NEWS

Newly uncovered records reveal a 23-year-old US citizen, Ruben Ray Martinez, was shot and killed by a federal immigration agent during a late-night traffic stop in Texas — and the Department of Homeland Security never publicly disclosed it. Officials say he drove at an agent. His family says there’s video that tells a different story. Eleven months. No announcement. An “active” investigation. What really happened on that dark stretch of road in South Padre Island?

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US citizen shot and killed by federal immigration agent last year, new records show

Shooting death of Ruben Ray Martinez, 23, in Texas was not publicly disclosed by Department of Homeland Security

Newly released records show a US citizen was shot and killed in Texas by a federal immigration agent last year during a late-night traffic encounter that was not publicly disclosed by the Department of Homeland Security.

The death of Ruben Ray Martinez, 23, would mark the earliest of at least six deadly shootings by federal officers since the start of a nationwide immigration crackdown in Donald Trump’s second term. On Friday, DHS said the shooting on South Padre Island last March occurred after the driver intentionally struck an agent.

The shooting involved a Homeland Security Investigations team that was conducting an immigration enforcement operation in conjunction with local police, according to documents obtained by American Oversight, a non-profit watchdog group based in Washington.

The records are part of a tranche of heavily redacted internal documents from Immigration and Customs Enforcement that the non-profit obtained as part of a Freedom of Information Act lawsuit.

Though Martinez’s death on 15 March 2025 was reported by local media outlets at the time, federal and state authorities did not disclose that the shooting involved the team from HSI. In a statement Friday, DHS said the driver who was killed “intentionally ran over a Homeland Security Investigation special agent”, resulting in another agent firing “defensive shots to protect himself, his fellow agents, and the general public”.

The department did not respond to questions about why it had made no media release or other public notification of the officer-involved shooting over the last 11 months.

Martinez’s mother, Rachel Reyes, said her son was just days past his 23rd birthday when he and his best friend drove from San Antonio down to the beach for the weekend to celebrate. South Padre Island, located on the Gulf coast just north of the US-Mexico border, is a renowned spring break destination that attracts tens of thousands of college-aged partiers each March.

According to an internal two-page ICE incident report included in the newly disclosed documents, shortly after midnight, HSI officers were assisting South Padre Island police by redirecting traffic through a busy intersection after a vehicle accident with several injuries.

A blue, four-door Ford with a driver and passenger approached the officers, who ordered the driver to stop. The report does not say why. Initially, the driver didn’t respond to commands but did eventually come to a stop, according to the report.

Agents then surrounded the vehicle, telling those inside to get out, but the driver “accelerated forward” and struck an HSI special agent “who wound up on the hood of the vehicle”, the report said. An HSI supervisory special agent standing by the side of the car then fired his weapon multiple times through the open driver’s-side window, and the vehicle stopped.

Paramedics already on the scene of the accident quickly provided medical aid and the driver was taken by ambulance to a regional hospital in Brownsville, where he was pronounced dead, according to the report. The passenger, also a US citizen, was taken into custody.

The HSI officer whom the report says was struck by the vehicle was treated for an unspecified knee injury at a nearby hospital and released.

The names of the two HSI agents involved in the shooting and the names of the two men in the car were all redacted from the ICE report, but Reyes confirmed the driver was her son. She said he was shot three times.

Reyes said she first learned her son had been shot by a federal agent, rather than a local police officer, about a week after he was killed. She was contacted by an investigator from the Texas Rangers, the lead agency looking into the shooting. Reyes said the investigator told her there were videos of the shooting that contradicted the account provided by federal agents. DHS did not immediately respond to an email Friday about the claim that there is video showing a different account.

She said she was told by the investigator that the state report into the shooting was completed in October and that the case would be presented to a grand jury for potential criminal charges.

The Texas department of public safety, which includes the Rangers, said in a statement Friday that the investigation into the shooting was still “active” and declined to offer more information.

An incredible self-own

In 1936, John Scott, son of the late Guardian owner and legendary editor CP Scott, did something unheard of for a media heir: he gave up his stake for the greater good.

