Vendetta beneath a broken sky

The rain came down in heavy sheets, drowning out the usual cacophony of the slums. Logan Holt stood in the dimly lit alley, the hood of his gray jacket pulled low over his face, droplets rolling off its edges. His breath fogged in the cool night air as he adjusted the holster strapped to his thigh. His custom Desert Eagle, a sleek weapon with a matte gray finish and white accents, felt heavier tonight—like it understood the gravity of his mission.

Eighteen years old. A lifetime of preparation, and now he was here. His first job as a triggerman for the cartel. He tightened his grip on the handle of one of his daggers, its blade glinting faintly under the flickering neon sign above him.

"Focus," his father's voice echoed in his mind, a memory from countless training sessions. "A mission isn't about emotions. It's about execution. Control the battlefield. Use your abilities wisely. No mistakes."

Logan exhaled slowly, calming the storm brewing in his chest. It wasn't just the mission that weighed on him—it was the knowledge of his father's secret plan. George Holt, the cartel's trusted accountant, had spent years plotting revenge against their leader for his wife's murder. Tonight wasn't just about proving himself to the cartel. It was about laying the groundwork for something much bigger.

His earpiece crackled. "Logan, you in position?"

It was Manny, a seasoned cartel enforcer assigned to oversee him. Manny's tone was gruff, skeptical. Logan knew the man doubted him—most did. Nepotism, they called it. Logan Holt was only here because his father had vouched for him.

"In position," Logan replied, his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his gut.

The targets were inside the rundown warehouse across the alley. Carlos Vega, a rogue client who'd skimmed product and sold it independently, and Eddie Mancini, a middleman who had facilitated the betrayal. The cartel's message was clear: betrayal would not be tolerated.

Logan scanned the building with practiced precision, noting the dim lights, the single guard smoking by the entrance, and the two voices carrying from inside. Years of training had honed his instincts, but this was the real deal. There were no do-overs here.

"Remember the plan," Manny's voice buzzed again. "Quiet and clean. No collateral damage."

"Got it," Logan muttered, already moving.

The guard was his first obstacle. Logan extended a hand, his fingers twitching subtly as he activated his esper abilities. A faint shimmer distorted the air around his hand—a force field. The guard's cigarette fell from his lips as he stumbled back, clutching his throat, his windpipe crushed by an invisible force. Logan caught the man before he hit the ground, dragging him into the shadows.

His heart pounded. This wasn't practice anymore. This was life and death.

Slipping into the warehouse, Logan kept low, his daggers at the ready. The interior reeked of stale beer and sweat. Carlos and Eddie were seated at a table in the center, stacks of cash and open briefcases between them.

Carlos was a hulking man with a thick scar across his cheek, his presence radiating arrogance. Eddie, thinner and wiry, had the nervous energy of a man who knew his days were numbered.

Logan crept closer, staying in the shadows. His father's words echoed again: Control the battlefield.

With a flick of his wrist, Logan sent one of his daggers hurtling across the room. It embedded itself in Eddie's throat before the man could react, his body slumping forward. Carlos shot to his feet, reaching for the pistol at his waist.

Logan didn't give him the chance. With a burst of telekinetic energy, he sent the table flying into Carlos, pinning him against the wall. The man roared in pain, struggling against the weight.

"Who the hell are you?!" Carlos spat, blood dribbling from his mouth.

Logan stepped into the light, his hood still shadowing his face. "Your reckoning," he said, raising his Desert Eagle.

Carlos laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You think killing me changes anything? The cartel will eat you alive, kid."

Logan hesitated, the gun trembling in his hand. This wasn't like training. The man's words clawed at his resolve, the weight of his actions crashing down on him.

Carlos saw the hesitation and sneered. "You're just a scared little boy. You don't have the stomach for this."

Before Carlos could continue, Logan clenched his fist, his force field compressing the air around the man's chest. Carlos gasped, his sneer replaced by terror as the pressure crushed him. Logan pulled the trigger, the gunshot echoing through the warehouse.

