Luis felt his coffee turn to acid in his stomach. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The last thing Luis Herrera saw was the neon sign of the Monaco building, flickering in the distance. A monument to powder and blood. And then, nothing.
“Plata o plomo,” Peña muttered. “Silver or lead. We keep offering silver. But Pablo only ever gives one thing.”
“You know what Pablo said?” Chuzo asked, crouching down. “He said, ‘Luis is a good accountant. Too good. A good accountant knows where the bodies are buried—because he helped count them.’” Narcos
Luis did the only thing he could. He laughed. “You think Pablo would let me use American paper? It’s a watermark from the Bogotá printer. Counterfeit. Like everything else.”
“Señor Herrera,” Peña had said, handing him a photograph. It was a picture of Luis’s ledger— his handwriting, his numbers. “You know what’s interesting about this? It’s not the money. It’s the smell. You keep the books for the north route. That’s the load that went to Miami last month. The one where they found a University of Miami student in the trunk.”
“Now.”
“What’s this?” Chuzo asked.
He crossed the street. They crossed the street.
“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.” Luis felt his coffee turn to acid in his stomach
Luis hung up. He walked back toward his apartment, not running, not walking slow—just moving. A man with no destination. A man who had just signed his own death warrant.
Chuzo pressed the .38 against Luis’s temple. “Don’t worry. We already picked up your wife and son. They’re going for a drive. A very long drive.”
For two weeks, Luis had done nothing. Then came the night of the silver delivery. And then, nothing