Chapter 2

The target was Alvaro, regional chief of the Southern Coast Alliance in the northern part of Veracruz Federal State. Three months prior, he had hijacked a shipment worth twenty million federal credits belonging to Iron Throne and killed two escorts. He was now hiding in an abandoned cannery, guarded by twelve armed men working three shifts of four each. There was a seven-minute gap between shift changes.

"He won't live through this week." I tossed the files back onto the table.

"Quite confident." Carlos leaned against the wall. "You're going alone?"

"The more people, the more trouble."

He drew a handgun from his waist, reversed it and held it out to me. "Take mine. Don't die too easily."

I took the gun, checked the magazine, chambered a round and tucked it behind my back. A dagger was strapped to the outside of my ankle. That was all I needed.

The abandoned cannery stood in the industrial zone on the northern outskirts of the city, surrounded for three kilometers by derelict factories and rusted barbed wire fences. I reached my observation post at dusk on the fourth day — the rooftop of a four-story vacant apartment building. For two hours, I watched the target building through binoculars, timing the shift changes, noting the direction every door opened, and pinpointing the window of Alvaro's room.

At two o'clock in the morning, the shift change gap stretched to nine minutes.

I slid down a drainpipe to the ground and crept along the wall past the loading area. Two sentries leaned against a shipping container smoking, the glowing tips of their cigarettes flickering in the dark. I waited until their cigarettes burned down to the filters, when their focus was at its weakest, then crept up behind them. I held the dagger sideways with the blade facing out. The first sentry fell with a cigarette still in his mouth, and the second never even got the chance to turn around. I dragged the bodies into the shadow of the container and slipped into the factory through the rear entrance.

The interior had been converted into makeshift living quarters. An emergency light flickered at the end of the corridor, and Alvaro's room was on the second floor. Three guards were asleep on the stairs, their snores mixed with the stench of alcohol. I stepped between them without making a sound. The bedroom door was unlocked. I pushed it open a crack and saw Alvaro lying on his side in bed. A submachine gun and a half-empty bottle of tequila sat on the nightstand beside him. I picked up the submachine gun, removed its magazine, and pressed the barrel against his temple.

He jolted awake in an instant.

"Hand over the shipment manifest," I said. "Who did you sell Iron Throne's cargo to?"

His pupils dilated wildly in the darkness. "Rojas... from the Port of Valencia... spare me..."

I slammed a magazine back into a gun — not his submachine gun, but the handgun at my waist. A single shot rang out, its sound largely muffled by the suppressor. I picked up the tequila bottle from the nightstand, poured a glass and set it beside his lifeless hand. Then I left the room and retraced my steps out of the building.

Dawn had not yet broken.

When Carlos saw me the next morning, I tossed Alvaro's submachine gun onto his desk. "He sold the cargo to Rojas at the Port of Valencia. Send your men to retrieve it."

He flipped the gun over to check its serial number and markings, then set it down again. "One man against twelve guards. What exactly did you learn in North Africa?"

"How to kill."

He burst out laughing and clapped me hard on the shoulder. "The Boss is waiting for you in the dining hall. We're throwing you a welcome feast today."

The dining hall was the largest room on the main floor of the manor. A whole roasted suckling pig and rows of tequila bottles lined the long table, with more than twenty gang leaders seated on either side. Serrano sat at the head of the table and raised his glass to hush the crowd.

"Alvaro, northern chief of the Southern Coast Alliance, once stole twenty million credits' worth of goods from us." He glanced around the room before fixing his gaze on me. "Our new ally went in alone and came out alone. He took down twelve guards without raising any alarm."

Murmurs rippled across the table.

"By Iron Throne's rules," Serrano slammed a thick stack of federal credits onto the table, "the reward for a newcomer's first job is one hundred thousand credits. From today onward, you are part of the frontline unit."

