Kara stomped her foot violently on the ground, a basketball-sized boulder launching several feet into the air before she struck out with an aggressive punch, launching the thirty-pound chunk of earth into the berm at the end of the range.

“Oh, thank the makers!” exclaimed Kara happily, closing her fist and bringing a small clump of pebbles out of the ground, opening her palm, and miming a slap, launching the small stones with a sonic boom. “This is so much easier than fire magic!”

In just an hour of practice on her newfound abilities as an Earth-Mage, Kara was already performing feats that would’ve boggled Sam’s mind a day ago. From carving a six-foot deep, twenty-foot long trench in the ground with a nearly disinterested wave of her hand, to launching small boulders faster than the speed of sound, the diminutive woman was clearly more at home with earth magic than fire.

Sam chuckled, taking another sip from his canteen as he watched the display. He was doggedly tired, but determined to see this through. What he found decidedly interesting was the way earth magic seemed to affect the body. Every time his diminutive curmudgeon of an Earth-Mage dipped into her powers, every single vein in her hands and forearms turned a deep, earthy brown, bulging from her arm.

It vaguely resembled someone trying to pump peanut butter through her body at very high pressure, but it hadn’t seemed to cause her pain or distress this far, so he hadn’t truly worried. He rubbed at his eyes blearily as he watched Kara lift a car-sized boulder effortlessly, hucking it at the back wall.

The practice dummy they’d set up was dead. Very dead.

“Hey Kara, I think I’m gonna get some shuteye,” Sam stated after a yawn. “I think you should too.”

“You’re right,” she sighed, casting a wayward glance to the skies above. “It’s getting late. My Mana needs to recharge anyway.”

“Good idea,” Sam said, rising to his feet. “I look forward to seeing what you can do on a full tank.”

He turned towards his hut, haphazardly slapping on the flat-brimmed helmet as he strode several steps away from the Dwarven maiden.

“Sam,” Kara said softly behind him.

“Yeah?” he asked, turning to face her. He met her eyes, her soft smile as a well of silence dwelt between them.

“Thank you,” she said awkwardly, casting her eyes down for a second before dragging them back up. “I don’t think I would’ve tried that on my own. The ducal academy didn’t test me for earth magic, as it’s already rare enough for a dwarf to have magic, let alone that field. It… it means a lot.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, feeling woefully awkward himself. He nodded once to the woman, spun, and marched with celerity to his hovel. Opening the ramshackle door, he froze, sighed, and stepped into the dwelling. Curled up in her own bedroll uncomfortably close to his, was Ellie.

She was contentedly snoring away, sleeping with all the commitment of someone decidedly not at the front lines of a war on an alien world.

‘Fuck it,’ Sam thought, realizing that in addition to being too tired to honestly care about her antics at the moment, but she had also been the one to put moves on him earlier. It wasn’t like he was opposed to the idea of romancing the effervescent Drow, but his heart still quailed at the thought that in some way, he was betraying Anna.

‘It’s just sleep,’ he assured himself, stripping off his belt and suspenders, and placing his boots next to his gear in a way that could be quickly donned in a moment’s notice, ‘it’s not like I’m getting remarried. Besides, this is a Forward Operating Base, I doubt we could get up to any funny business without someone noticing here, especially Henfri with her super ears.’

He grimaced, his mind settling on the big lizard’s unusual attitude.

‘Come to think of it, she might try to join,’ he internally chuckled. ‘She’s fuckin’ weird enough.’

Sam opened the covers on his bedroll, shimmying his way inside as stealthily as possible. He froze when Ellie rolled over in her sleep, muttered something unintelligible, and wrapped her arm around his midsection. She rolled her knee over his thigh, and deftly pulled herself against his arm, making a happy, sleepy cooing noise.

Sam sighed again, but didn’t fight her. He turned his head slightly at the stunning alien beauty, and honestly had to wonder what he’d done to garner her attention like this. He was just a normal ex-grunt, like millions before him, and probably billions after. He wasn’t special.

Sure he had training and skills beyond that of your average layman, but that didn't make a guy worthy of being recruited by the right hand of an ancient Goddess from a pantheon that didn’t even exist in his world.

He blearily blinked once, realizing that he was far too tired for this in-depth line of thought. He absent-mindedly brushed a lock of shoulder-length white hair behind Ellie’s long, pointed ears and laid his head against the small bundle of clothes that he’d made as an improvised pillow.

He closed his eyes as he felt the crushing weight of sleep tenderly envelop his body.

* * *

James Shuemacher sighed. Whenever the Agency sent him on these operations, he had to find ways to break the mind-numbing tedium of waiting. Waiting with a briefcase of several hundred thousands of dollars in rough diamonds at a small café on a street corner in Hermosillo, Mexico.

Currently, that was the bottle of nearly-untouched beer, half a sandwich, and some random novel in Spanish he’d found at a store near his safehouse. Passing a surreptitious glance to the intersection and sidewalk before him, he eyeballed the denizens of the city going about their day.

