Today's meeting spot was a bar, a hole-in-the-wall in a neighborhood where the streetlights were mostly shot out. The kind of place where the beer tasted like piss and the patrons looked like they’d been chewed up and spat out by the city. Dora sat in a corner booth, a cigarette dangling from her lips, two empty glasses already on the table in front of her.

Map's muffled voice drifted from the side pocket of the purple bag resting on the tattered vinyl seat. "Dora, this is a terrible spot for business. We've got one main entrance, a kitchen exit that's probably locked, and a bathroom with no cover. We're sitting in a kill box," he murmured.

Dora didn't look down. "Relájate. Relax. If they wanted to kill us, it won't be in a place with tequila this cheap. It’s too public for a professional hit, and too depressing for an amateur one."

The bell above the door chimed, admitting a wave of humid air and a stranger. Dora didn't move, but her eyes tracked the newcomer.

Backpack shifted, her zipper flying open. "Oh! Oh! Is it time? Is it time to meet the new friend?!" Backpack whispered. "Do we want a gift to greet our new friend?! I've got a Claymore! Maybe some tear gas? Oh! How about some ricin, make their first round their last!?"

Dora flicked ash onto the floor before looking over to the bag. "Cállate, Backpack. Shut up. We're hiring, not hunting."

She had a set of requirements for whoever had just walked through that door: they had to be competent enough to watch her back, they had to be discreet, and they had to be okay with the fact that her friends had a mental breakdown every fifteen minutes. Her evaluation had already started.

As the stranger reached the table, Dora finally looked up, taking a long drag from her cigarette. "Hola. Soy Dora. Sit, and let's explore whether we can work together."

Dora leaned against the rusted metal of a shipping container, the orange ember of her cigarette the only light in the alley. Across the lot, the warehouse hummed with activity; men shouting in hurried tones and the rhythmic thud of crates being moved.

"Map," she whispered, peeking out to take another look. "¿A dónde vamos? Where are we going?"

Map unfurled from Backpack's side pocket, showing a crude schematic of the facility and the subterranean tunnel across the border.

"The transfer is happening in the main loading bay," Map explained wearily. "The tunnel entrance is tucked into the northwest corner, disguised as a ventilation shaft. If we're quick, we can intercept the shipment before it hits the tunnel. But Dora... there are at least twelve armed guards. Please, just call in a tip and let the federales handle it. For once."

She ignored the plea, her gaze fixed on the warehouse. She didn't do "tips." The stub of her previous cigarette crunched underfoot as she ducked back behind the corner and tapped the purple backpack slung over her shoulders. "Backpack."

"Oh! Oh! Is it time?! Is it time for the fun part?!" Backpack hissed, their zipper rattling. "What do we need for our big adventure today?! I've got a suppressed MK18 for the 'shhh' parts. Or how about some white phosphorus!? We could make it a cookout! Which one should we use? The MK18 or the phosphorus?! Use the phosphorus, make them sizzle!"

"Quiet," Dora muttered, her hand closing around the cold grip of the carbine. Chambering a round, she stepped out from the shadows of the container, her eyes scanning the perimeter.

"¿Ves a los guardias?" she whispered. "Do you see the guards?"

Dora woke up to the taste of blood and the smell of damp concrete. Her swollen right eye and splitting headache suggested she’d been hit with something heavy, probably a rifle butt. Experience let her force down the panic and settle her breathing as she tested the tension of the ropes around her wrists and ankles.

Tight. Professional.

It took a minute for her good eye to adjust to the dim light of what looked like a repurposed basement. Next to her chair, which was inconveniently bolted to the floor, were a number of empty ones, along with one that was occupied.

"Hey," she hissed. "Necesito tu ayuda. I need your help."

She nodded toward a rusted metal table a few feet away where a purple backpack sat, vibrating with suppressed energy.

"Look at the table," she instructed as she glanced at the door. "¿Ves la mochila? Do you see the backpack? I'm bolted down. Shuffle your chair over there. Take whatever she gives you and get us loose."

A muffled, high-pitched giggle erupted from the table.

"Oh!" Backpack shrieked, her voice ringing off the concrete walls. "I have so many things for this! Do we want a knife? An angle grinder? Or maybe some industrial-strength acid for a little chemistry lesson? You should take the acid! Fingerprints are a liability anyway!"

The Barrett 82A1's chassis felt cold against Dora's cheek, a heavy, utilitarian slab of steel that didn't care about the wind whipping across the ridge. The rifle wasn't her typical choice, but it was the only thing that could punch through the armored plating of the cartel’s transport trucks from this distance; it was a long way down to the valley below.

"Map!" Dora called out, though she didn't move her head from the scope. "¿Dónde está el convoy? Where is the convoy?"

The voice from the side pocket sounded as exhausted as she felt. "Delayed, Dora. We're in the 'Staring at Nothing' part of the adventure. According to the intel, the target is two hours out."

She rolled onto her back, staring up at the bruising purple of the mountain sky. The silence of the valley was oppressive, broken only by the distant, lonely bleat of a goat. "I hate the waiting," she muttered. "Backpack. Do you have anything cold?"

The purple fabric on her shoulders surged, the zipper rattling with a metallic chatter.

"Oh! A snack break! A thirst-quencher! A little treat for the little killer!" Backpack shrieked, the voice high and jagged, vibrating against her spine. "What are we feeling, Dora? Do we want a crisp lager? A chilled bottle of sparkling water? Something harder?"

"Beer is fine, Backpack. ¿Dos cervezas? Gracias."

The bag zipped open and two condensation-beaded bottles slid out into Dora's hands. With a swift flick of a combat knife, Dora popped the caps and took a long, slow draw from one, setting the other down in the dirt.

"Ahora esperamos," she whispered. "Now we wait."

