Kael stood in the doorway. Head bandaged. Left hand wrapped in bloody cloth. Right hand holding Lobo’s own silenced .22.
The rain had stopped. The ravine was quiet except for trickling water and the buzz of flies already gathering. Kael’s body lay twisted among broken pallets and trash. His eyes were open. Glassy.
He pressed the muzzle against the plastic between his wrists, turned his head away, and fired. Death Before Dishonor 2 Pistols Zip
Behind him, a man who sold his soul for a cartel contract lay still. And ahead, a man who refused to die with a lie on his lips walked toward the border—one zip-tie still dangling from his wrist like a broken bracelet.
Then Kael stood, tucked the pistol into his belt, and limped out into the Matamoros dawn. The rain was finally gone. Kael stood in the doorway
He crawled.
Lobo handed the gun to his man. “Dump him in the usual ravine.” Right hand holding Lobo’s own silenced
They dragged Kael by the zip-ties. The plastic cut deeper, but Kael didn’t feel that either.