Silence followed, broken only by Logan's ragged breathing. He lowered the pistol, staring at the lifeless body before him. The weight in his chest felt unbearable.

The earpiece crackled again. "Job's done. Clean up and get out," Manny said, his tone colder now.

Logan nodded, even though no one could see him. He retrieved his dagger, wiping the blade clean on Eddie's shirt. As he stepped back into the rain, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a sickening emptiness.

He had completed his mission, but at what cost?

---

Logan stepped out of the black SUV, the acrid scent of gunpowder still clinging to his clothes. The weight of his custom-made Desert Eagle and the two daggers at his sides felt heavier than usual. His heartbeat thudded against his ribs, though his face betrayed none of the tension swirling inside him. The cartel's compound loomed ahead—a sprawling mansion flanked by armed guards and high walls.

The guards nodded at him as he walked past. Some even offered subdued grins, knowing what the youngest Holt had just accomplished. A triggerman's first kill was a rite of passage, a bloody initiation into the cartel's inner circle.

Inside the compound, his father, George Holt, waited in his private office. The dim lighting reflected off George's wire-rimmed glasses, and the flicker of his cigar cast shadows across his weathered face.

"You're back," George said, leaning back in his chair. His voice carried no warmth, only an air of expectation.

"It's done," Logan replied, standing at attention like a soldier reporting to a commanding officer.

George studied his son for a moment, his calculating eyes scanning for any sign of hesitation or weakness. "And?"

Logan hesitated. "The middleman begged. Cried for his life. The rogue client didn't even see it coming. It was…clean."

"Good," George said, taking a long drag from his cigar. Smoke curled around his head like a halo. "But you know it's not just about pulling the trigger. It's about the message you send. Did anyone see you?"

"No."

George nodded, satisfied. "Then you've done well. But don't let the adrenaline fool you, son. The hardest part isn't pulling the trigger—it's living with the aftermath."

Logan clenched his fists, his mind replaying the scene over and over. "I don't have a choice, do I?"

"No," George said flatly. "None of us do. Not until we've set things right."

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. George was reminding him of their ultimate goal—revenge. But Logan couldn't shake the feeling that his father's plan would cost more than either of them could bear.

Later that night, Logan was summoned to meet the cartel leader, Salvador "El Hierro" Ortega, in the grand hall. El Hierro was a towering figure, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. Dressed in a sharp black suit, he exuded authority and menace in equal measure.

Logan entered cautiously, the weight of his first mission still fresh.

"El Niño," El Hierro greeted him with a sharp grin. "Your father spoke highly of you. Said you were ready. And from what I hear, you didn't disappoint."

"Thank you, sir," Logan said, keeping his tone respectful.

El Hierro's dark eyes bore into him, searching for cracks in his composure. "Tell me, Logan, when you pulled the trigger—when you ended their lives—what did you feel?"

Logan paused, his mind racing. He knew the wrong answer could seal his fate. "I felt…focus. It was just a task that needed to be done."

El Hierro leaned back, laughing. "Just a task, eh? Cold. I like that. You're not one of those boys who'll cry themselves to sleep over blood on their hands. You have potential, Logan. But remember, potential means nothing without loyalty."

"I understand, sir."

"Good," El hierro said, his grin fading. "Because in this life, the only thing worse than failure is betrayal. Make sure your father understands that, too."

The veiled threat wasn't lost on Logan. He nodded, his jaw tightening.

As Logan left the hall, his mind churned with questions. His father's plan for revenge was a dangerous game, and El Hierro wasn't a man to underestimate. For the first time, Logan realized just how thin the line was between being a tool of the cartel and being its next victim

Back in his room, Logan sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. They didn't tremble, but the weight of what they had done was there.

The mission had gone as planned. But deep down, he knew this was only the beginning. Each step deeper into the cartel's world brought him closer to the revenge his father sought—but also closer to losing himself entirely.

For Logan Holt, there was no going back. Only forward, into the dark.