31

31

Javier

It had been a while since I last personally oversaw a shipment. I felt, in some way, like I had lost the rhythm, even though I still dealt with it daily.
The road stretched endlessly beneath the blue sky, and the silence inside the car was broken only by the constant hum of tires on asphalt. We were nearing our destination. In less than an hour, we would sell a multimillion-dollar shipment that would guarantee another successful cycle of operations.
“How are things at home?” I asked Marco, who sat beside me reviewing a report on his tablet.
He looked up briefly, not at all surprised by the question.
“I was told Camille went to meet her mother earlier at one of those overpriced cafés.”
“And the security?” My voice came out firm, though the slight furrow of my brows betrayed my concern.
Marco sighed, closed the tablet, and rested his arms on his knees.
“All in position. There’s nothing to worry about, Javier. We just need to make sure—”

The sudden sound of gunfire cut his sentence short and froze my thoughts. It was loud, deafening, and echoed down the deserted road. Before I could fully process what was happening, I saw the truck ahead of us spin out of control. It twirled like a rogue top before coming to a stop, blocking the road.
“Shit!” Marco growled, already pulling the pistol from his holster.

From the three lead escort cars, men began to step out, armed and ready—but not fast enough. Another shot blew out one of the truck's tires, and then the gunfire multiplied, like a storm of bullets slicing through the air. The attackers jumped out from five vehicles, focused and relentless, shooting without hesitation.
“Reverse! Reverse now!” I ordered the driver, who wasted no time throwing the car into gear and backing up.

Even so, I couldn’t take my eyes off the chaos unraveling on the road. I saw the exact moment a portion of my million-dollar cargo was stolen. The attackers worked with terrifying precision, as if they knew exactly what they were doing—and what they wanted. Within minutes, they had loaded part of the cargo into their own vans, while the truck behind us took a turn to escape via the alternate route we had planned.
“The other truck!” I shouted to Marco.
He already had the phone to his ear, trying to reach the team with the second load.
“They haven’t arrived yet, but they’re only minutes away. Looks like this was the only interception attempt.”

The fury burned in my chest like an uncontrollable blaze. This wasn’t just a random hit—it was personal. A warning. I watched the attackers retreat, their vans disappearing into the horizon, leaving behind only debris and the echo of gunfire.
“This isn’t over,” I muttered, more to myself than to Marco.
He nodded, his eyes as dark as mine.
“I figured you’d say that.”

The tension in the yard was almost tangible.
All the men involved in the shipment were gathered there, standing in a semicircle, their faces full of uncertainty and fear. I stood in front of them, with Marco by my side, silent but alert to every move, every expression.
“You all know why you’re here,” I began, my voice firm, echoing across the open space. “Today’s shipment was sabotaged. Someone gave away our routes and schedules.”

I paused, studying each face in front of me. Some lowered their eyes, others swallowed hard, and one or two tried to maintain their composure.
“I want the culprit to step forward now,” I continued, my tone heavier. “Whoever made this mistake—or this betrayal—has one chance to speak.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Each passing second stretched the tension like a cord about to snap. I walked slowly from one side to the other, my gaze piercing through each man.
“I won’t ask again. If no one takes responsibility, everyone will pay for one man’s mistake. You know me. You know I don’t make empty threats.”

More silence.
Some of the men began exchanging subtle glances, but no one dared to speak. The anger bubbled inside me, but my expression remained unchanged. They needed to understand the weight of their actions—or their silence.
“Very well,” I announced, stopping at the center of the group. “I warned you.”

I signaled to Marco, who immediately handed me a loaded pistol. The click of the chamber echoed like a gunshot in the silence. I walked to the first man in the line, a veteran who had served me for years. His eyes were wide, but he said nothing. He simply closed his eyes, accepting his fate.
The shot was short, sharp, and his body dropped to the ground. The second man’s eyes widened, fear pouring out of him.
“Was it you?” I asked, my tone cold as steel.
“No, sir! I swear!” he stammered, trembling.

I observed him for a moment, studying every detail, every nerve on edge. And then, I shot. The body fell beside the first.
One by one, I moved down the line, repeating the same pattern. I asked, I waited, and when the answer didn’t come—or came with desperate excuses—I did what had to be done. The smell of gunpowder filled the air, mixed with damp earth and the blood forming small puddles around the bodies.

Marco remained silent, watching from a distance. He knew this wasn’t the moment to intervene. When the last man fell, the yard sank into an even deeper silence, broken only by the sound of shoes crunching the dirt as I walked back toward Marco—and noticed he was looking past me.

Only then did I turn and see Carmen and Camille. But it wasn’t their presence that struck me—it was Camille’s expression.
She was terrified.
And maybe now, seeing this side of me, she finally understood why they called me the Demon of Mexico.
“Get someone to clean this up,” I ordered, handing the gun back. “And find out who leaked the information. If it was someone on the inside… let them know there won’t be a second chance.”

Marco nodded, his expression serious but unsurprised.
“Mrs. Herrera?” I heard Carmen’s voice, which made me glance again at Camille. “Camille…?”
“…I don’t feel well,” she practically whispered, swaying slightly. Carmen immediately grabbed her arm, helping her stay upright.
“Help me to my room?”
“Of course.”

They both walked past me slowly, Camille avoiding eye contact and Carmen giving me a reassuring look, silently telling me that, all things considered, she would be okay.
I just wasn’t sure if she wouldn’t put the armor back on.

I climbed the stairs of the mansion some time later, leaving behind the scene of death I had created myself. I felt no remorse, only a firmer resolve. This was a reminder—for them and for me—that weakness or betrayal would not be tolerated.
Someone had underestimated me. And that would be corrected—at any cost.

Se quiser a versão adaptada com ajustes para estilo de romance ou diálogos mais fluidos em inglês literário, posso revisar também. Quer isso?