Cancun Sunset
We unpacked our bags at the hotel overlooking Cancun beach, swam in the ocean, received massages at the hotel’s attached spa, and savored every bite of the delicious food. But nothing compared to Miju’s face, which never lost its smile.
In the afternoon we booked one of the hotel’s activity programs—a sunset cruise. I wanted to set the mood. When I saw the yacht floating on the water, I flinched for a moment, remembering the training boats, but this was nothing like those. The yacht we were assigned was spotless, and there were no terrifying instructors in sight.
We took photos against the setting sun, sliced steak for dinner on the yacht, and shared a glass of wine. I felt like I owned the world. It was strange to realize I was someone who could indulge in luxury like this.
The next morning, Gonzales came to the hotel. When he suggested we head into town, I immediately thought of the trio brothers and was about to agree, but then I remembered the village wasn’t exactly safe for Miju. Just as I was about to say I should go alone, Gonzales spoke up.
“It’s safe now. You can take her.”
Convinced, I told Miju we were going to meet some people I knew. She simply nodded and followed without question. He warned us it would take about four hours and that the journey wouldn’t be easy, but Miju insisted she wanted to come anyway. “This is part of the trip too,” she said. So we went.
And I became Pinocchio—because the trip turned out far more comfortable than I’d expected. It was nothing like the grueling ride with Pride and the Benz. We stopped at traditional Mexican restaurants along the way, ate whatever we felt like, and truly traveled like tourists. Even I was satisfied, especially compared to how hard it had been before. Strangely, the roads were in much better condition too. Last time, half of them had been unpaved.
After four hours we arrived, but the village wasn’t the one I remembered. The village hall that had been blown apart during the RPG attack and the building beside it had vanished without a trace. Instead, about ten clean new buildings stood in their place. The village itself looked nearly twice as large. The roads were freshly paved with smooth concrete, and there were far more people walking around.
“Ha cambiado mucho,” I said from the hill overlooking the village. Gonzales smiled beside me in agreement, then made a phone call. We’ve arrived, he said.
As we approached the village entrance, the trio brothers and the villagers were already waiting. I ran straight into their arms and hugged them tightly. It had been a long time since we’d seen each other, yet none of their punches hurt this time.
Inside the newly built village hall, the elder I’d greeted before finally introduced himself properly. In our terms, he was the village chief—the leader. After paying my respects, we tried to catch up properly, but the youngest of the trio shot me a look. Miju had been left out of the conversation because we’d been speaking only Spanish.
I switched to Korean and introduced everyone to Miju, then asked her to hand out the gifts we’d brought for the children. It seemed better than leaving her standing around awkwardly. The moment she saw the boxes being unloaded from the van, the kids swarmed the truck like they’d heard the Pied Piper. Miju smiled and followed them out.
With the sudden quiet, I shrugged and stepped into the office to begin the real conversation. My first question was why the village had changed so much. The leader’s expression turned bitter. The answer came from Gonzales.
“We sold drugs.”
Gonzales had known I was a heavy Skylight user. When I stared blankly, he explained what had happened. After the conflict with the neighboring village, they’d fought several small-scale battles. Their training and morale had been overwhelmingly superior, but they’d been outmatched in funding. The money I’d given them had let them fight a couple more times, but it still wasn’t enough. So they’d restarted the cocaine business—the village’s original main industry.
The trio brothers and the leader hadn’t liked the harm it caused, so they’d convinced the villagers to quit farming coca and switch to agriculture and tourism instead. For years they’d supplied vegetables to restaurants in Cancun and guided tourists. When I heard about the guiding business, I nearly spat out my coffee.
“That counts as a guiding business?”
They laughed. They were shameless, but they’d learned from thieves. Gonzales had been running a small-scale operation on the side. They’d been caught, and when the fighting with the neighboring village intensified, they’d been forced to scale it up again. With the profits they bought weapons and ammunition, prepared, and wiped out the other village in one strike. During the destruction they’d seized a massive amount of product, sold it to cover reconstruction costs, and the money had started multiplying at an alarming rate.
I knew the feeling. Money copying itself.
They seemed to be doing well now, so I wondered why they’d called me. Reading my expression, they got to the point and made a business proposal. America was cocaine’s biggest market, but after flooding the supply without thinking, they’d been flagged by a U.S. agency. Not like in Korea, where being designated meant immediate action—here the DEA or CIA simply called and asked nicely: Are you going to listen, or do you want to die? That was how they decided who was compliant and who wasn’t.
The reason was simple—there were too many small operations in Mexico and Colombia for the DEA to sanction them all. Besides, this was Mexican territory, not American soil. They were considered a compliant group, but the compliance came with quotas. Only a set amount could be sold to designated organizations. It sounded like something out of a novel.
If the quota was small and they had extra production after acquiring more farms during the war, why not just stick to the quota? The problem was that the quota was tiny, and their output had grown. Selling to American organizations only covered fixed costs. I suddenly remembered the LA shipment I’d handled last month. Had I become a target too? They reassured me that LA had only asked for extra to meet their quota, and as long as it wasn’t unsanctioned volume, it would be fine.
“But I don’t have a cocaine distribution line,” I said, voicing my concern. Gonzales smirked.
They’d secured an Asian quota instead of an American one.
It felt similar to the operation I’d run with Nakamura—only now China had become America, and Hong Kong had become China. Even though we’d bled together, I asked detailed questions about volume, buyers, and risk because my organization was involved. Export volume to Asia was unlimited. They had no fixed buyers yet, but American contacts reached out occasionally—twice so far. The Americans would cover them up to a certain point, but anything involving foreign customs, governments, or especially the media meant they’d apologize and cut contact. Several groups had already gone under that way.
There was also a restriction on selling in Asia: no re-exporting back to the U.S. That made sense. If American product was being regulated, sending it back would only anger the Americans.
No matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t see why they needed me. So I asked directly.
“We stand out too much.”
If there was a penalty for being suspicious, these men would start at a hundred percent disadvantage operating in Asia. Then they made one more request: help with exports. I still didn’t see what I was supposed to sell. Did they need marijuana or some other controlled substance? When I asked what they actually wanted, they said daily necessities—especially home appliances. LG products were preferred.
I told them it wasn’t urgent, so they could take their time whenever an opportunity arose. It would be best to handle it through Gonzales, so I suggested using Skylight. Once business was settled, I suggested we enjoy our hobbies for old times’ sake.
They stood up. Before I could ask what they meant, the youngest and second brother surrounded me and grabbed both arms. The next thing I knew, I was loaded into a pickup truck and heading out on an alligator hunt.
That night a festival was held in the village. Miju became a Mexican woman. She adapted to the local ways remarkably fast.