?’, laughed Ossie, heartily, elbowing him in the side.

          Walt groaned in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose. Fucking hell.

          Confirmed: taxi drivers are talkative in every country. And a little too friendly for Magnussen’s taste. Carlos – who joked that driving is his job and his name is Carlos – had been delighted that his client spoke fluent Spanish and had bombarded her with questions – “¿De dónde eres?”, “¿Es tu primera vez en México?”, “¿Has estado en Guadalajara antes?”, “¿Qué te trae a Guadalajara?” (Where are you from? Is this your first time in Mexico? First time visiting Guadalajara? What brings you here?). Magnussen had politely answered all of them, avoiding the details. After the initial stop – an exchange, of course – Carlos had briefly rambled about the weather before allowing the faint music on the radio to replace him.

          While the taxi drove in comfortable silence, Magnussen absentmindedly stared out of the window. Guadalajara hadn’t changed much since she had last been here. It had an eerie, almost haunting feeling to it, because of the horrors that had happened, yet people had moved on with their lives. Strange, how the world stopped for some, but carried on for most. Coming back reminded Magnussen of the lack of safety that the city brought with it. Except, this time, she wouldn’t attend classes and write papers. Instead, she would become a target for narcos who wanted nothing more than to put a bullet between her eyes.

          Nevertheless, Guadalajara and its rich history continued to fascinate Magnussen. Although its reputation had been tainted by criminal activities, things hadn’t always been like this. The name originated from Arabic, meaning “fortress valley.” Home to the mariachi, tequila, and birria, Guadalajara was “founded” on February 14th, 1542, by the Basque conquistador Cristóbal de Oñata, as the capital of the kingdom of Nueva Galicia, part of the Viceroyalty of New Spain. Allegedly, only 126 people lived there. Several epidemics had dramatically reduced the indigenous population, but by the 19th century, Guadalajara had taken its place as Mexico’s second largest city. In 1810 – the year that marked the beginning of the Mexican War of Independence – priest Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla established the first revolutionary government here. In 1823, it became the capital of Jalisco. The Three-Hour Revolution overthrew President Santa Anna in Guadalajara, and in 1856, at the time of the Reform War, President Benito Juárez made the city the seat of his government. Although Guadalajara had flourished during the Porfiriato, Jalisco saw multiple regional wars following the 1910 Mexican Revolution. The city’s landmarks included Hospicio Cabañas, Templo Expiatorio, the Sanctuary of Guadalupe, and the Metropolitan Cathedral, and it had served as the cradle and dwelling of important figures such as José Clemente Orozco and Luis Barragán.

          When they arrived at the address that Bowen had provided – Av. Ignacio L. Vallarta, nearly three blocks away from the U.S. Consulate – Carlos miraculously found an empty spot in the parking lot, behind the building. On the outside, the construction looked ordinary: a regular, concrete four-store, recently painted. Ironic. Last year, Mexico City had been hit by an 8.1 earthquake; thousands still didn’t have food, water, shelter. Add to that the national economic crisis and you got yourself incompetent leadership. Or worse, ignorant. In Guadalajara, however, the local government was busy repainting shit. The PRI has its priorities sorted.

          Magnussen declined Carlos’ offer to help with her bags, making sure to tip him generously before biding him goodbye. It was a surprisingly cloudy day for Guadalajara, yet pleasantly warm. The gathering of the clouds. She had lived there for two years. Why would the city represent a source of unease? Maybe because the rules had shifted, and so had the territory. Magnussen needed to adapt and accept that she would be obliged to do things she disliked or hadn’t previously done. Her hands would only get dirtier. Bloodier.

          Kiki is worth it, she tried to reason.

          According to Audrey, the neighborhood was quiet, fairly isolated, and far enough from the main road. Good. Magnussen felt safer surrounded by tall buildings. Once indoors, she made the unfortunate discovery that the complex lacked an elevator. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. Since her apartment was on the fourth floor, she ended up practically dragging her luggage up the stairs, on her own. The natural light barely illuminated the place, so she had to be extra careful.