After inheriting the newspaper, Scott renounced all financial benefit – bar his salary – in the Guardian (worth £1m at the time and around £62m today) and passed ownership over to the newly formed Scott Trust. The Trust would evolve to have one key mission: to secure the financial and editorial independence of the Guardian in perpetuity.

That means the Guardian can’t be bought. Not by private equity, not by a conglomerate, and definitely not by a billionaire looking for a political mouthpiece.

Our independence means we can say what we want, report on who we want, challenge who we want, and stand up at a time when others are sitting down.

But this unique model also means we depend on readers like you from Vietnam to help fund our work. If you would rather the news you read was the result of decisions made by journalists and editors, not shareholders or ultra-wealthy tech bros, then, well, you know what to do:

Support the Guardian on a monthly basis.

Because Dante’s uncle did own something. Not the neighborhood. The system. Bail posted before sunrise. Charges “under review.” Witness statements “misplaced.” By afternoon, Dante was back on the street—smiling. Then Sofia’s phone buzzed. Unknown number. A photo. Taken from down the hospital hallway—right outside her room. No caption. No threat. Just proof. Nolan stared at the image, jaw tight, the old mission focus sliding back into place. This wasn’t about one violent man anymore. It was about the machine behind him. And machines only stop when someone is willing to break them. 👇 Who Dante’s uncle really is—and what Nolan did after that photo—continues in the first comment.
Because Dante’s uncle did own something. Not the neighborhood. The system. Bail posted before sunrise. Charges “under review.” Witness statements “misplaced.” By afternoon, Dante was back on the street—smiling. Then Sofia’s phone buzzed. Unknown number. A photo. Taken from down the hospital hallway—right outside her room. No caption. No threat. Just proof. Nolan stared at the image, jaw tight, the old mission focus sliding back into place. This wasn’t about one violent man anymore. It was about the machine behind him. And machines only stop when someone is willing to break them. 👇 Who Dante’s uncle really is—and what Nolan did after that photo—continues in the first comment.

He Posted Bail in Hours and Threatened Everyone… Then the Next Text Was a Photo Taken Outside the…