Taking another sip of the beer, he did his best impression of someone enjoying their Sunday morning on the town. He looked back to the book, slowly working his way through the mire of words. He knew how to speak Spanish competently, due to growing up in New Mexico, but his reading comprehension left a lot to be desired.

He looked back down at his phone and reread the information present. It boiled down to bribing the boss of a large cartel into giving up the names and locations of his competitors in the region. If the US could find a local boss they could work with, they could gain a modicum of control and stability in this region, particularly if he had a monopoly on the market, and it seemed like Uncle Sam was gearing up to hand one to him on a silver platter.

He turned the device off, stowing it in his suit trousers. He closed his eyes for a second and cracked his neck. The aches and pains from ten years in the Army were finally catching up with him.

‘Guy can only go so long jumping out of perfectly good airplanes, I guess,’ he mentally shrugged as he stretched a leg under the table, eying an unmarked white van that pulled up in front of the café. Four men stepped out, tattoos visible on their wrists, necks, and faces despite the opulent suits they wore.

“Guess that’s my twelve o’clock,” he muttered as the men spied the locale, one of their eyes settling on him. The man said something in Spanish, garbled and unintelligible at this distance, and began to stride towards James.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said in English, hoping to gain intelligence on the cartel emissaries if they thought he couldn’t speak Spanish.

“Mr. Shuemacher,” the one in the lead said in English, stopping several feet from his table. “If you would come with us, please, Mr. Montoya is not a man to be kept waiting.”

“Understandable,” said James, pulling several hundred dollar bills from his jacket pocket and setting them on his table, folded under a mug. It served a dual purpose, paying well for his meal, and flashing a wad of cash like that nonchalantly might place him higher on the men before him’s mental playing field. “All set here, lead the way.”

He gestured towards the van, and followed after the men, grabbing his briefcase as he passed by. One of the suited guards slid the side door of the van open, and James stepped in.

“Mr. Shuemacher, if you would be so kind?” asked one of the guards, closing the sliding door after entering and grabbing a metal-detecting wand off one of the bench-like seats in the back.

“Of course, of course,” answered James, raising his arms to his sides, allowing the man to scan him. The Sicario waved it gingerly across his body, stopping at every beep of the device to frisk the spot, especially his belt buckle, pulling it out and to the side several times, as if looking for something hidden there. “Gonna buy me dinner after handling my sword like that?”

The guard shot him an annoyed glance, looking nonplussed at his attempt at levity. Sam internally sighed, but said nothing further.

‘Geez, tough crowd tonight.’

Seemingly satisfied after checking down to his toes, the guard nodded once, and sat down on the seat across from James. The van sputtered to life, swaying slightly as it pulled off the side of the road and into lunchtime traffic.

An hour-and-a-half of bumpy, silent driving later, and the van shuddered to a stop. The man across from James passed a short glance at the driver, before nodding once and sliding the door open. Sam followed him out, pressing his jacket to his stomach as a gust of wind threatened to cast it about like a wayward flag.

His eyes widened for a second before he returned his neutral, placid expression to its normal form. Much different than the inner-city he’d left, was a sea of green manicured grass, a multi-story ivory house sat on the edge of a small cliff overlooking an expanse of blue-green ocean.

Several high-end supercars sat in a detached four-car garage that had its doors open to the world. To him, it looked like a display of wealth and a dare for someone to try and steal from the local honcho.

It definitely seemed in line with the air of superiority these types always seemed to try and put off. It didn’t matter if it was cartel bosses, warlords, or third-world dictators, they all acted out of the same playbook. Intimidate, flex, distract.

Following the group of guards to the doors of the expansive mansion, he was briskly escorted in through an open-style floorplan, several very attractive young women lounging on the furniture drinking fancy-looking beverages, chatting quietly, and looking nervously at the imposing guards that flanked him on all sides. They led him through another hallway, up a spiral staircase, and through a third hallway to a set of banded oak doors.

The two guards in front of him stepped forwards and opened them inwards before him, into a surprising minimalistic, if expansive office. A small bookshelf off to one side held books on law, a wide wooden desk sat in the middle, with two comfortable-looking chairs before it.

Sam was silently directed by one of the guards to have a seat in the chair before the desk. James did as instructed, and waited patiently, analyzing the contents of the room under the guise of admiring the decor.

To him, it spoke of a man clever enough to separate the opulence of his life and his work as a cartel leader, not allowing the hubris of the position to cloud his judgment. With that in mind, he passed his gaze to the expansive turquoise sea before him, watching the pinprick-sized ships lazily drift in the distance.

The doors behind him clacked open noisily, startling James from his pondering as he turned his head over his shoulder. A man in a cream-colored silk dress shirt and slacks strode into the room. He had long brown hair, a well groomed beard, and hazel eyes that faded to a soft forest green at the center.

He smiled happily at James, spreading his arms wide to his sides.