I took the money and nodded at him. As I sat down, I caught a flicker of hostility on Carlos's face across the table. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes locked on me over the rim of the glass. The smile was still there, but its edge had turned cold. I knew that look. It said I was climbing too fast.

In the first month, I led three escort missions with zero losses. In the second month, I disbanded and restructured a thirty-man squad, applying the team tactics I had learned in North Africa.

It was then that Serrano placed an armed unit under my command.

Iron Throne's armed forces were divided into three branches. Carlos commanded the main force of around four hundred men, while the other two detachments of two hundred each guarded outposts and handled escorts. The unit assigned to me had the oldest equipment and the lowest morale; it had failed two out of its last three escort missions. Serrano had told me plainly, "If you can lead them, they're yours."

I spent a month overhauling the unit. In the first week, I marched all the men to the hills behind the manor for military training — physical fitness, marksmanship, team tactics and night combat. Anyone who could not keep up was free to leave. Seven men dropped out on the first week, four more on the second, and fewer than a hundred and fifty remained by the third. I spoke to the survivors: "From this day on, your lives belong to me. Follow me, and you will live to share the profits. Cross me, and you die right here."

Then, the Southern Coast Alliance launched their assault on our three eastern strongholds. Faced with a similar attack in the past, Carlos had chosen to fight head-on. He won, but lost more than sixty men.

I chose a different approach. I ordered two strongholds to feign retreat and move all cargo away, then planted landmines along their escape routes. The third stronghold boosted its firepower to hold off the enemy's main force. When the Southern Coast Alliance troops chased after the retreating men, they stumbled straight into my traps. The mines detonated.

That night, the Southern Coast Alliance lost thirty-seven men. Our casualties numbered fewer than ten. We held two of the three strongholds, and I had deliberately abandoned the third — its location had long been compromised and was due to be decommissioned anyway.

The post-battle report landed on Serrano's desk. He flipped through a couple of pages, closed the folder and looked up at me.

"Do you know how long it took Carlos to fully take charge of his unit?"

"How long?"

"Two years. You did it in a month."

"You gave me a unit that needed reorganizing. I only did my duty."

"Duty." A smirk tugged at his lips. "Thirty-seven enemy lives for three strongholds, and you call that duty. Then what do we call Carlos's victory, which cost sixty of our men?"

I said nothing. No wise man would answer such a question.

He stood up and walked to the window, his back to me. "Carlos has been with me for fifteen years. He has spoken out against you repeatedly in meetings, complaining that you overstep your authority and move his men around without permission."

"The men were officially transferred to my command by you. You signed the papers granting me full authority over them."

"I know. I remember every document I sign." He opened a drawer and took out a black badge engraved with Iron Throne's emblem — a sword piercing three iron rings. "Starting this month, your detachment is upgraded to a direct-reporting armed unit. You will no longer need to go through Carlos for deployment, and you report directly to me."

"This is more than just a promotion." His tone turned grave. "It means Carlos is now your enemy. He will do everything he can to make you fail, to humiliate you, even to get you killed. Are you ready?"

"Boss," I replied, "I have been ready since day one."

That night, fireworks lit up the sky above the hills behind the manor. Each firework cost fifty thousand federal credits. Eight were set off in total — four hundred thousand credits, exactly half the value of the shipment Alvaro had stolen. With this gesture, Serrano made it clear to everyone: the new arrival was worth every penny.

I stood in the courtyard watching the bursts of light overhead. Carlos walked up behind me and came to a stop at my side. He did not look at me, his gaze fixed on the same sky. "A month to command a direct unit. It took me fifteen years to get where I am."

I stayed silent.

"Do you know what I regret most?" He finally turned to face me, the scar across his face twisting under the fireworks' glow. "I should have shot you dead the moment we met on the helipad. But it does not matter. We have a long road ahead."

He turned and walked away. I watched his figure vanish into the darkness, then slipped a hand into my pocket and touched the encrypted notebook left by my father. The road was indeed long. But the first name on my list was nearing his end.