“Put the rifle down, Nurse—unless you want to die tonight.” They thought Ward 4B’s ‘Mouse’ would shake. She didn’t. At Naval Medical Center San Diego, Avery Sinclair was a joke with a pulse. Soft voice. Careful steps. Hands that “trembled” just enough for the recovering Marines to tease her. “Easy there, Mouse,” Staff Sergeant Tex Maddox would grin. “Don’t drop the IV.” She’d smile politely. Eyes down. Small. That was the point. Because “Avery Sinclair” barely existed. Months earlier, she’d been embedded in a classified Navy program—operators under medical cover. When the program was scrubbed, the records vanished. The operatives were told to disappear. Live small. Draw no attention. Never resurface. So she became the Mouse of Ward 4B. Until the night the hospital went dark. The lights cut out mid-shift. Monitors flipped to battery. The intercom choked on half a warning before dying completely. Then they came. Twelve men. Coordinated. Suppressed rifles. Moving like a blueprint. Not thieves. Not random shooters. Hunters. Their target was Room 417—Martin Keene, a defense contractor supposedly under “cardiac observation.” Rumor said heart trouble. Reality? Keene had files tying Senator Harold Vance to procurement kickbacks and offshore laundering. Enough to end careers. Enough to start wars in quiet rooms. The first shot cracked down the hallway. Tex tried to stand, still stitched from surgery. Other Marines reached for dead call buttons. And the Mouse… changed. Avery leaned close to Tex, voice no longer soft. “Barricade. Solid walls. Stay low. Don’t be heroes.” He blinked at her. “Who the hell are you?” She didn’t answer. Because one of the mercenaries turned the corner, rifle rising—aim locked on her chest. “Put it down, Nurse,” he sneered. “Unless you want to die tonight.” Avery didn’t flinch. Instead, she stepped forward into the dim emergency lights, eyes steady, posture different—wrong for a civilian. And when she spoke, her voice carried something that made the gunman hesitate. Because he hadn’t just come for Keene. He’d come for her. And somehow… he knew her real name. 👇 How the ‘Mouse’ took down twelve mercenaries—and what they were trying to bury—is in the first comment.
“Put the rifle down, Nurse—unless you want to die tonight.” They thought Ward 4B’s ‘Mouse’ would shake. She didn’t. At Naval Medical Center San Diego, Avery Sinclair was a joke with a pulse. Soft voice. Careful steps. Hands that “trembled” just enough for the recovering Marines to tease her. “Easy there, Mouse,” Staff Sergeant Tex Maddox would grin. “Don’t drop the IV.” She’d smile politely. Eyes down. Small. That was the point. Because “Avery Sinclair” barely existed. Months earlier, she’d been embedded in a classified Navy program—operators under medical cover. When the program was scrubbed, the records vanished. The operatives were told to disappear. Live small. Draw no attention. Never resurface. So she became the Mouse of Ward 4B. Until the night the hospital went dark. The lights cut out mid-shift. Monitors flipped to battery. The intercom choked on half a warning before dying completely. Then they came. Twelve men. Coordinated. Suppressed rifles. Moving like a blueprint. Not thieves. Not random shooters. Hunters. Their target was Room 417—Martin Keene, a defense contractor supposedly under “cardiac observation.” Rumor said heart trouble. Reality? Keene had files tying Senator Harold Vance to procurement kickbacks and offshore laundering. Enough to end careers. Enough to start wars in quiet rooms. The first shot cracked down the hallway. Tex tried to stand, still stitched from surgery. Other Marines reached for dead call buttons. And the Mouse… changed. Avery leaned close to Tex, voice no longer soft. “Barricade. Solid walls. Stay low. Don’t be heroes.” He blinked at her. “Who the hell are you?” She didn’t answer. Because one of the mercenaries turned the corner, rifle rising—aim locked on her chest. “Put it down, Nurse,” he sneered. “Unless you want to die tonight.” Avery didn’t flinch. Instead, she stepped forward into the dim emergency lights, eyes steady, posture different—wrong for a civilian. And when she spoke, her voice carried something that made the gunman hesitate. Because he hadn’t just come for Keene. He’d come for her. And somehow… he knew her real name. 👇 How the ‘Mouse’ took down twelve mercenaries—and what they were trying to bury—is in the first comment.

‘Put the rifle down, Nurse—unless you want to die tonight.’” The “Mouse” of Ward 4B: How a Quiet…

HE PUNISHED ME WITHOUT EVER RAISING HIS VOICE. For 18 years, my husband never touched me again — and I thought I deserved it… until a routine doctor’s appointment shattered everything. When my affair was exposed, he didn’t yell. He didn’t divorce me. He did something colder. He erased me. We lived in the same house like polite roommates. Separate bedrooms. No holidays together. No arguments. No affection. Just silence so thick it felt like a prison sentence I had willingly accepted. I told myself this was justice. That his indifference was mercy. Then, at a post-retirement physical, Dr. Evans turned the ultrasound screen toward me and asked a question that made my blood run cold: “Susan… are you sure you haven’t had surgery in the last 18 years?” She showed me calcified scarring inside my uterus — evidence of an invasive procedure. I have no memory of it. None. But suddenly, 2008 came flooding back. The overdose. The hospital. Waking up with pain in my lower abdomen. My husband holding my hand — the only time he’d touched me in years — telling me the pain was from having my stomach pumped. I believed him. Now I’m not so sure.
HE PUNISHED ME WITHOUT EVER RAISING HIS VOICE. For 18 years, my husband never touched me again — and I thought I deserved it… until a routine doctor’s appointment shattered everything. When my affair was exposed, he didn’t yell. He didn’t divorce me. He did something colder. He erased me. We lived in the same house like polite roommates. Separate bedrooms. No holidays together. No arguments. No affection. Just silence so thick it felt like a prison sentence I had willingly accepted. I told myself this was justice. That his indifference was mercy. Then, at a post-retirement physical, Dr. Evans turned the ultrasound screen toward me and asked a question that made my blood run cold: “Susan… are you sure you haven’t had surgery in the last 18 years?” She showed me calcified scarring inside my uterus — evidence of an invasive procedure. I have no memory of it. None. But suddenly, 2008 came flooding back. The overdose. The hospital. Waking up with pain in my lower abdomen. My husband holding my hand — the only time he’d touched me in years — telling me the pain was from having my stomach pumped. I believed him. Now I’m not so sure.

