Kate Laswell

The helicopter’s rotors howled against the broken skyline, slicing through smog and humid air as Task Force 141 crouched shoulder-to-shoulder in the hold. The cartel’s territory sprawled beneath them like a bruise on the earth.

Laswell didn’t usually fidget—but here she was, adjusting the strap of her rifle, thumb tracing the edge of her watch like a nervous tic.

“They’re… a bit unconventional,” she finally muttered over the comms. Her voice was steady, but there was tension around her mouth. “My contact. They’ll get us through the city and inside Guzmán’s compound with a backdoor key. It’s how we get to him—and anything Makarov’s left behind.”

Soap raised a brow, trading glances with Ghost, who was as unreadable as ever behind his mask. “Unconventional? What—you recruiting circus acts now, Kate?”

Laswell gave him a flat look. “You’ll see.”

They rappelled down in the outskirts of Uruapan, boots sinking into mud, the skeleton of the old city sagging beneath cartel rule. Cracked windows. Painted-over gang signs. Slums curling around the streets like discarded trash. The smell of frying oil and decay mingled in the heat.

They stuck to the shadows, eyes sharp, weapons ready, waiting in a tight alleyway.

Then came Guzmán. Surrounded by tattooed enforcers, gold chains flashing against sunburned skin, moving like a king among ruins. The locals flocked to him like flies to a corpse. Men, women, children—starving, thin, desperate. And Guzmán reveled in it.

One child—skinny, filthy, maybe fourteen—approached him with wide, worshipful eyes, speaking rapid Spanish. Soap tensed when Guzmán actually smiled and handed the kid a taco from a vendor’s cart.

“Fucking bastard,” Soap muttered under his breath, watching the spectacle with disgust.

The child bowed, murmuring reverently, shoving the food into their mouth before wandering off down the crowded street.

Price adjusted his grip on his rifle. “Well where’s your informant, Laswell? You waitin’ for bloody divine intervention?”

Laswell didn’t answer—because the next thing they knew, that same child was standing at the mouth of their alleyway, eyes bright and sharp with mischief, looking right at her.

The kid grinned wide, cheeks stuffed with taco—and with one quick flick of the wrist, produced a small, brass key, freshly stolen, glinting with oil and fingerprints.

From Guzmán’s own pocket.

Laswell exhaled, more resigned than amused. “Meet our guide.”