          Magnussen’s arms had already begun to object by the time she reached her apartment door. Number 9. She scanned her surroundings, sighing deeply, recalling Bowen’s instructions. Your keys will be in the Aloe’s pot. Luckily, the mission didn’t require any gardening tools; they were hidden among the plant’s fleshy leaves. She inserted the item in the lock, twisted, and entered cautiously, searching for the light switch.

          The grand reveal… Not bad. The hallway was spacious enough to fit a wardrobe. Magnussen closed and locked the door after hauling her bags inside. She stepped out of her shoes, relieved to be rid of the heels, then regarded herself in the mirror on the wall. While she fixed her bangs, Magnussen realized that she saw what she had always seen. A woman, uncertain about her choices and her actions. A tired, fractured soul. A lucky impostor who refused to die. A survivor with slightly uneven eyeliner wings.

          The white oak hardwood flooring creaked softly under her feet as she explored her new home for the upcoming months, possibly years. An idea she had better become adjusted to. I never had a home, she corrected. But that’s not why I’m here.

          In the living room, two steel blue recliners flanked a large, polyester sofa of the same color. The TV – situated opposite the sofa – sat atop a wooden dresser. A rectangular X-base coffee table rested on a burgundy nylon carpet. Further to the right of the TV stood an umber, laminate bookcase. Instinctively, Magnussen pulled the burgundy drapes over the window beside it. One of the tricks she had picked up courtesy of Kiki. The cartel had frequently run surveillance on DEA agents. Lip readers and tailing vehicles may had been their preferred methods, but they hadn’t shied away from violent measures to remind the gringos who was in charge. Magnussen vividly remembered the incident when the DFS had shot at Agent Knapp’s car. He and his family – including his young kids – had been in their house, oblivious, about to have breakfast. Following the attack, Knapp was transferred back to the States. Standard procedure, embassy’s call, that kind of fuckfest. Others hadn’t been so fortunate. Kiki’s neighbor had wound up shot in a restaurant, in broad daylight.

          Kiki’s death had changed things. Supposedly. Magnussen wasn’t familiar with the Federation’s operations nowadays. The bloodthirsty sharks were undoubtedly still in the water. You just couldn’t see their fins anymore.

          The bedroom – down the second hallway, to the left – contained a California King bed, with coal grey sateen duvet covers, cool to the touch. The white bedside three-drawer chests each had a lamp on them, and the grey drapes behind them matched the light grey wool carpet. Magnussen curled her toes through it, relishing in its texture. The writing desk and chair had been positioned next to the sliding door wardrobe, where she found a vacuum, a broom, a dustpan, a clothing basket, and an ironing board. Mandatory polishing. A few cacti and a stereo, for starters. A lover or two, eventually.

          White ceramic tiles decorated the kitchen, contrasting the mythic blue cabinets, which stored pots, pans, jars, plates, bowls, food containers, cups, and glasses. At first glance, the place seemed to have everything; top-freezer refrigerator, four-burner gas stove, island, stools, sink, microwave, cutting boards, blender, toaster, garbage can, cupboards containing cutlery and can openers. The one essential component missing was food. Magnussen wasn’t opposed to going shopping for necessities, but she was too lazy to cook today. She figured that ordering some birria from Birriería Aceves would suffice.

          Her full bladder led her to the final destination: the bathroom, covered in grey tile. Magnussen removed the rings on her fingers and set them on the edge of the sink before washing her hands with cold water, too impatient to wait for the hot one. If it weren’t for the infernal queues, she could’ve solved this problem at the airport. And lose the chance to talk to Breslin? Never.

          While she urinated, she busied herself with studying the rest of the room. The majority of the objects that she expected was there; toilet, sink, mirror, front-loading washing machine, small window, mat, hair dryer, towel bar, bucket, mop, cleaning supplies. Admittedly, the custom shower and the built-in tub astonished her. They’re really spoiling me… Shower curtains are ugly, though. She flushed the toilet, washed, and dried off her hands, then slipped her rings back on.

