by Matt Rogers
The screen door swung outwards before he made it up onto the rotting wood. A wide-eyed man in an oversized white T-shirt and a pair of grey tracksuit pants gestured for him to step inside. The guy seemed three times as nervous as Ramos.
Ramos didn’t blame him.
In certain areas, it was a death wish to be seen with him.
His reputation had spread fast.
‘You crazy coming alone,’ the man muttered in disjointed English as Ramos brushed past him.
He stepped into a dark living room that smelt of musty body odour and sugary energy drinks. All the blinds had been shut, and instead of artificially illuminating the small house, its occupants had opted to work in the lowlight. The only glare came from the white lights of their computer screens, which were arrayed in a tight circle in the centre of the room. Besides the desks upon which the monitors sat and the chairs upon which the fatasses sat, all other furniture had been cleared out.
It was a workspace. Nothing more, nothing less.
As Ramos nodded to the other three men in the room — all overweight and in their early twenties like the man who had answered the door — he realised he didn’t care about the conditions they decided to operate in. Their work was good, and he would continue to pay them handsomely if they kept up the results.
‘Any trouble?’ he said to the guy who’d answered the door.
His name was Carlos, and Ramos had plucked him out of the unemployment line after noticing his credentials. He didn’t know the names of the other three. He didn’t need to. Carlos vouched for them, and Carlos was single-handedly responsible for ensuring that everything went smoothly. Ramos had given him free reign. If Carlos trusted them, they would be brought in.
But if the man’s judgment was ever wrong…
Ramos had explicitly detailed the consequences, pulling no punches. Often, the threat of violence was the only way for him to enforce order in his ranks.
So far, it seemed to be working.
‘No trouble,’ Carlos said. ‘We don’t leave often. Too many crazy motherfuckers out there.’
‘Anyone onto you?’
‘No,’ Carlos said. ‘It’s a cesspool of migrants looking to cross the fuckin’ border. Looking for their one lucky break. They don’t care about us, as long as we avoid them. They’re more than happy to fight each other.’
Ramos nodded satisfactorily. ‘Walk me through the set-up. I haven’t seen it in action.’
‘You think you’ll follow along? Bit complicated for you, man.’
Ramos smirked. ‘You think I’m just a no-brained street thug?’
Carlos raised an eyebrow, clearly aware that he may have worded his playful banter wrong. ‘Of course not…’
‘Take me through it. One last time. I like to keep a tight ship. You know that. Don’t like being in the dark.’
Carlos gestured to the bank of computers. ‘The site we’re running is only accessible through the TOR browser. Means that no-one’s going to accidentally stumble across it. The rumours you spread are working. Traffic is rising every single day. Orders are pouring in.’
‘In bulk?’
Carlos nodded, seemingly still surprised by that development. ‘Lots of dealers, man. You realise what you’ve done, right?’
Ramos shrugged, as if he had no idea. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘You’re cutting out the middleman, hombre,’ Carlos said in a low voice. ‘The Draco cartel, they don’t work like this, man. They don’t know what they’re doing. You made the smartest goddamn move in the world bringing me on board, man. We’re selling direct to dealers themselves. Shipping packages out anonymously. All online. You’re a fuckin’ genius…’
‘That was always the plan. You’re saying it’s catching on?’
‘Five-hundred-and-fifty thousand revenue this week, man.’
‘You’re one-hundred percent certain that everything’s secure?’
‘That’s what the PGP encryption is for,’ Carlos said. ‘We spent weeks implementing it, but it’s foolproof. All the personal information these dudes give us is a jumbled mess to anyone other than us. But … I wasn’t expecting this.’
‘I had a hunch all this time,’ Ramos said. ‘The old way of doing things is outdated. I see these Draco drug-runners working the streets, losing supply and skimming profits and getting jumped. Look what a little bit of innovation has done for us.’
‘It’s unreal, man. If I were you, I’d lay low. You don’t need to seize their attention. We can do this shit from the shadows.’
Ramos shook his head. ‘Only up to a certain point. The drugs need to be imported and packaged and shipped from somewhere, and the Draco cartel owns the physical space. They have for years. That’s why I need to stand my ground. We need to carve out a portion of the market for ourselves, and let everyone know not to fuck with us and what we’re doing. There’s only one way to do that around here.’
‘It’s risky,’ Carlos said. He spoke with the hesitation of a man who spent all his time cooped up indoors, slaving away in a virtual world. Ramos understood.
The man had his areas of expertise, and so far he had been executing them flawlessly. He would do good to change nothing.
‘Keep doing what you’re doing,’ Ramos said. ‘Leave everything else to me and my men. As long as this ship keeps sailing smoothly, you’ll all make enough money to last you the rest of your lives.’
The three tech guys sitting around the array of monitors smiled in unison, exposing yellowing teeth. Ramos shook his head. Early twenties, and already losing their health. They would work themselves into an early grave at this rate, slowly decaying in their seats as the days passed.
Then again, he wasn’t one to comment…
He checked his watch. ‘I have somewhere to be.’
