We’re Fucking Going to Texas

We’re Fucking Going to Texas
Two Days Later— Carlos’s POV...

The orange sun bled across the sky, painting the vast open field in deep amber. The air was still, heavy with the scent of pine and silence.

Carlos stood at the center of the field in his plain white shirt and shorts, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His grip was tight on the golden-handled rifle. Its polished barrel caught the fading sunlight. His jaw was clenched, his brows furrowed.

One of his servant beside a cage pulled a latch.

CLACK!

The door snapped open.

Three birds burst into the air, their wings flapping frantically, soaring high in panicked spirals.

Carlos’s rifle followed them. His eyes narrowed, his breathing steady.

BANG!!!

“Shit!” Carlos dropped the rifle slightly. “I missed.” His voice was cold and short, laced with quiet fury.

He exhaled, deep and annoyed, then raised the rifle again.

“Again.”

Without a word, the servant reached for the second cage and pulled.

A fresh flock fluttered out, wings slicing the golden dusk, scattering in wild directions.

Carlos locked onto them, eyes sharp, finger curling around the trigger—

A figure in black appeared at the edge of the field.

“Sir,” the man called out, pacing forward in urgent strides. “Something just happened and it requires your immediate attention—”

BANG!!!

The shot rang out wide. Feathers flew, but no bird dropped.

“FUCK!” Carlos roared, spinning toward the man. “I missed again!”

He lowered the rifle, eyes blazing.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Carlos marched toward the agent. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

He raised the rifle and pointed it directly at the man’s forehead.

“Start speaking— before I forget my bullet inside your brain.”

The agent stammered, his throat bobbing. “It’s… it’s C-Cynthia. Your wife.”

Carlos didn’t blink. “Cynthia? What about Cynthia? What happened to her?” His tone dipped into warning.

The agent stepped back. “W-We… we can’t find her.”

Carlos’s brow twitched.

“You what?” He took a step forward, closing the space between them. “What do you mean, you can’t find her?”

“That’s… that’s the news just reaching me from the blacksite… where we had her locked in.”

Carlos’s lips parted. His finger tightened slightly on the trigger. “You have to be kidding me.”

“Please… don’t shoot me, sir,” the agent whispered, his hands half-raised.

Carlos’s expression shifted, calculating. Then—

BANG!!!

The rifle went off again, just inches above the agent’s head. He dropped to the floor in terror, trembling as he covered his face.

Carlos stepped over to him, towering like a shadow. His boots crunched the gravel.

“You mean to tell me…” Carlos growled through gritted teeth, “…that the one high-security blacksite we built in the middle of fucking nowhere— she just walked out of it?”

The man on the floor didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was too busy shaking.

“Get the fuck up,” Carlos barked, taking two steps back and holding out his hand.

The agent hesitated… then reached up.

Carlos yanked him to his feet with one swift pull.

“Start explaining. Now.”

“I-I…” the agent winced, then screamed. “AGHHH!”

Carlos hadn’t let go— he was crushing the agent’s hand in his grip.

“I'm going to break your hand if you don’t spill right now.”

“L-Lieutenant!” the agent yelped. “It was a lieutenant! One of the guards helped her escape!”

Carlos’s eyes locked onto his.

The grip tightened.

“I should have killed you on the spot for bringing this bullshit news to me. But…” He paused. “It’s Sunday.”

Carlos smiled darkly.

“I keep my holy day holy.”

He let go, the agent stumbling back, cradling his mangled fingers.

Carlos turned around and started to walk away.

He stopped after a few steps.

“Is there anything else I need to know?” he asked, without turning.

The agent hesitated. His hands trembled as he pressed down on his broken fingers.

“There’s… there’s something else.”

Carlos slowly looked back.

“Well?”

“I heard…” The agent lowered his head. “I heard she’s… pregnant. Carrying your child.”

Carlos froze.

He blinked once.

“Pregnant?” he whispered.

“With my child?”

He took a slow step back toward the agent.

“If this is true…” he murmured, voice dangerously low, “…a whole lot of yous are going to die for this.”

He gave one final glance at the orange horizon, the sky now slipping into blood-red.

Carlos walked away— rifle slung low, lips tight, heart pounding.

The wind picked up.

And behind him, the agent stood alone— still, silent, and shaking.

\--------------------

Carlos stormed toward the closest helipad, boots grinding into the gravel. A gust of wind flared his white shirt as two guards snapped into bows the moment they saw him.

“Start the chopper,” Carlos said, voice low— dangerously low.

The SS agent closest to him straightened, nervous. “Sir, none of us here is a pilot. The assigned pilot excused himself to use the toilet a few minutes ago.”

Carlos’s stare locked on him, cold and burning. “You’re the stupid one here, ain’t you?”

The agent swallowed.

“If this chopper isn’t up in five minutes…” Carlos leaned in, voice a whisper of death, “you’ll curse the day you ever drew your first breath.”

Another agent, sweat already dotting his forehead, grabbed his acoustic tube earpiece. “Pilot needed on Helipad A7. ASAP. Like yesterday.”

Carlos yanked the chopper door open and climbed in. He leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, gaze steady.

He looked at the agent who had spoken first.

“You’re fired. Leave. Don't be here when I'm back.”

The man froze.

A moment later, the pilot appeared, sprinted over, climbed into the cockpit. Two SS agents followed in behind.

“Where to, sir?” the pilot asked, flipping switches.

Carlos’s lips curled into a scowl.

“We’re fucking going to Texas.”

The blades roared.

The helicopter lifted.

And then… they were gone.