Chapter 1118: An Unexpected Reunion (Patreon)

Tijuana’s climate was much like Los Angeles—both were coastal cities near the Pacific.

It was already early summer in June, and even wearing a T-shirt during the day felt too hot. The streets were filled with tourists in oversized Mexican sombreros and local vendors hustling for business.

Jack and Hannah wore short-sleeved T-shirts and sunglasses, their badges and holstered sidearms openly displayed at their waists, clearly indicating their identity.

If they had been in another country, they would have gone in plainclothes, at the very least covering their weapons to avoid provoking local resentment.

After all, while Americans like to think of themselves as the world’s police, not everyone appreciates seeing foreign law enforcement on their soil—especially in countries with painful histories of colonization.

But Mexico was a different story. Here, drug traffickers could swagger down the streets in broad daylight, while the police had to skulk around, even covering their faces with black masks during investigations.

As early as the 1970s, the U.S. had repeatedly sent in law enforcement—and even military forces—to help several South American countries, including Mexico, crack down on drug cartels.

"I thought only those special police or military guys who go after the cartels had to worry about being recognized," Hannah said as she opened the car door, eyeing a group of Mexican federal officers dressed in all black despite the scorching sun.

After leaving the forensics office, she and Jack had headed straight for the crime scene at Delgado Plaza, where Jubal and Clay were already waiting for them.

"In this place, any case has the potential to be cartel-related," Jack reminded her. "Did you already forget we just found cocaine residue under that kid’s fingernails?"

"But are there even any cartels in Mexico that use a scythe as a murder weapon?" Hannah asked, feigning confusion.

"The only one I know who uses a scythe is the Grim Reaper. And if it were Him, there wouldn’t be a wound—just a soul taken."

Jack joked, but his attention was already on a nearby figure dressed like a Mexican SWAT officer, talking to Clay. There was something familiar about that man’s build.

"Is that you?" The moment he recognized the figure, Jack didn’t shout his name but quickly closed the distance, lowering his voice when he got close. "Lieutenant Lopez?"

“Jack!” The stocky man grabbed Jack in a bear hug, squeezing him tightly. “It’s so good to see you again!”

Jack was genuinely glad to see a familiar face upon arriving in Mexico, though he was also a bit puzzled. "I thought you’d already left this country."

Back when they were taking down a certain drug cartel, Lopez’s face had been recognized, and a death bounty had been placed on his entire family.

After the case wrapped up, the CIA had provided Lopez and his family with full identification documents, granting them green cards under something akin to witness protection.

So in Jack’s mind, the man should have already started a new life in the U.S.

"I work for CBP now. They needed someone familiar with the cartels. My whole family lives in San Diego now, and we don’t have to live in fear anymore."

There were tears in Lopez’s eyes—not just from excitement, but from deep gratitude.

If it hadn’t been for this kind FBI agent, the best outcome back then would have been a mutual kill with that drug lord Dozza.

"Lopez is the one CBP assigned to assist us, and he’s also our liaison with the Mexican police," Clay said, having spoken with Lopez a bit earlier.

"I’m glad to see you still able to serve your homeland in this way," Jack said, his words clearly striking a chord with Lopez—his happiness was palpable, even through the mask.

"Please, follow me." After Jack introduced Hannah, former Mexican Marine Lieutenant and current CBP agent Lopez gestured for the group to follow him to a large tree beside the plaza.

The area was already crowded with curious locals and tourists, forming several layers of onlookers. Mexican SWAT officers, dressed in bulletproof vests and black masks, were struggling to maintain the perimeter.

"The shop owner over there discovered the body this morning when he opened up," Lopez said, pointing to the rope still hanging from a tree branch.

Seeing the group's attention turn to the crowd beyond the police line, he offered an explanation. "This area is a tourist zone. The security is usually decent—there’s never been a case of a body publicly displayed like this before."

Hannah took off her sunglasses and squinted up at the tree’s thick canopy, easily over ten meters tall. "If it’s always this lively here, how did no one see the body being hung?"

"Even a busy plaza becomes completely deserted between midnight and dawn. That’s not a time decent folks are out and about."

Lopez pointed at the souvenir shops behind the tree. "Before you arrived, I asked the nearby store owners. The local gangs around here generally follow the rules.

As long as they get paid their protection money, they prefer to keep the peace nearby—after all, their illegal businesses also rely on a steady stream of tourists."

While Tijuana had sunshine and beaches, California had plenty of that, too.

The reason so many Americans flocked to this city wasn’t just the lower cost of living or the free-flowing booze that lured teenagers—no, the real draw was the red-light district and the drugs.

As a result, the local gangs and drug cartels had a tacit agreement to steer clear of the tourist zones. Even when fighting turf wars, they usually picked more discreet spots—but that was under normal circumstances.

Just then, Jubal and Jack, having exchanged a few quiet words about the autopsy, walked over to join the others.

"If the killer took advantage of that window of time, it means he knew the area well—possibly even lives nearby," Jack said, lowering his gaze to the ground. "But clearly, this wasn’t the primary crime scene. The victim’s carotid artery was severed—there should have been blood everywhere.

But under the tree, there are only a few drops. That means the body was mostly drained of blood before being strung up."

Clay focused on another detail. "Aren’t you all wondering how the killer managed to pull this off? Hoisting a body up that high—it’s not something one person could do easily."

As he spoke, Hannah had already scampered up the tree in a few quick movements and now peered down at them from the canopy. "What was that you just said?"

"..."

"Forget I said anything," Clay muttered, shrugging helplessly.

"She’s a Texas girl," Jack said quietly, looking up and flashing her a grin and a thumbs-up.