Two worlds

Sam and his wife arrived at Mrs. Lopez's home, where they were warmly welcomed. Mrs. Lopez was preparing for her husband's funeral, scheduled for the following day. Sam's wife immediately offered to help with the chores and funeral preparations.

As Mrs. Lopez showed Sam to his room, he paused in the hallway. His eyes were drawn to a photograph on the wall - it was him and Lopez on their graduation day from the police academy. The image brought back a flood of memories.

Meanwhile, Leo had just finished meditating when he decided to visit Sophia. Upon arriving at the Lopez residence, he was greeted by Mrs. Lopez, who informed him that Sophia had been sent to the market for groceries.

Leo, will you be attending my husband's funeral service tomorrow?" Mrs. Lopez asked.

Yes, of course," Leo replied solemnly.

Mrs. Lopez thanked Leo for being such a good friend to Sophia. Leo promised to check back later and took his leave, deciding to take a stroll down the street to clear his thoughts.

Leo walked down the quiet street. The streetlights cast long shadows, and the air was cool. He kept his hands in his pockets, alert but calm.

Suddenly, two thugs emerged from a dark alley, blocking his path. One of them pointed a gun at Leo, pointing it directly at Leo's chest.

Hand over your wallet and phone, or you're dead," the thug with the gun snarled.

Leo's eyes narrowed. He sized them up, noting their stance and the way they held their weapons. Without a word, he moved, swift as lightning. His hand shot out, grabbing the wrist of the thug with the gun, twisting it with a sharp crack. The thug howled in pain, dropping the weapon.

Leo didn't stop. He spun, delivering a powerful roundhouse kick to the second thug, sending him sprawling to the ground. The first thug, recovering from his initial shock, swung a wild punch. Leo ducked, his movements fluid and precise, and countered with a flurry of strikes to the thug's midsection, finishing with an uppercut that knocked him out cold.

The second thug scrambled to his feet, desperation in his eyes. He lunged at Leo, but Leo sidestepped effortlessly, grabbing the thug's arm and flipping him over his shoulder. The thug landed hard on the pavement, groaning in pain.

Breathing heavily, Leo picked up the fallen gun, pointing it at the thugs. They lay on the ground, defeated and terrified. He aimed at one of them, a fierce look in his eyes.

The thug whimpered, "Please, don't shoot.

For a moment, Leo's finger hovered over the trigger. Then, with a sigh, he lowered the gun. "I’m not like you," he said quietly. He turned and threw the gun into a nearby dumpster, the clatter echoing in the silent street.

He looked down at the thugs, his expression hard. "Next time, think twice before you try to rob someone."

The Houston skyline loomed large through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Kabal Oil's executive boardroom. George Kabal sat at the head of the polished mahogany table, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as he listened to his CFO drone on about quarterly projections.

As you can see," droned Harold Whitaker, gesturing at a PowerPoint slide, "our offshore investments are yielding a 12% increase over last—"

George's phone vibrated in his pocket. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession. The special pattern he'd set for Rodriguez. His hand tightened imperceptibly on his armrest, but his face remained impassive.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," George said smoothly, rising from his chair. "I need to take this. Harold, please continue. I'll catch up."

He strode out of the boardroom, maintaining his composure until the door clicked shut behind him. Then he was running, taking the stairs two at a time down to the parking garage.

"Talk to me, Rodriguez," he barked into the phone.

The voice that answered was pained, barely above a whisper. "Boss... an ambush. Black SUV... professionals. They took Michael. I'm sorry, I—"

"Where are you?" George demanded, his free hand already pulling out his other phone—the one unknown to the authorities.

"Westheimer... near River Oaks," Rodriguez gasped. "I'm hit bad, boss."

"Hold on," George ordered. "Help's coming." He ended the call and immediately dialed another number.

"It's me," he said when it was answered. "Code Red. Michael's been taken. I want everyone on this, now."

George reached his car, a nondescript sedan that belied its armored frame and souped-up engine. As he peeled out of the garage, his mind raced. The Cortez cartel had been pushing boundaries lately, but this... this was a declaration of war.

His phone rang again. The caller ID showed "Sarah Chen - FBI.

George took a deep breath, centering himself. When he answered, his voice was that of a worried father, all trace of the ruthless crime lord gone.

Agent Chen? Have you found anything?"

Mr. Kabal," Chen's voice was professional but sympathetic. "We're aware of the situation. I'm en route to your office now."

I had to step out," George said, injecting a note of frantic concern into his voice. "Family emergency. I can meet you at my home in twenty minutes."

Of course, Mr. Kabal. We'll see you there."

As George navigated through midday traffic, he made two more calls. The first was to his wife, Maria. "It's happened," was all he said. She'd understand.

The second call was to his consigliere, Thomas Vega.

It's Cortez," George said without preamble. "They've taken Michael. Assemble the captains. And Tom? No limits. Whatever it takes."

Understood, boss," Vega replied gravely. "God help them."

George ended the call as he pulled onto his street. Two black SUVs with government plates were already parked in front of his house. He took a moment to collect himself, to push down the rage and fear threatening to overwhelm him.

As he stepped out of the car, he was once again George Kabal, the oil tycoon and worried father. But beneath that facade, the gears of his criminal empire were already turning, preparing to unleash a storm that would shake Houston to its core.

George walked up to his front door, ready to play his part for the FBI. But his mind was already several steps ahead, plotting moves in a game where the stakes had suddenly become unbearably high.