Dora stood in the center of the concrete cellar, pacing around the man zip-tied to the chair in the center. Her clothes and plate carrier were stained with something dark that hadn't fully dried yet.

"Dime dónde está el cargamento, pendejo," she hissed, putting her cigarette out on the man's wrist. "Tell me where the shipment is, you idiot."

The man spat blood onto her boots, causing the corner of Dora's lip to twitch. "Qué mono. Cute."

From her shoulders, Backpack shifted with a sudden, violent twitch. "He’s not talking, Dora! He’s being all boring and stoic!" Backpack shrieked. "Want to see what happens when we use the thumbscrew? Or maybe the pliers?"

Map's voice drifted from Backpack's side pouch. "He's a low-level runner, Dora. He probably doesn't even know the coordinates. You're wasting your breath. We should just leave him and get out of here before anybody realizes they're missing."

"Alright," Dora muttered. "We have a problem. Can you say 'problem'? Say it with me. Problema. We need information, and we don't have it. He might."

Dora reached into Backpack's compartment, pulling out a pair of heavy-duty pliers that were stained with something that might have been rust.

"You don't need to stay for this part."

Dora sat in the shadows of the Mercedes' backseat, her posture still. She enjoyed the silence of the parking garage; it was a nice reprieve before the impending transition to violence.

The door clicked open and a figure slid inside. Before the lock could even engage, Dora leaned into the front seat, pressing the muzzle of her suppressed Glock firmly into the base of their skull.

"Hola. Soy Dora," she whispered. "Can you say... traición? Traición. That means betrayal. And that's exactly what you're going to be doing. We know you work for Swiper."

A frantic giggle erupted from the floorboards as the purple backpack began to twitch, her zipper rattling. "Where are we going? Where are we going?!" Backpack shrieked. "Do we need a tool to make them talk? I've got a rusty bone-saw! Or maybe some caustic soda? Let's go with the soda! It's so bubbly!"

"Backpack, cállate," Dora muttered.

From the side pocket, Map let out a long, tired sigh. "Dora, please. We could have just tailed them. There was a much less violent route on the map."

"Here is the plan," Dora said, ignoring Map's plea. "We are going on an adventure, to whatever safehouse Swiper calls home today. No detours. No stops. Your hands don't leave the wheel."

She pressed the gun harder, forcing the man's head against the seat. "¿Entiendes? Do you understand? Or do I let Backpack decide what we do next?"

Dora lowered her NODs, her view snapping into a grainy, luminous green. The estate, previously obscured by the moonless night, stretched before her. For several minutes, she crouched there, watching the patrols, the patterns, and the blind spots of both.

Nine guards. Professional, likely ex-military, paid by Swiper to keep the world out.

"Map," Dora whispered, her voice a dry rasp. "¿Cuál es el plan? Tell me the plan."

A weary, muffled groan came from the side pocket. "We're already at the fence, Dora," Map sighed. "If you look to the left, there's a gap in the hedge where the security camera has a blind spot. We go through the hedge, across the south lawn, cut the power, and we hit the service entrance."

She shifted the weight of the purple straps on her shoulders. "Backpack. I need something for the fence and something sneaky."

A hushed giggle vibrated against her spine. "Oh! A stealth mission! I love it when we play hide-and-seek with people's lives!" Backpack's zipper snapped open violently. "Bolt cutters for the fence! A suppressed HK MP5 for the 'guests'! Oh! Oh! Do you want some poison too? I have a whole set of paralytics that make your lungs stop working while you're still awake!"

Dora reached into the opening, her hand closing around the cold steel of the submachine gun and the heavy grip of the cutters. She slipped the weapon over her shoulder and stayed low as she moved towards the fence.

"One thing," she added, glancing toward the distant lights of the servant quarters. "El personal está fuera de los límites. The staff are off-limits. We aren't butchers. Only the guards and Swiper are on the list tonight."

One last check of her gear. Map and Backpack secure. Every buckle and zipper taped down. Her red boots, the only piece of her attire that wasn't matte black tonight, were caked in mud from the hike. Not that she'd ever consider removing them.

With a sharp snap, she started cutting her way through the fence.

Swiper's estate had been a bust, but Map had come through. Tucked behind a stolen painting, the sort of thing Dora would have once fought to return to a museum, was a wall safe. Real estate records, safe house locations, bank transactions, fake passports. The kind of information that turned the world into a very small, very reachable place.

Now, Swiper was scrambling across a rain-slicked roof in the middle of the night, trying to blend with the shadows in his dark-blue military gear. The bullet in his side made breathing difficult, and the trail of blood made a crimson path for Dora to follow.

"Boots was a good monkey, Swiper. A good person. Mejor que nosotros. Better than both of us," Dora called across the rooftop. "Funny thing is, his boots are the only thing hiding exactly how much blood I had to wade through to get to you."

Another .45 ACP round caught Swiper in the kneecap, sending him thudding into an industrial A/C unit with a pained "ahhh, fuck!"

Swiper let out a wet, bubbling cough and tried to stand, his fur soaked with rainwater and his own blood. "Look, Dora, I'm sorry about Boots. Truly. I liked the little guy. But it wasn't me. Wasn't me. Don't operate that way. Never did. It was probably—"

Thwip.

A third round tore through the other kneecap. Swiper bit back another scream as he dropped back to the rooftop. Rain beaded on the suppressor of the USP 45 as Dora stepped forward, the barrel hovering an inch from his muzzle.

"No more lies, Swiper. That's all you've ever done. Mentir. Engañar. Robar. Lie. Cheat. Steal. Well, guess what? You finally swiped something that you can't give back. I'm only saying it once this time. No more swiping, Swiper."

On reflex, Swiper's fingers snapped weakly, followed by another cough and a bloody sputter.

"Oh man..."