The sun was merciless that day, hanging like a burning god above the endless expanse of the Sonoran Desert. Waves of heat shimmered over the cracked dirt, twisting the air into ghostly shapes that danced just beyond reach. The land was quiet—too quiet, some would say. Even the vultures kept their distance, circling high above like omens.
Down below, a slow-moving caravan crawled its way across the desert floor. Six wooden wagons creaked and groaned under their heavy loads. Crates packed with rifles—vintage Winchesters, M1 Garands, even French-made MAT-49s—were hidden beneath layers of burlap and straw. Beneath sacks of flour and dried beans lay another secret: bags of finely cut marijuana, wrapped tight in waterproof canvas and laced with chemical preservatives.
A small army escorted the convoy. Thirty men on horseback, each dressed in worn ponchos and broad-rimmed hats, sweat pouring down their necks. Dust clung to their faces like a second skin. They were guards, mercenaries loyal to a man whose name was feared from the jungles of Colombia to the back alleys of El Paso—Silas Creed.
Silas Creed was not a myth, though he might as well have been. A wealthy merchant turned arms dealer, turned desert kingpin, his influence stretched like roots through every crack in the borderlands. Sheriffs took his gold. Outlaws took his orders. Politicians whispered his name in backrooms and drank toasts to his absence.
The convoy moved northward, bound for the Devil's Spine—a jagged gorge carved by ancient wind and forgotten blood. Few dared pass through it. Fewer still returned.
On the ridges above, hidden behind scrub and rock, crouched a dozen men wrapped in black rags and warpaint. Their rifles lay still, pointed downward, eyes glinting beneath wide-brimmed hats.
Reyes Navarro stood at the center of them, a scar slicing down his right eye like a bolt of lightning. Once a revolutionary in the mountains of Mexico, now an outlaw of mythic cruelty, Reyes had become the leader of the Ash Vultures—a brutal gang known for ambushing smugglers and leaving only smoke and bones.
He raised a hand, then dropped it.
Gunfire erupted.
The silence of the desert was shattered by the sharp crack of bullets. Horses screamed. Men fell. Blood sprayed against the dust like dark paint on a broken canvas. In seconds, the desert turned into a war zone.
Reyes charged down the slope, revolvers in hand. He fired with surgical precision—one shot for each scream. A guard turned to raise his rifle, but Reyes already had a bullet in his throat.
One of the wagons caught fire, flames licking the sky. Another tipped over as its driver was shot, spilling crates of ammunition onto the sand. The Ash Vultures moved like ghosts, stripping weapons, killing survivors, and vanishing before any reinforcements could be sent.
Within minutes, it was over.
Fifteen guards lay dead. Two more would die of wounds within the hour. The convoy was destroyed. The vultures—the real ones—finally began to circle.
Far away, in the estate of El Marrow, Silas Creed poured himself a glass of bourbon as he read the letter delivered by his fastest rider. His hands shook not with fear, but rage. The candlelight flickered across his face as he re-read the name at the bottom of the message.
Reyes Navarro.
A ghost. A mistake from a past he thought buried.
Creed leaned back in his chair and pulled open the drawer of his ornate desk. Inside was a steel coin, engraved with the symbol of a spurred boot.
The Iron Spurs.
Mercenaries. Butchers. Former soldiers of lost causes, now loyal only to money.
He held the coin in the candlelight, then whispered:
"They'll pay in fire."
By dawn, posters were printed. Couriers were dispatched. The bounty was set.
Fifty thousand dollars. Dead. No questions.
The blood war had begun.