American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop

As the two men parted ways, Matt and Jack stepped forward. Matt glanced at the large jug of water Alessandro was carrying and clicked his tongue. "That's a bit much, isn't it?"

Jack wasn't exactly sure what the jug was for, but remembering Matt's earlier comments about wanting to see the FBI's methods, he could guess it wasn't for anything pleasant. It was likely another tool for coercive interrogation.

The three of them continued walking down the hallway. Alessandro, while walking, mentioned, "My old friend just told me a rumor. The Sonora Cartel dug a new tunnel. It's now their main route into Arizona."

Matt grinned. "Let's hope Guillermo doesn't disappoint us."

When they reached a room, the sound of Michael's whistling came from inside. Matt shook his head with a mischievous smile and pushed the door open.

"Looks like you've already drowned him in water. You're such a devil."

Guillermo's black hood had been removed, revealing a man over 250 pounds, with a face full of fat and a typical Native American ponytail. Unlike most fat men who seem harmless, this guy looked tough and mean.

The room was nearly empty. Aside from Guillermo, who was tied to a chair in the center, the only furniture was a table by the wall, where Michael casually sat. Five empty water bottles were scattered beside him.

Jack noticed that despite Guillermo's defiant posture, pretending to be unbothered, his lips noticeably trembled, and his pupils contracted when he saw Alessandro, especially after Matt and Jack entered the room.

"Okay, my job's done. The rest is up to you guys," Michael said as he hopped off the table, clapped his hands, and signaled another person to leave with him. Before leaving, he turned off the camera that had been recording.

Once the door closed behind him, Matt leaned in close to Guillermo, grinning. "Bet you didn't think we'd get you all the way here, did you?"

"I don't speak English," Guillermo muttered, trying to keep a look of indifference on his face.

"Good thing I brought two friends who both speak Spanish," Matt replied with a smirk. He then turned to Jack and Alessandro. "Who wants to go first?"

Jack stepped aside. "Like I said, I only have one question. I'll go last."

Matt casually sat on the table again, gesturing for Alessandro to take over. Alessandro set the jug of water on the ground, his expression cold as he walked over to Guillermo and pressed his knee against the man's stomach.

"You're about to find out what hell looks like in Yankee territory."

With that, he applied pressure, causing Guillermo, who had already been forced to drink a bellyful of water, to wince in pain as his bladder screamed in protest.

"No! Medellín!" Guillermo cried out.

---

Five hours later, as the sun began to set, Matt and Alessandro had gotten the answers they wanted, but Jack had learned nothing.

After making Guillermo dislocate his joints three times, Jack finally had to admit that Guillermo was too low-ranking to know anything about Ian Doyle.

As they left the interrogation room, Matt and Alessandro hurried off. They had obtained crucial information about the tunnel and needed to confirm it.

The people who knew the border area best were, of course, the migrants who had painstakingly made their way from Mexico into the United States. So, they brought Jane along for the next step.

Jane had contacts in ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) and, being a woman, was better suited to speak with the frightened Mexican migrants.

The long night stretched on, and now alone again, Jack headed up to the rooftop. He clipped off the burned end of his earlier cigar and lit it once more, staring out at the distant mountains.

In the dim night, the lights of El Paso flickered in the distance. It was a small city with only a few hundred thousand people, and the sprawling layout meant that the streetlights barely outlined the city's shape.

Across the river, Juárez was a stark contrast, vibrant and bustling. Its smaller area was packed with over a million people, and it was brightly lit, giving the illusion that the other side of the border was a thriving, prosperous country.

Jack had barely taken two puffs from his cigar when the distant sound of gunfire echoed from the city. There had already been three separate gunfights in Juárez, the staccato sounds of gunfire faint but distinct. Tracer rounds from machine guns occasionally lit up the night sky.

"Enjoying the fireworks?" Michael's snarky voice called out from behind him.

Before Jack could respond, a massive explosion rocked the distance. A fireball erupted in Juárez, momentarily silencing the city. Even though it was over ten kilometers away, the sound was still clear.

Jack didn't turn around, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. "You must've seen plenty of this in Syria, right?"

Michael rubbed his hands together and sidled up to Jack. "Actually, not as much as you'd think. Most nights there, we slept pretty soundly."

He paused for a moment, then offered Jack a flask. "A bottle of 'Arak' in exchange for one of your Cuban cigars."

Jack chuckled and handed him a cigar, accepting the flask in return. To his surprise, it was a PLA-issue 83-style canteen. His expression momentarily twitched, his mood darkening.

"I traded a famous local brewmaster for it, gave him an M1911 in exchange. This 'Arak' is rare stuff, made from dates."

Michael brought the cigar to his nose, inhaling deeply with satisfaction. It was fully dark now, and he didn't notice Jack's brief flash of irritation.

"This canteen is pretty interesting. I've never seen one like it before." Jack tried to keep his expression neutral as he unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. The strong aroma of aniseed hit his nose, and he realized this was as potent as "Aqua Vitae."

"Oh, that's a bonus from the brewmaster. He said it came from a friend in Celis. You know how close Damascus and that eastern country have gotten in recent years."

Jack shrugged, his expression returning to normal. He flicked his lighter and lit Michael's cigar. Michael took a deep drag, looking utterly content, oblivious to the fact that Jack had just considered a hundred ways to kill him.

"That's what happens when you cut off the head of the chicken," Michael remarked, looking at the chaos in the distance.

Jack's mind snapped back to the present. After a moment, he realized Michael was using an American slang phrase about disorder resulting from leadership collapse. He nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, because they're too close to 'heaven.'"

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