Sister Mocked Me on the Plane — Until I Used My Fighter Pilot Skills to Save 300 Lives…

He nodded toward Blackwood, still shaking hands like a politician. “Every word was a lie.” His name was Dalton Brennan. Callsign: Wolf. And when he said he’d served beside her father, the air shifted. “Ghost didn’t die in an accident,” Wolf said quietly. “He was shut down.” Scarlett felt it then—the cold certainty settling in her chest. Because two weeks before he died, her father had tried to call her three times in one night. She missed it. He left no voicemail. Now this stranger was telling her the commander praising him had signed off on something that never should’ve happened. And when Wolf confronted Blackwood days later—when the truth started leaking in places the Navy couldn’t seal— someone finally said it out loud: “Better not touch a SEAL.” They ignored the warning. They shouldn’t have.
He nodded toward Blackwood, still shaking hands like a politician. “Every word was a lie.” His name was Dalton Brennan. Callsign: Wolf. And when he said he’d served beside her father, the air shifted. “Ghost didn’t die in an accident,” Wolf said quietly. “He was shut down.” Scarlett felt it then—the cold certainty settling in her chest. Because two weeks before he died, her father had tried to call her three times in one night. She missed it. He left no voicemail. Now this stranger was telling her the commander praising him had signed off on something that never should’ve happened. And when Wolf confronted Blackwood days later—when the truth started leaking in places the Navy couldn’t seal— someone finally said it out loud: “Better not touch a SEAL.” They ignored the warning. They shouldn’t have.

“Better Not Touch A SEAL!” The Commander Ignored The Warning — Then Knelt And Begged For His Life…

