Part 1
He had felt like he was being watched for days. Not in the way you usually notice it—no footsteps behind you, no shadow in your peripheral vision—but more subtly. As if the air itself became just a little too still when he entered a room, as if sounds held back until he was gone again. You don't develop that kind of instinct in an office, but deep under the radar, where one mistake costs you your life and trust is a luxury you can't afford.
When he still hadn't noticed anything after two days, he began to doubt himself. Had he been doing this job for too long, perhaps? Was he starting to see, feel, and hear things that weren't there? He didn't like the idea. Paranoia was deadly in his world, just as deadly as naiveté.
His name no longer mattered. He had already shed that long ago, along with his past, his accent, and everything that had once made him human. He was perfect for his job. He grew up as an orphan, so he had no family ties. He was recruited overseas when he was serving in the army. A week later, the man he was born as was dead and buried, and the life of another man began. Within the network of Mexican drug cartels, he was known under a different identity: a man with money, connections, and a reputation he had built with blood and cocaine. The DEA knew him as one of their best undercover agents. The gang knew him as an indispensable link. Nobody really knew him.
Until today. It started with a silence that lasted too long. The safe house, usually filled with noise, shouting, willing women, and music, was deserted. No guards. No women. No drinks. Just him, the musty smell of dust and old sweat, and that gnawing feeling deep in his stomach that told him this was wrong. Everything was wrong. He turned around, his hand already on his weapon. Too late. The blow came from behind. Hard. Purposeful. The world imploded in white light, and he went down without a sound.
When he regained consciousness, he was tied to a metal chair. His wrists burned where the handcuffs had cut into his skin. The basement smelled of rust, urine, and something chemical that he preferred not to recognize. The light above him was bright and merciless, positioned in such a way that he couldn't open his eyes without pain. Three men were standing in front of him. Two looked bored. One didn't smile and looked at him coldly. He knew him as one of the big bosses, smart, and to this day he had survived all his competitors and the rampant violence. His posture was relaxed, his hands loosely folded behind his back, as if he were leading a business meeting and not preparing for an execution. The calmness was what was most unsettling.
"DEA,"
he said quietly, almost admiringly.
"You played it well for a long time. You are the first to ever penetrate so deeply."
He paused for a moment, visibly enjoying the moment. Every undercover operative's nightmare is being exposed with no way to talk their way out of it.
"Unfortunately, you're just a puppet. Once they recruited you and ended your previous life, you were living on borrowed time."
He slowly started walking around the chair.
"You were a ghost. You didn't really exist, so no one had to take responsibility for what you did. You could do whatever you wanted. You Americans have a masterful term for moments just like this one. What do you call it? Oh yes, plausible deniability. The fact that you officially died in a war a long time ago and your body was cremated gives the DEA the opportunity to lie without lying to Congress, the press, or anyone else. If someone is dead, then they absolutely cannot work for the DEA and do things that are completely unacceptable in the US, such as living like a wealthy drug smuggler, using and abusing people... Or, as you did, shoot competitors in the head. That was until someone in Washington needed our help. More specifically, our money, and knew where to go."
He laughed softly.
"There's always a bureaucrat or a politician willing to sell their convictions or even their soul for a handful of dollars and a step up the ladder. He offered you. I was happy to pay him."
He leaned forward slightly, their faces barely a hand's breadth apart.
"What people like him will never understand, or if they do, they want to forget as soon as possible, is that once they sell me something, they automatically become my property. Even though they think they'll benefit from it. All I have to do is wait until the time is right to get my investment back with a good return."
He straightened up again.
"What follows will be unpleasant for you. Inevitable and necessary. But I'm not telling you anything new. You've stood on this side of the chair and given the order more than once."
He turned around, walked to the basement door, and simply nodded to one of the men. The torture began without ceremony. Hours faded into something shapeless. Time lost its meaning between the jolts of electricity that made his muscles spasm until his body became something inhuman, between the dry sound of breaking fingers, wrists, and kneecaps, and the endless repetition of the same questions. Answers were never enough. Or maybe they were, but the truth didn't fit what they wanted to hear. When they started the injections, everything became liquid. Thoughts were jumbled, and memories became unreliable. He didn't know anymore if he was screaming or if he was just imagining it. He prayed. He lied. He fell silent. He thought of nothing else but the wish that this misery would quickly come to an end because survival wasn't an option. Then came the gun. With one eye that he could barely keep half open, he saw the weapon slide into his field of vision. Black metal. Cold. Inevitable. Apparently, they had decided that nothing valuable would come from him anymore. Or they were just tired of him. With that kind of human scum, you never knew for sure. He no longer felt fear. Only a strange, heavy stillness, as if his body understood that fighting was pointless. That it was over. Yet his brain still registered something. His last memory of the world was the feeling of sand against his cheek and the starry sky above the desert. After that... nothing. Or so he thought.