          Okay, time to unpack.

          Magnussen began by laying out her footwear in the entrance hallway – shoes, sneakers, boots, sandals, flats, high heels, Oxfords, moccasins, slippers. The pairs that didn’t have any space left went inside the wardrobe, along with the umbrella, headwear, bandanas, sunglasses, ties, gloves, scarves, shawls, shoulder holster, hoodies, sweaters, coats, jackets, blazers, cardigans, and vests. The bathroom had the honor of hosting her perfume, deodorant, shampoo, body wash, hairbrush, toothbrush, toothpaste, and makeup. She hastily arranged the books she had brought in alphabetical order, according to the author’s surname, on the bookcases’ shelves.

          When she organized the living room dresser, Magnussen realized that she had yet to decide what to wear to her reunion with Heath tomorrow. Bowen had repeatedly warned her about that. Heath had been appointed to oversee Leyenda, so Magnussen would inevitably bump into him. She had met with Audrey on so many occasions that she had memorized every damn wrinkle on her face, as well as her physical and verbal ticks. By week three, the paperwork had become torturous. Magnussen must’ve been signing shit in her sleep. They had even subjected her to multiple drug tests. Most nights, she craved to crawl into bed and nestle against Maia, who had been ridiculously patient and supportive throughout the mess. They had discussed the situation thoroughly, and after Maia had expressed her reservations, she offered a precious piece of advice.

          ‘Look, I’m not questioning your intentions,’ clarified Maia, gazing down at Magnussen, whose head rested in her lap, ‘I understand why you want to do it… You know these people better than I do. What they’re capable of.’ She caressed her hair, cautioning, ‘Don’t let them sink their teeth into you. Turn this on you. It’s a big change. Stakes are high.’

          Maia had been right. Switching from researching and profiling criminal behavior to working with the DEA was a significant leap. Magnussen had had enough time to think over the issue, and she had made her decision – albeit not easily. She wouldn’t allow anyone to intimidate her into budging. She placed the socks, bras, panties, and lingerie in the dresser’s first drawer, the bedsheets and pillowcases in the second drawer, and the belts and suspenders joined the swimsuits and bikinis in the last one.

          Moving on to the bedroom, Magnussen deposited her book, Chapstick, phone, and contraception pills on the nightstand and hid her ID and passport in one of its cupboards. She had lost her train of thought somewhere among the clothes and semi-existential crises regarding the U.S.’ procedures for selecting people for the bureaucratic apparatus. Don’t be so hard on them. They have the electoral college.

          Alas, I digress.

          Edward fucking Heath. He had graduated with a degree in Being a Misogynistic Asshole and had perfected the art of it. Benefit of the doubt privilege suspended indefinitely. Knock-off Ronald McDonald had been constantly useless to the agents in Guadalajara – rejecting or ignoring their intel – but he had truly outdone himself when Kiki had gone missing, refusing to act until forced to do so – mainly by Mika, who had embarrassed him in the presence of both Administrator Lawn and Ambassador Gavin. Magnussen wasn’t particularly elated about seeing Heath again, though a small part of her hoped that she didn’t have to deal with him that much. Shouldn’t it be Breslin’s duty to report back to Heath? As far as she was concerned, she only had to pick up her gun, car, phone, and DEA badge from him. Their obligatory interactions ceased there, and Magnussen had no intentions whatsoever of applying for any optional ones.

          The wardrobe turned out to be the most challenging, and it quickly became obvious that she would require more hangers. Magnussen divided the rest of her belongings into six categories, as if they were sectors of the economy, arranging them into two sections.

          trousers, leggings, shorts, jeans – shelves

          gowns, dresses, skirts – hangers

          tuxedos, suits, jumpsuits, overalls, rompers – hangers

          robes, bathrobes, pyjamas – shelves

          blouses, tops, shirts, T-shirts, turtlenecks, V necks – shelves

          accessories – cupboard

          Magnussen’s eyes lingered on a silver bracelet – a treasured gift from the Camarenas, when she had completed her dissertation. They had even invited her out to celebrate – a fond memory, the closest one that she associated with “family.” Magnussen had eventually summoned the courage to reach out to Mika and shamefully confess that she had agreed to join an operation meant to bring justice to Kiki. No matter how she phrased things, it sounded wrong, but the reality was that Mexico City didn’t plan to finish the job. They had swept what they could under the rug, wishing that no one would bat an eyelid – or that everyone would forget.