For 18 years, my husband never touched me after my affair—until a routine exam exposed something done to my body while I was unconscious. When my infidelity came out, Michael didn’t yell. He didn’t throw things. He didn’t even insult me. He erased me. We stayed married on paper. Shared a house. Shared bills. Ate at the same table. But we slept in separate rooms. Never brushed hands in the hallway. Never let shadows overlap. I told myself it was mercy. That his silence was kinder than rage. That this cold, careful distance was the punishment I deserved. Eighteen years of quiet atonement. Then, at a routine post-retirement physical, everything cracked. Dr. Evans turned the ultrasound screen toward herself, her expression tightening. “Susan,” she said slowly, “I need to ask you something directly. How has your intimate life been over the last 18 years?” My face burned. “Nonexistent,” I whispered. “We haven’t shared a bed since 2008.” She frowned. “Then this doesn’t make sense.” On the screen were images I didn’t understand—white streaks, hardened lines. “I’m seeing significant calcified scarring on your uterine wall,” she continued carefully. “Evidence of an invasive procedure. Are you absolutely certain you’ve never had surgery?” My fingers went numb. “I’ve never had surgery,” I said. “I had one child. Natural birth. That’s it.” She held my gaze. “The imaging doesn’t lie. Go home. Ask your husband.” And suddenly… 2008 came rushing back. After the affair was exposed, I spiraled. Guilt swallowed me whole. One night, I took too many sleeping pills. I remember flashing hospital lights. A dull ache in my lower abdomen when I woke up. Michael sitting beside me. Holding my hand. “Don’t worry,” he’d said gently. “The pain is from pumping your stomach.” I believed him. Because I thought I owed him my life. I drove home from the clinic shaking. Michael was in his chair, reading the paper with that same unreadable expression he’d worn for nearly two decades. “Michael,” I said, my voice breaking, “what happened to me in 2008?” The newspaper slipped from his hands. “For 18 years I’ve punished myself,” I sobbed. “But while I was unconscious… what did you let them do to my body?” His face drained of color. I stepped closer. “Why is there a scar inside me I don’t remember getting?” Michael turned away. And for the first time in 18 years— his shoulders started shaking. 👇 Full story in the first comment
For 18 years, my husband never touched me after my affair—until a routine exam exposed something done to my body while I was unconscious. When my infidelity came out, Michael didn’t yell. He didn’t throw things. He didn’t even insult me. He erased me. We stayed married on paper. Shared a house. Shared bills. Ate at the same table. But we slept in separate rooms. Never brushed hands in the hallway. Never let shadows overlap. I told myself it was mercy. That his silence was kinder than rage. That this cold, careful distance was the punishment I deserved. Eighteen years of quiet atonement. Then, at a routine post-retirement physical, everything cracked. Dr. Evans turned the ultrasound screen toward herself, her expression tightening. “Susan,” she said slowly, “I need to ask you something directly. How has your intimate life been over the last 18 years?” My face burned. “Nonexistent,” I whispered. “We haven’t shared a bed since 2008.” She frowned. “Then this doesn’t make sense.” On the screen were images I didn’t understand—white streaks, hardened lines. “I’m seeing significant calcified scarring on your uterine wall,” she continued carefully. “Evidence of an invasive procedure. Are you absolutely certain you’ve never had surgery?” My fingers went numb. “I’ve never had surgery,” I said. “I had one child. Natural birth. That’s it.” She held my gaze. “The imaging doesn’t lie. Go home. Ask your husband.” And suddenly… 2008 came rushing back. After the affair was exposed, I spiraled. Guilt swallowed me whole. One night, I took too many sleeping pills. I remember flashing hospital lights. A dull ache in my lower abdomen when I woke up. Michael sitting beside me. Holding my hand. “Don’t worry,” he’d said gently. “The pain is from pumping your stomach.” I believed him. Because I thought I owed him my life. I drove home from the clinic shaking. Michael was in his chair, reading the paper with that same unreadable expression he’d worn for nearly two decades. “Michael,” I said, my voice breaking, “what happened to me in 2008?” The newspaper slipped from his hands. “For 18 years I’ve punished myself,” I sobbed. “But while I was unconscious… what did you let them do to my body?” His face drained of color. I stepped closer. “Why is there a scar inside me I don’t remember getting?” Michael turned away. And for the first time in 18 years— his shoulders started shaking. 👇 Full story in the first comment

After I had an affair, my husband never touched me again. For eighteen years, we lived like strangers,…

You could catch measles from an “empty room” — and it’s spreading fast in Salt Lake County. Health officials say cases are climbing, with 28 confirmed so far this year — compared to just four last year. And nearly all infections are in people who aren’t vaccinated. Here’s the chilling part: measles can linger in the air for up to two hours. Walk into a room where an infected person was earlier, and if you’re unvaccinated, experts say you have up to a 90% chance of catching it. Exposure sites now include schools and even Salt Lake City International Airport. Symptoms start like a cold — cough, fever, red eyes — which means many people don’t realize they’re contagious until the rash appears. Officials warn cases will continue rising, especially among the unvaccinated. Quarantines are already in place at local schools. They’re urging anyone who feels sick to stay home immediately. Details in the comments 👇
You could catch measles from an “empty room” — and it’s spreading fast in Salt Lake County. Health officials say cases are climbing, with 28 confirmed so far this year — compared to just four last year. And nearly all infections are in people who aren’t vaccinated. Here’s the chilling part: measles can linger in the air for up to two hours. Walk into a room where an infected person was earlier, and if you’re unvaccinated, experts say you have up to a 90% chance of catching it. Exposure sites now include schools and even Salt Lake City International Airport. Symptoms start like a cold — cough, fever, red eyes — which means many people don’t realize they’re contagious until the rash appears. Officials warn cases will continue rising, especially among the unvaccinated. Quarantines are already in place at local schools. They’re urging anyone who feels sick to stay home immediately. Details in the comments 👇

If you’re feeling sick, it could be measles, Salt Lake County health officials warn Measles is actively spreading…