Carlos cocked his head. ‘Got something to do with what we just discussed?’
‘Certainly does.’
Ramos shook the man’s hand and left the low-ceilinged room, stepping back out into the scorching sunlight. A gunshot in a neighbouring street made him flinch, but he recovered his wits and made for the Toyota. Not all the violence in Tijuana was directed at him.
Sometimes, it felt like it was.
Nothing he hadn’t called upon himself, though.
He backed out of the driveway and rolled the driver’s side window down, letting the passing breeze circulate through the humid cabin. It stopped the sweat dripping off his forehead momentarily. A temporary relief, but a welcome one.
He made for the westernmost district of the city.
Playas de Tijuana.
A visit to the beach.
There was a message that needed to be sent.
Ramos glanced at the faded passenger seat, occupied solely by the tool that he would use to deliver it.
A black-market Colt AR-15 semi-automatic rifle.
6
Playas de Tijuana seemed a world away from the shanty town which Ramos had come from. It was a tourist hotspot, close enough to the U.S. border to be deemed safe for frivolities. Towering hotels scattered the shoreline. Tourists and locals alike participated in water activities like surfing and kayaking, then made their way up to the Plaza Coronado for authentic Mexican cuisine and shopping.
Ramos hated when an area was considered safe.
He wanted everyone in the country to fear his operation at all times. Terror created apprehension, and apprehension created all manner of business opportunities offered up on a silver platter due to the lack of competition.
It was a fortunate coincidence that the inside information he’d received meant that his business today landed in Playas.
He guided the Toyota through narrow streets, these smoothly paved and bordered by thriving shops and hotels.
Hopefully, his business here would unfold quickly and efficiently.
Problems had arisen when word had spread of the two DEA agents he had murdered in the abandoned maquiladora factory’s basement last week. Despite the violent and oppressive tend
encies of the pre-existing Draco cartel, it seemed that their presence in Tijuana was largely ignored if they obliged by the unspoken rule: do not lay a finger on the U.S. authorities.
Ramos was new to this game.
He was still learning.
He hadn’t quite figured out the do’s and don’t’s.
He imagined that, even if he did seize a knowledgeable grasp on the unspoken rules, he would more than likely end up breaking them anyway.
Fuck the old school.
The media had spread the fresh developments like wildfire. The Draco cartel had distanced themselves from the killings, placing the blame squarely on the shoulders of the mysterious new entity snaking its way into Tijuana’s darkest corners. Ramos had found himself shocked by the rate at which the news had spread.
Flabbergasted, even.
Somehow, the Draco cartel had ins with the journalists, resulting in a smear campaign of the highest intensity. Judging by word on the street that his men had relayed to him, Ramos’ organisation had become public enemy number one.
Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have cared one bit. He wanted nothing more than to impose a tyrannical rule over Tijuana, crushing all their faces into the dirt if they so much as dared to speak a word of protest. But the media blitz had achieved something he couldn’t stand — it had raised the profile of the Draco cartel to new heights, painting them in a near-angelic light.
They were the heroes of Tijuana, standing up against Ramos and his band of devils in order to protect the sanctity of the city.
Ramos knew the truth.
He knew the blood that was spilt every single day in order for the Draco cartel to impose their hold on Tijuana. He knew they were just as evil as he was.
Today, he would seek to prove that.
Or nothing good would come of it, and it would only create a handful of dead bodies.
Whatever.
He’d take that outcome too.
Any chaos he could create would be good for business.
He found the destination he was looking for after a long five minutes of cruising up and down the traffic-clogged streets. A café with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and a posh interior decor rested at a corner junction of the district’s largest intersection. Just a street away, Ramos stared through the gap between two residential buildings to see the early afternoon sun twinkle off the Pacific Ocean. A serene setting, in all respects.
Soon to be shattered by soul-chilling violence.
Just his specialty.
He parked illegally out the front of the café and flashed a second glance at the AR-15 to ensure everything was in order. Satisfied with his preparation, he searched for his targets through the clear glass. The intel his man had provided him with spelled out the time and the meeting point — and nothing else.
It didn’t take long to find them.
They weren’t hiding.
There were two men sitting at a corner booth in the café, visible to passers-by at a certain angle. Thankfully, Ramos had parked in a location where he could see the backs of their heads, but they couldn’t see him. He recognised them immediately. Adrenalin flooded his veins, threatening to set his hands shaking. He suppressed the sensation and reached over to snatch up the AR-15.
One of the men was Miguel Torres, a lowly employee of the National Institute for the Combat of Drugs. He had been swayed by the dollar signs, evidently, and was in the process of meeting the other man to discuss staging a crackdown on Ramos’ cartel exclusively. Ramos didn’t know the name of the man with whom Torres was meeting, but he knew of his reputation as a powerful figure within the Draco cartel.
Garcia, possibly.
That rang a bell.
Ramos shrugged it off.
His name would mean nothing once he was dead.