          Mika had been encouraging and polite upon hearing the news, yet Magnussen struggled to assess whether she had been genuine or not. She must be thinking, “They recruited a child for a professional’s task.” Magnussen couldn’t blame her. A year had passed since Kiki’s demise, and Mika hadn’t been granted a sense of privacy, to mourn and move on. This would haunt her and their sons forever. Magnussen couldn’t comprehend what that felt like. She wouldn’t want to live long following her partner’s death. To her, it resembled a version of hell. She had once been told that those who died shortly after one another had been soulmates. For a moment, it was nice to believe. To be naïve.

          Nevertheless, Mika had thanked Magnussen for getting involved. “Kiki would be proud,” Bowen had said. I assume that he would rather be alive. I’m not doing this to make anyone proud. Kiki was gone, and what had happened to him had been a tragedy, so cruel and vicious that it was difficult to wrap your head around it. Leyenda had slowly but surely advanced towards achieving its goal. If Magnussen could contribute at all, she would try. At least it’s better than Reagan’s shitty phone call to Mika. Magnussen’s best guess? It was somehow supposed to comfort Camarena’s widow and offer reassurances, which was bizarre, because “comfort” and “reassurances” weren’t concepts that Magnussen would affiliate with Reagan. He probably gave a delirious Hollywoodian speech about patriotism, remembered that communists existed and got a raging erection, then had a stroke when he entertained the idea of sane healthcare policies.

          Before stepping out to run her errands, Magnussen replaced her ELO T-shirt with a peach blouse, pulled on a black maxi coat and a pair of sneakers, and grabbed her keys, wallet, and pack of cigarettes. The habitual chaos was deafening – unnecessary honking, cars and trucks driving by, tires screeching, pedestrians conversing, shouting, or laughing – an anthesis to her apartment’s quiet bubble of solace. Trees of various shapes and sizes lined the sidewalk, as well as tall streetlights and colorful traffic signs that few obeyed. The wind increased, causing her hair to whip her cheeks and the strong smell of gas to invade her nostrils. The corners of her eyes watered, in protest. Magnussen almost gagged. Urban charm.

          She decided to take a detour, so she started down the congested boulevard, tightening her coat around herself. A stray cat sneaked between the bars of a fence, into someone’s front yard. Early in the morning, Magnussen would wait for the bus in a station, not too far from here. After class, she would sometimes go to the park and read on a bench for hours. The image of kids joyfully playing might’ve been permanently soiled by the looming threat of the cartel. The youth grew up defenseless, exposed to violence, with little to no opportunities. Many viewed illicit activities as their salvation. Everybody had become absorbed by narcotics, but the equation wasn’t that simple. The War on Drugs was a hydra, stretching its tentacles and suffocating all aspects of life. The current strategy seemed inherently fucking Christian; concentrating on the sinners, disregarding the victims. It should be their new motto.

          The U.S. Consulate General looked bleak and deserted, just as the last time Magnussen had seen it; neither imposing, nor welcoming. And they didn’t get rid of the hideous beige paint. Memories flooded her mind, both bitter and sweet. She had lost count of the number of instances that she had walked in and out of that building, usually accompanied by Kiki or Jaime. While Magnussen hadn’t been authorized to join the DEA on their missions, she had participated in discussions at the office, analyzed files, and helped piece together intel. At first, their knowledge had been so deficient; how the cartel operated, who its members were, the officials it had corrupted. They still didn’t have much, yet they had gathered enough to attract the attention of the narcos and turn the U.S. Consulate into a crime scene. Magnussen wasn’t standing far from the spot where DFS agents and sicarios had abducted Camarena, in broad daylight, in February 1985. Her stomach twisted, mouth going dry. The beginning of the war. Of the nightmare. Searches, news reports, political tensions. The U.S. government had even shut down the border with Mexico and ordered every vehicle to be inspected.

