“What’s this?” Chuzo asked.
“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.”
But tonight was different. Tonight, a man named Javier Peña was waiting for him.
Pablo Escobar never killed anyone. That’s what Luis Herrera told himself as he walked the twelve blocks from his modest apartment to the neon glow of the Monaco building. Luis was an auxiliar de contabilidad , a junior accountant. He didn’t pack cocaine. He didn’t pull triggers. He just made numbers dance. Narcos
He was three blocks from home when he saw the motorcycle. Two men. Helmets on. Engine idling.
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.
Chuzo stared for a long, terrible second. Then he grinned. “You accountants. You’re all thieves.” He tucked the ledger under his arm and left. “What’s this
Luis broke into a run. The motorcycle revved. He heard the first shot before he felt it—a sound like a branch snapping. Then the second. His legs gave way. He fell face-first onto the pavement, his cheek scraping against a sewer grate.
He turned left. They turned left.
Murphy sat down. “We shouldn’t have turned him.” Tonight, a man named Javier Peña was waiting for him
“Sure you don’t,” Peña said, lighting a cigarette. “But here’s the thing. La Catedral—that private prison Pablo is building for himself? He won’t have room for accountants. When this falls—and it will fall—you think Pablo’s going to let you testify? Or do you think he’ll give you a nice severance package? A bullet to the back of the head is free, Luis. Very cost-effective.”
Luis tried to speak, but blood filled his mouth. He thought of Elena. Of Mateo. Of the refrigerator and the new bicycle and the lie that he had never killed anyone.
Agent Steve Murphy walked in, coffee in hand. “Anything?”
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.