All in all, a clear-cut sign of corruption. Two men resting on opposite sides of the moral spectrum, putting their differences aside to unite against a common enemy for the benefit of a hard-earned dollar.
Ramos had nothing against that.
He just needed to send a message.
Money talked, and bullets talked.
He let the adrenalin take over his motor senses, flooding his brain and draping a tunnel vision over his conscious state. He slipped a finger inside the trigger guard of the AR-15 and threw the driver’s side door open.
Plenty of passers-by saw him wielding the high-powered rifle. They opted to stay silent and stare at the ground, electing to distance themselves from whatever business Ramos had.
Better to stay quiet and live to see another day than speak up and catch a bullet for your troubles.
He burst into the café, much to the horror of its occupants. All eyes turned to him — he felt the weight of the abject terror in the air pressing down on him.
Good.
He wanted them scared.
He wanted them to remember.
He sized up the corner booth in an instant — both Torres and the man from Draco had decided to leave their firearms in plain view, as a vainglorious method of showing off their power. Torres had his standard-issue sidearm resting on the corner of the tabletop, and the other guy had his fearsome-looking pistol out of its holster, propping it up barrel-to-grip in a rudimentary pyramid shape.
Neither of them were ready to respond. They were fixated on their stature, smug and confident that no-one would dare interfere with them. Two hard-working individuals keen to unite for financial gain.
It would cost them.
Despite the panicked whimpers of surrounding customers and the tense nature of the situation, Ramos calmly lifted up the A1 adjustable sight and pressed the stock to his shoulder. He lined up his aim in one, smooth motion and pumped the trigger twice. The gunshots were blisteringly loud in the otherwise-ambient café, tearing through the silence in vicious fashion.
Civilians screamed and leapt for cover.
Torres made no move to react, because the two NATO rounds destroyed the top of his head. His scalp blasted apart, caught by a glancing shot. The other bullet sunk deep into his skull, killing him instantly. His limbs stiffened and he toppled further into the booth in a pool of his own blood.
The Draco henchman fumbled with his pistol. Ramos sent a deafening third shot through the man’s larynx, freezing him in his tracks as blood fountained from the soft tissue of his throat. If he wasn’t already dead, he would be in seconds.
Ramos watched the pistol cascade out of the guy’s fingers. He twisted away from the scene, recognising the lack of danger. Café dwellers were sprinting for the double doors, bursting out onto the busy intersection and taking off across the road.
For good measure, Ramos gunned down a woman in her thirties dressed in corporate attire, sending her sprawling across the tiled floor. She had almost made it to the exit. To safety.
Shame, he thought.
If killing civilians bothered him, he never would have got into the drug trade. The grisly death of an innocent would ensure that the incident received full coverage. Everyone would see what would result from complying with the Draco cartel.
Their reign would come to a sudden and devastating end.
He was sure of it.
He would tear them apart piece by piece.
He stepped over the body of the woman he had killed, taking care not to slip on the pool of arterial blood underneath her. He lowered the barrel of the AR-15, satisfied that his work was complete, and hurried for the Toyota he’d left idling by the sidewalk.
He slipped into the driver’s seat and stamped on the gas, roaring away from the scene just as quickly as he’d arrived.
Another day.
Another dollar.
7
King had never sweat so much in his life.
It had been a whirlwind of a week. It turned out that accepting a position as the United States’ most secret operative came with all kinds of baggage. He had been effectively required to sign his life away — nothing he wasn’t already used to. Lars’ took care to handle the majori
ty of paperwork and simply pass contracts and documents over to King at the end of the day’s training to be signed and returned at the earliest available convenience.
Most of the time, he didn’t bother to read them.
It had only taken three days of living at the complex to realise that he felt right at home. He had no fellow soldiers to experience the journey alongside — it was nothing but himself and the horde of trainers that had been amassed to sculpt him into top physical condition.
And it was exactly what he preferred.
Lars kept most of the technicalities to himself, only sharing with King what was absolutely necessary. King thanked him for that — he himself was a foot soldier. His business didn’t lie in the bureaucracy of the upper echelon. He was simply told what to do, and he did it.
He trusted the judgment of his superiors.
Over the last seven days, he’d got the distinct sense that there was something in the pipeline, an event that had triggered the creation of the division without any kind of prior planning. So far, nothing had been shared with him. He got up before the sun rose and spent the entire day working one-on-one with a wide variety of coaches, ranging from weapons training to mixed martial arts to reactive conditioning. His skills were already top-notch, but the individual attention allowed them to be honed by experts from across the country. He had the work ethic and the natural athleticism to keep up with the gruelling schedule, and so far it had paid dividends.
A week in, he felt clearer and more composed than ever.
According to Lars, his old Delta comrades had been informed that King had been selected for other work. They were to pretend he never existed, and carry on with their duties.
King didn’t think they would mind.
He felt bad that he hadn’t had the chance to explain himself to Dirk, but he was sure the man would understand. Dirk knew how miserable King had been in Operational Detachment-D. He would likely be happy that his friend had found a different path.