          The longer a person is missing, the slimmer the chances of finding them. Kiki had been gone for a month. Doomed from the start. All of the parties involved had been aware that the cartel was behind it. Then, the bodies had been discovered, and hell had slowly and silently broken loose. Truthfully, Magnussen had been surprised when Fonseca and Quintero had been arrested. When Félix Gallardo hadn’t been, however, things had finally begun to make sense. The system had worked; sacrificing Camarena and protecting the Thin Man. Kiki hadn’t had any information about the politicians on the cartel’s payroll. Neither had Zavala, though there hadn’t been tapes of his interrogation. Magnussen rejected the theory that Camarena had been in the wrong place, at the wrong time. No, they had sought him out; threatened him, followed him. The cartel had known precisely where he would be on that day, at what hour, and what he would be wearing. The entire fiasco was a splintered mosaic, mutilated maybe beyond repair. Kiki had been obsessed with the idea of Félix Gallardo knowing his name, and, in the end, his wish had been granted – at an enormous cost. His patriotism had flown him too close to the sun.

          Now, it was Magnussen’s turn. One way or another, Félix Gallardo would learn her name.

          Magnussen’s shopping trip had resulted in a strategic disaster. She had returned with more bags than she had anticipated, having to balance them and the birria when climbing the stairs to her apartment. A success, nonetheless. It hadn’t been until Magnussen had smelled the meat grilling that she had realized how hungry she was. Luckily, the queue hadn’t been long. Magnussen had passed the time by listening to the ranchero music playing at the diner, harmoniously joined by cutlery clinking against plates, smokers coughing, stools creaking, and people slurping coffee.

          Magnussen drank the rest of her red wine and sat up to deposit her glass on the floor. Her back touched the cold edge of the bathtub – causing goosebumps to erupt all over her skin – so she sank into the hot water, taking a drag from her cigarette. In the living room, Judas Priest’s Love Bites blasted on the stereo, which she had set up after she had eaten.

          Softly you stir

          Gently you moan

          Lust’s in the air

          Wake as I groan

          In the dead of night, love bites

          The butterflies tattooed on her right ankle peeked out of the bubbles, droplets trickling over their wings. Magnussen watched the smoke rise to the ceiling, her thoughts wandering to her earlier encounter with Breslin at the airport. Accidental encounter. He had looked familiar, but things hadn’t initially clicked. Once they had, Magnussen had improvised and half lied during their unofficial introduction. Breslin had seemed a bit stiff and antisocial; probably common, given that he’s an undercover cop. Ironically, his appearance hadn’t wholly indicated that he was in law enforcement. What if the curls are meant to throw everyone off? Breslin’s photo in the Leyenda file had definitely been deceiving; his hair was dark brown, not black. Magnussen felt betrayed. His sad eyes were a distinctive shade of brown, almost hazel – especially if light reflected in them. Breslin’s voice had been the most striking; low and deep, likely because of the smoking. The other details she had deemed uninteresting. Magnussen hadn’t been able to help herself when Mejía had materialized and fucked up Breslin’s state of Zen. She had deliberately flashed him a smile, making sure that Mejía would notice the action.

          Professional relationship, off to a great start. Magnussen had never assumed that it would be smooth sailing. A European woman in her mid-20s born in a communist regime amidst conservative American cops in a propagandistic narco-war in Mexico? Peachy. Except Magnussen would fight the war on two different fronts; against the cartel and the DEA. Nothing new. She had faced much worse.

          Yet, Magnussen hadn’t come to Mexico to prove something to her future colleagues or to do the U.S. administration “proud” or to be awarded a medal. While some might ignore or forget the reason why they were there, to Magnussen the message resonated loudly and clearly.

          I’m here for Kiki.

