The Rise of The Cartels

The rain falls heavily onto the roof of the 4x4. The muffled thud of the raindrops, and the occasional crash of thunder is the only thing keeping Rodríguez awake (as well as the strong coffee settled in his left hand). His right is occupied by the steering wheel. His eyes are glued onto the entrance of a nightclub: many new capitalist locations have opened up around Terripana since the fall of the 'last tyrant'. Every kerb making their leave is scanned with Rodríguez' mind. After another few minutes of work, as well as regular sips of coffee, he sees his mark.

"Hey, amigo, wake up. It's go-time."

His accomplice, Hernandez, is slouched down, rifle strewn across his lap. He wakes up abruptly, mumbling curses. "Where?" he asks. "Grey trench coat, brown hat. You can't miss the foreign bastard". They both check their watches, and synchronise them: Rodríguez leans over to the glove box and pulls out a silenced pistol - Hernandez attaches a silencer to his rifle. "Ready?"

"Ready."

Three kerbs in matching grey suits are huddled around a table in a small, well-lit room. There are six large bags, nestled in wads of cash: all Narconan kerbits.

"Was our operation successful?"
"Aye. Just over 20 Million."
"Good. Prepare 10 for spending. The rest is our pay."
"Will do."

The tallest of the three packs an equal amount of money into two of the bags, and slides them into the corner for counting later. He returns to the group, and eyes up the cash. "How much each?" he eagerly questions. The smallest, and oldest kerb answers. "3.3 Million or so..."
   A pistol is pulled out from his rear suit pocket. Without a hint of remorse he aims at his compadre's heads, squeezes the trigger, and watches their lifeless bodies fall to the ground. "...but I have other plans."

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The secure metal door to the hideout caves in like a cannonball striking wood. A gang of men rush in, wielding fully automatic pistols and submachine guns. The leader of the group, unarmed, follows behind and inspects the room in every nook and cranny. "Where the f*ck is it?" he says, as he spins around on his heel to face the door. As he does so, another two kerbs walk in. One with a gun, the other with a gun behind his head. "Th.. They were here just a minute ago." Calmly, the leader picks up a box of matches from his pocket, and strikes one. "Do you know what happens to your fingers if a match is set alight underneath your nail, Mr Sánchez?"
"No... Plea-"
"Tie him to that chair. Now, we won't hurt you if you stop bullsh*tting. Understood?"
A muffled 'yes' replies from behind a cupped hand over his mouth.
"Now, tell me, where are they, and the money?"
"I have no idea, I really do-SLAP!"
A hand is struck against his cheek.
"Please! I really don't know whe-SLAP!"
Again, he is hit. He spits out blood onto the floor, as well as a tooth.
"You bast..."
He is once again cut off, but this time from a gang member calling the leader. "We found them! Their bodies are out the back in a shed."
"Bodies?"
The leader shakes his head in disappointment.
"I was waiting all day to torture them."