CHAPTER 57 – The Crew
From the street, Jorge’s house looked like a forgotten outpost—low, brown, and squat. The kind of place no one paid attention to. That was the point. Inside, it was a goddamn museum of precision. Guns lined the walls in custom racks, each piece spotless. Knives hung like art in a neat row above the mantle. Tactical gear was stacked in plastic bins by the hallway, each labeled in Jorge’s own exact handwriting: RANGE / BREACH / NIGHT OPS. The place was silent, except for the metallic click of Jorge snapping a rifle back together. He was at the kitchen table, eyes on his hands, mind relaxed but never off. Then—three hard knocks. Jorge’s fingers froze mid-movement. Nobody knocked. Not unless things had gone to hell. He stood slowly, laid the rifle down, and walked to the door. No need t
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