Chapter 1124: Santa Muerte (Patreon)

“Anna Sofia? Don’t be afraid. FBI. I’m Agent Jennifer Jareau. May we come in?” JJ’s Spanish wasn’t as fluent as Jack’s, but she could handle everyday conversations just fine.

“I’m Anna Sofia. I speak English.”

The woman’s tense expression softened slightly, though she still looked uneasy. Her gaze dropped toward the floor involuntarily as she spoke. Beside her, a chubby little boy peeked fearfully from behind his mother, hiding most of his face.

“That’s great, thank you.” JJ slung her rifle behind her back. The others did the same, making a conscious effort to appear less threatening.

“Mamá, what do they want?” the little boy asked, voice trembling. His chubby cheeks were etched with fear—but when Jack produced a lollipop from seemingly nowhere, his eyes lit up like a cat spotting a treat.

“They just want to ask Mommy a few questions,” Anna Sofia gently assured her son, stroking his hair.

Hannah took the lollipop from Jack, spinning it playfully in her hand. “You’re Arturo, right? Want to try a racing game on my phone?”

“Please, come in.”

Casting a worried glance toward her son as he followed Hannah into the dining area beside the kitchen, Anna Sofia led the three remaining agents into the living room.

Jack instinctively scanned the layout. The cheap carpet was worn but spotless. The appliances looked old, but everything was present—dishwasher, oven, water heater, and a big-screen TV. These were standard in American homes, but in Mexico, such conveniences weren’t as common.

“What happened?” Anna Sofia’s English, though lightly accented, was quite good.

Unlike JJ and Hannah, who had assumed a more approachable demeanor, Jack was playing “bad cop.” He didn’t answer her question, instead fired one of his own. “You know what the FBI does, right?”

“American police.” Anna Sofia looked uneasy. “I didn’t know the FBI handled these things. Did his American wife contact you?”

JJ arched a brow. “So you knew about Robert Miller’s other family in Arizona?”

They’d discussed this on the way over. Generally speaking, mistresses didn’t ask for kids. Judging by Arturo’s age, Anna Sofia had given birth when she was barely twenty. So they’d guessed this wasn’t a simple affair but more like a common-law marriage.

Anna Sofia’s reaction was more complicated than expected—she clearly hadn’t been completely unaware.

“That was about eight or nine months ago,” she said, her expression showing a strange mix of relief and lingering resentment.

“His old company sent over his severance check and some documents. The names of his wife and two sons in Arizona were on it. That’s how I found out everything.”

“You two had a fight?” Clay asked, watching her closely.

Micro-expression analysis was still a new skill for the former Navy SEAL. But being a fast learner, he never missed a chance to observe. The rest of the team was full of pros—Jubal had his poker face mastered, while Jack and JJ were tricky enough to mislead him on purpose.

The others? Hannah was too straightforward to be useful for practice. As for Aubrey and Alice—they were constantly glued together these days, making any attempt to shadow them a surefire invitation for secondhand romance.

“Of course,” Anna Sofia said, still visibly bitter. “We fought. He admitted everything.”

“But?” JJ gestured for her to go on.

“But my son needs a father. So we made peace.” The words were difficult for her to say. She lowered her head as she finished.

“You still resent him,” Clay said, probing gently.

“Maybe,” she murmured—then suddenly realized something. “You’re not here about that, are you? It’s about Robert. What did he do?”

JJ glanced at Jack, who gave her a slight nod. She softened her tone. “I’m sorry. Robert Miller was murdered tonight.”

“Oh, Holy Mother!” Anna Sofia instinctively crossed herself. Tears welled up immediately.

It was clear: despite the anger and betrayal, she had truly cared about Robert Miller.

It took a while for JJ to calm her down. Eventually, through sniffles, Anna Sofia began to speak again. “My husband... he gambled, he drank... God knows what else. But he took good care of me and our son.

He never started fights. Even when he was drunk, he never hit me or Arturo. Who could do something so horrible to him?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Jack met her eyes as he spoke and subtly nudged Clay with his elbow—urging him to keep watching.

Under the FBI agents’ focused stares, Anna Sofia’s gaze became evasive. Her face stiffened.

“We’re here because we believe you may know something,” JJ said gently. “Can you share it with us?”

Anna Sofia covered her face, seemingly in shock. Then, after a long pause, she stood and walked to a cabinet in the corner of the room.

As she opened the door, Clay froze. His hand was still resting on his gun. Even Jack and JJ were left speechless, mouths half open in stunned silence.

Inside the cabinet was a shrine—a skeletal figure dressed in a blood-red bridal gown, holding a scythe.

It was unmistakable. Jack had seen it before, back when he and the SEALs were trapped in the slums of Ixtapaluca. It was Santa Muerte—“La Santa Muerte,” the Saint of Holy Death. (Chapter 622)

Surrounding the statue were burning candles, decorative flowers, fruit, and offerings of tequila.

“Isn’t that...?” Clay stared, momentarily at a loss.

“Santa Muerte. The protector of the forsaken,” Jack said, recalling what Colonel Martinez had told him.

Mexico didn’t have an official state religion, but Catholicism was dominant—nearly 90% of the population claimed to be Catholic.

But those numbers were misleading. Unlike the other “Eastern nation” that believed in reincarnation and encouraged the poor to accept suffering as karmic debt, Catholicism offered little solace to the downtrodden.

Many of Mexico’s poor—those who felt abandoned by God—turned to Santa Muerte.

This included street vendors, cab drivers, pirate DVD sellers, hustlers, sex workers, pickpockets, and members of drug cartels. These were people rejected by mainstream Catholicism, who found no comfort in traditional teachings.

Jack remembered when they captured one of cartel lord Doza’s men—a thug named Lazo—he’d had a Santa Muerte tattoo inked over his heart.