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

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

READ MORE: Guadalajara, U.S. Consulate, Police Policy on Tattoos, Birriería Aceves, Love Bites by Judas Priest

[cregan-starks]

B E H O L D E N

Summary: Beholden follows Agent Magnussen’s journey with the DEA during the War on Drugs, spanning from Félix Gallardo’s reign in Mexico to Escobar and the Cali godfathers in Colombia, and beyond.

Ao3 | Inspo | Headcanons

MEXICO

Prologue: Leyenda

Chapter 1: Colibri

Chapter 2: Rookie

Chapter 3: Taquito

Chapter 4: TBA

AUs

Lacuna [Javier Peña x OC]

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

[artemiseamoon]

A Different Life pt 3

“PANDORAS BOX”

All chapters | next chapter

Narcos Mexico AU | Walt Breslin x Female ex-lover OC

Words: 1,681 | Warnings: None this chapter

Gif credits: 1st from GIPHY | 2nd from @fuckyeahscootmcnairy

The airport felt harsher than usual. With no way of contacting him, Nia couldn’t ask to say goodbye. After he left at 5 am, she didn’t see him again for the remainder of the trip.

Nia knew the nature of his work, he was likely immersed in something big. In that kind of situation, calling her wasn’t a priority. But, she hoped he at least thought about it.

Being together again opened up a Pandora's box of emotions. Everything about the way they ended was so unsettled; there was never a drop of closure. They both just accepted the end and moved on, leaving so much more to be said.

Over the years, Nia was convinced she got over him. Mexico showed her this was not the case, not at all. Opening this box may do more harm than good, but it was too soon to tell. All she did know, right now, was waiting for her flight, she wished he was with her. Even for a moment, so she could see his face one more time.

Soon the flight comes.

...

Being back home for the last week was a rollercoaster. Some days Nia felt lighter like she left the weight of Mexico at the airport. Other days, she felt heavier than ever.

Today was a lighter day, Nia was hosting an early dinner party for a few close friends. Among them a potential romantic partner. James was a friend of hers. He liked her for a long time and when he asked her out again a few days ago, she entertained the idea.

Dinner went well. After eating, everyone moved into the living room. As the music played and everyone enjoyed desert the doorbell rings. Nia wasn’t expecting anyone else.

Before Nia could head to the door, her sister Mya volunteers. Leaving the room before she could object. As Mya opens the door, she finds a familiar face on the other side of it.

“Walt?” Surprise in her voice.

“Mya, hi.”

“Wow, blast from the past.”

“Nice to see you. How are you?"

"Good, good...you?

"I'm alright. Is your sister home?”

“Inside, “Mya grips the side of the door and glances back over her shoulder, “we’re kind of having a gathering.”

“I’m sorry, I won’t take up too much time.”

“Okay,” Mya opens the door wider, motioning for him to come in.

Mya always liked Walt, sure this was not a great time for him to show up. But deep down she always hoped he and Nia would get back together. Maybe, Walt being here was a good thing.

“Just, wait a moment.”

He closes the door behind him as Mya turns to the living room.

It’s a short hallway, Walt peaks inside counting about 6 people. In the middle of the room was Nia, setting some things on a table. Beside her, a guy standing close and seemingly flirting with her.

Mya reaches Nia and whispers in her ear. Nia's eyes shoot toward the archway, seeing Walt standing there. He waves at everyone; it's kind of cute and awkward. Nia invites him, introducing him to the few people he didn’t know.

The room was full of old friends, most who were around when she and Walt first met. After a brief conversation, they step outside to the back yard and take a seat.

Walt speaks up first. “I won’t stay long, I see you’re busy.”

“A little yeah.”

“Smells good in there. Like your cooking.”

“Right you are detective," Nia holds up her hands, "made with these right here."

“God, I miss your cooking.”

“I bet you do.” Nia nudges him playfully to lighten the intensity of all this.  

Silence falls between them as they figure out what to say next. Walt knew he had to see her, he just didn't plan out what he wanted to say.

Nia stands, motioning to the house, “I’ll make you something to go.”

