Narcos

“Jefe wants the November numbers,” Chuzo said.

“Now.”

“He was turned the minute he took Pablo’s money,” Peña said quietly. “We just gave him a reason to die scared instead of rich.”

Javier Peña sat in a folding chair, staring at a blank wall. On the table in front of him was a single piece of paper: the page from Luis’s ledger, the one with the eagle watermark. Narcos

“What’s this?” Chuzo asked.

He was three blocks from home when he saw the motorcycle. Two men. Helmets on. Engine idling.

Luis’s mouth went dry. The DEA had given him a special paper. Invisible ink under normal light. But Chuzo had been staring at the sun through a car window all afternoon—his pupils were pinpricks. He saw everything. “Jefe wants the November numbers,” Chuzo said

That was the hook. Not justice. Not patriotism. Fear.

He picked up the ledger page, held it over the ashtray, and lit it with his Zippo. The flame ate the numbers, the names, the routes—everything Luis had tried to hide.

“Plata o plomo,” Peña muttered. “Silver or lead. We keep offering silver. But Pablo only ever gives one thing.” On the table in front of him was

But tonight was different. Tonight, a man named Javier Peña was waiting for him.

He crossed the street. They crossed the street.