“Hell of a view, isn’t it hermano?” the man asked, flashing a set of bright white teeth that clashed with his tanned skin.

“I’d pay a million bucks for a view like this,” returned James happily.

“Try four,” the man chuckled, smile widening, “And you’d be closer.”

“I’ll give you a call the next time I have several million to drop on a summer home,” smiled James.

“Ah, I’ll keep my eyes open,” the man said with a chuckle. “Unfortunately, we are here to talk business, not real-estate.”

“True enough,” James nodded his head once as the man strode confidently towards him as he rose to his feet and extended a hand. “James Shuemacher,”

“Eduardo Montoya,” Eduardo grinned, shaking his hand firmly, gesturing for James to sit back down as he rounded to his side of the desk. “Sit, sit, please.”

“Mr. Montoya,” James started, sitting back in the leather-upholstered wooden chair.

“Eddie or Eduardo, please,” Eduardo corrected pleasantly.

“Well then, Eddie,” James responded, choosing the familiar approach, “My employers need information, and are willing to pay. In addition, I imagine the removal of your competitors would foster a good working relationship between our companies.”

“What is it with you agency pendejõs and always calling it a company?” Eduardo asked with a snort, waving a hand before him half heartedly.

“We’re willing to offer four hundred thousand in rough diamonds for the information,” James continued, deciding that didn’t deserve a response.

“Make it five,” Eduardo countered with a predatory grin.

James was prepared for this, and nodded once.

“Already done,” he replied with a coy smile, placing the black leather briefcase on the table between them, entering the unlock code, and opening it, sliding it slowly to Eduardo before leaning back in his seat.

Eduardo smiled momentarily before raising his hand and waving one of the stone-faced door guards over. He pointed to the briefcase as the guard sauntered up to the desk. The guard nodded, but before he left, Eduardo spoke.

“Just a moment Carlos,” he turned to James with a pleasant smile, “Business deals should always be celebrated with drinks! Carlos, the bacanora, please. My private reserve.”

“Si, jefe,” the man replied with a curt nod before quickly vacating the room.

“All due respect, Eddie, I’m not really a drinker,” replied James, trying to defuse the situation. Alcohol, cartel bosses, and nail-biting tension were never a good mix.

“Nonsense, hermano,” dismissed Eduardo with a quick chop of his hand as he sat back down at his desk. “I insist, our deal would feel incomplete without it. Besides, you look like you can handle one glass of mezcal!”

James sighed, knowing he had no way out of this situation, other than to share a drink and leave as expediently as he was able without risking offense to the man.

“I suppose one drink won’t hurt,” he replied with a smile, feigning enjoyment.

“It won’t,” smiled Eduardo, before his smile shifted. “While I have you here, I’d like to discuss a business proposal with you.”

“I apologize, but I’m already gainfully employed and not looking for side work,” James refused politely, “Though I appreciate your offer, I’m proud that you’d think that much of me.”

“I do,” replied the cartel boss, “which is why I brought leverage.”

James frowned deeply as the man pulled a laptop from a drawer in the large wooden desk, setting it on the table before plugging it in. He pulled out his cellphone and tapped in a number, pressing it to his ear with a smile and a finger up as if to communicate “just a minute”.

“Hey,” Eduardo said in Spanish, typing on the computer, “Activate the feed, hold fire.”

James internally panicked, his head spiraling out of control with wild ideas of what the madman was about to pull. The door behind him clacked open, and the guard from earlier gingerly set two tall salt-rimmed glasses on the table, opening a sealed, unlabeled bottle, and pouring the clear contents into the glasses before replacing the stopper and setting two slices of lime on the rims.

He passed one glass to James, sliding the other gingerly next to Eduardo, along with the bottle in between the two of them. Carlos, the guard, vacated the area, returning to his earlier station by the door.

“Ah, perfect timing,” said Eduardo in English, resting the phone on the table, the call still active, and spun the monitor around.

A black screen greeted James, causing him to quirk a brow and glance between the monitor and Eduardo. Within several seconds, the screen changed, revealing what he instinctively recognized was the view through a scope camera.

The reticle was centered firmly on the kitchen of a blue two-story home, more specifically the woman inside, steadily scrubbing away at a sink. His muscles tightened and he gripped the chair furiously as his wife looked up to the window, her shoulder-length auburn hair swaying gently as she bobbed and swayed her hips to the beat of an inaudible song.

“Why am I looking at a random house?” James bluffed, hoping to steer the conversation away and stop what was about to happen.

“Random?” laughed Eduardo, his bright eyes turning vicious, “No, not random. Your house. I want you to work for me. I don’t want to end up like the last puto you placed in power, with his location being leaked to the federales as soon as you were done playing your game.

“I want you to work for me, give me Intel on my competitors, notify me of raids, who’s being bribed, everything. You’re going to do this, or she’s going to die painfully. Then, you’re going to die very painfully, Samuel Aiden Caulfield.

“Very.”

“Painfully.”