“No, don-”

“Please. It will give me a moment to think of what to say because to say you surprised me by showing up is an understatement. I’m kind of - at a loss for words.”

“Please do. To be perfectly honest, I have no fucking idea what to say either."

“Good, maybe we can both think of something by the time I come back.”

Nia leaves.

In the kitchen, as she fills two containers with food, her sister joins her.

“I can’t believe Walts here,” Mya says.

“I know.”

“So, what does this mean?”

Nia closes the containers and looks at her, “Honestly, I have no fucking idea. I really don’t know.”

“I hope it's okay I let him in.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Nia touches Mya’s arm to reassure her, “It’s fine. I won't be long, take over for me?"

“You got it.”

Placing the containers in a small bag she leaves her sister and returns to Walt.

Once outside, she places the bag on the small table to the side of them and sits down.  

“I would have come by earlier, but I had something to do. Then I went to see Danny,“ He pauses, “Alejandra is moving.”

Nia could see the pain in his eyes. Walt was latching on to Danny because it was the closest thing he had to Greg. She could understand this, but she also understood Alejandra needed to move on. She needed to move on and do it outside of Texas.

“I know, I saw her a few days ago.”

Walt looks up at her again, almost as if to ask why she didn't tell him.

“I have no way to reach you. Remember?”

“Yeah,” He glances back at the house, watching the group have fun in the living room.

“Walt, you are a good uncle to him. Greg would be proud. Still, Alejandra needs to find some peace. She can’t do it there.”

“I’m glad you two are still close,” He replies, still watching the party. Nia knew he was specifically watching James.

“You know you can still visit him? Just give her time to adjust.”

“I will.” He takes a deep breath, pressing his palms into his thighs. His eyes capture hers once more, “I went to the airport, I missed you by 5 minutes.”

Nia’s eyes widen at the revelation, “I didn’t think, I mean I knew you were busy so-”

“I couldn’t contact you for a couple of days. A lot of shit went down. Hopefully, for something good, finally.” He sits up, “ Nia. I’m so fucking close, I can feel it.”

“That’s good. Is that why you’re back, caught someone important?”

“Fuck yes.”

They both smile and she looks away first. When she lowered her head strands of hair fall to her face. Walt gives in to the urge and smooths them back and behind her ear.

“Nia?”

“Yes?”

Walt leans in close, “When this is all over, and I know you’ll be safe. I’m going to get you back.”

Nia laughs, not to mock him, he knew that. Sometimes she did laugh when she was nervous, he could tell by the way she fidgeted with her bracelet this was a nervous laugh.

“I’m serious, whoever that guy is,” he tilts his head toward the house, “if he’s still around, I’m still going to get you back.”

Nia parts her lips to speak but doesn't know what to say. She knew her heart was beaming at such a thought; to be with him again, to try again. Still, her logical mind and the part of her trying to move on, those parts were anxious at the sound of this.

“I know why you are nervous. Toward the end, I was a shit boyfriend. I let Gregs' death kill me too. I wasn't there for you, or myself. I am sorry.”

“Thank you for that, it feels good to hear.”

Walt takes her hand into his. “I have to go back to Mexico, but when I return for good, I’ll be right at that door.”

“You can’t ask me to wait, you know that.”

“I know,” He kisses the back of her hand as he stands. Nia watches the gesture lovingly. A second later, he kisses the top of her head. Inhaling the scent of her hair to keep it with him longer.

Nia blinks away oncoming tears. Walt was her guy, she loved him. Her feelings for him, after all this time, we're still so raw.

“You know I don’t like seeing you cry,” His thumb brushing against her cheek.

“Well, you know,” Nia takes a sharp breath in and stands, shoving her hands in her pockets.“I have to get back, hosting a dinner and all.”

Walt nods his head gently before pulling her into a hug. She melts into it, holding tight. They stay like this for a while.

“I love you,” Walt whispers in her ear.

“I love you too.”

“I’ll come back in one piece. I promise.” Walt steps back, holding her arms as he takes a good look at her.

“You better,” Nia replies.

Once Walt releases her, Nia grabs the bag reminding him to take it. Holding it under his left arm, Walt starts toward the door then stops short, turning back around.

“I almost forgot, I got you a little something,” Using his free hand, he pulls a small box out of his left pocket. He places it in her palm, "I hope you like it. I was never good at picking out little things like that.”

Nia opens the box. Inside is a beautiful pair of round earrings, painted in vibrant colors on silver. A smile lights up her face,

“I love them, thank you.’

“Good, let me.” Temporarily placing the bag down, Walt puts the earrings in her ears. He's a little clumsy about it, but it's cute, “They look good on you.”

“Thanks.”

They share a long lingering gaze before Walt breaks eye contact first. He retrieves the bag.

“Get back to your party.”

"Get back to saving the world."

Walt winks at her, opening the sliding door and making his way out of the house.

Next & final chapter

[drabbles-mc]

Drabbles-MC Masterlist

Because of the link limit, each character now has their own link on this post that leads to a separate post. But this is still where to go to find all of my fics!

(You can also go HERE to find me on AO3)

Fic-list under the cut!

👀 = smut, 💔 = angst

Mayans MC Characters:

- EZ Reyes Fics

- Angel Reyes Fics

- Bishop Losa Fics

- Coco Cruz Fics

- Nestor Oceteva Fics

- Neron “Creeper” Vargas Fics

- Hank Loza Fics

- Gilly Lopez Fics

- Marcus Alvarez Fics

- Che "Taza" Romero Fics

Michael “Riz” Ariza Fics:

- Reckless

- Wipeout

Miguel Galindo Fics:

- Business Trip

- Withered 💔

Guero Fics:

- Always Here Anyway

Canche Fics:

- Trustfall

Sons of Anarchy Characters:

- Herman Kozik Fics

- Opie Winston Fics

- Filip “Chibs” Telford Fics

- Jax Teller Fics

- Juice Ortiz Fics

- Happy Lowman Fics

- David Hale Fics

- Alexander “Tig” Trager Fics

- SOA/Mayans MC Headcanons

Narcos/Narcos: Mexico Characters:

- Javier Peña Fics

- Horacio Carrillo Fics

- Steve Murphy Fics

- Walt Breslin Fics

- Amado Carrillo Fuentes Fics

- Isabella Bautista Fics

- The Diegoverse Fics: A Series of OG Narcos OC Universes

- Hugo Martinez Fics

- Chepe Santacruz Fics

María Elvira Fics:

- Favors Owed 👀

Danilo Garza:

- Things Like That 👀

Amat Palacios Fics:

- Just A Bad Feeling 💔

Officer Trujillo Fics:

- Looking On

Andrea Nuñez Fics:

- At Your Service

Sal Orozco Fics:

- Cómo Puedo Ayudar?

Enedina Arellano Félix Fics:

- Adamant

Jorge Salcedo Fics:

- Debts Paid

Other Fandoms:

- Outer Banks Fics

- Stranger Things Fics

- MCU Fics

- The Bear Fics

- Top Gun Maverick Fics

- Suicide Squad Fics

- Kingsman Fics

- John Wick Fics

- Altered Carbon Fics

- Silent Night Fics:

- Speaking Volumes (Brian Godlock x F!Reader)

- Better Call Saul Fics:

- Should’ve Seen It Coming (Nacho Varga x F!Reader) 💔

- Fresh Start (Gabriela Castillo x Nacho Varga) [Crossover]

- House MD Fics:

- Not to Spoil the Ending (Robert Chase x Greg House)

- Bullet Train Fics:

- Pretty and Unscathed (Carver x Ladybug)

- Emily the Criminal Fics:

- Waking Hours (Youcef Haddad x GN!Reader)

- Law & Order: SVU Fics:

- Stomping Grounds (Mike Duarte x F!Reader)

- Our Flag Means Death Fics:

- Retelling the Story (Stede Bonnet x Edward Teach)

- F.R.I.E.N.D.S Fics

- The One Where It’s The Right Time (Joey Tribbiani x Rachel Green)