El Munizione (4)
The three men who emerged from the basement were named Raúl, Jorge, and Miguel. Ricardo introduced them in order of rank—specifically, the ranks they'd held back in their military days. Even the lowest, Miguel, wasn't some basic soldado, a mere private. Their mere presence here spoke volumes.
Group exiles almost always stem from political reasons.
Internal politics are politics too, and power struggles within an organization are just another form of it. My guess was that these cartel executives and their men had been ousted in a factional fight. They'd been purged line and all. And even if they'd enjoyed the casino's hospitality, the fact that all four of them had survived in a neat chain suggested a voluntary retirement after admitting defeat. In a criminal outfit, how often do subordinates follow a retiring boss out of pure loyalty alone? Especially if each one was mid-level management? One might be coincidence, two raises suspicion, and three eliminates the need for further evidence.
Stretching my imagination a bit further, the faction that had exiled Ricardo in the past might even include elements now backing his brother to keep him in check. I kept that possibility to myself. Voicing it would be trouble whether I was wrong or right—the former a humiliating blunder, the latter reckless overreach that could heighten their wariness. A negotiation that only crushes the opponent's spirit rarely ends well.
"Are the four of you from the same unit, by any chance?"
Ricardo gave a faint smile at my question. "That's right. Battle buddies for fourteen years now."
"I figured as much."
"You saw it coming, huh? Not that you'd go that far in your caution."
I could sense his nerves fraying just a touch. Probably the lingering shock of us discovering the tunnel linking the basement crew to the barn. I played it off like I hadn't noticed the edge in his voice.
"I hear that sort of thing was common back in the old Los Zetas days. Bonds from military service leading straight into cartel life. I wondered how it'd changed, but seems like that part hasn't shifted much."
"Hmph..."
Ricardo let out a low groan, slowly shaking his head. Regret colored his voice. "Not quite. We hoped it wouldn't change, but it has—changed a hell of a lot. The Los Zetas under El Kelvin's command as overall boss... those days are gone forever. We're just green recruits from the golden era, old vets lost in nostalgia."
The wistfulness in Ricardo's eyes was almost comical. Los Zetas had always been notorious for massacring civilians, past and present. And here these guys were, still pretending to be soldiers, wallowing in sentiment. Not me. I never get lost in that kind of delusion. I'm just a filthy human navigating a filthy world.
El Kelvin was the second-in-command of the Los Zetas cartel—Heriberto Lazcano's nickname, 'Z-2'. Under Gonzalez, Los Zetas hadn't splintered into the three major factions and local warlords like today. They still clung to some of the military identity forged by the first boss, 'Z-1' Guzmán. These four had thrown in their lot with the group back then, as executives.
Thinking about it, there was something surprising too. These guys survived the great schism in Los Zetas. For cartel brass, that's one hell of a tenacious life force. Even in logistics, those were brutal times to make it through unscathed.
Proof of their chops as mid-level managers—decent skill and survival instincts, even if green as negotiators. Or maybe they were just cursed with freakishly good luck. Either way, reason enough to upgrade my assessment of this crew. In this business, luck is skill, and some experience only piles up through sheer fortune.
"That's a shame."
I shifted in my seat to refocus attention. "Anyway, back to business. Let's discuss when and how much I'll pay to get what I want, how you'll source the goods and hand them over, and how you'll prove you can deliver."
"Prove it, huh..."
"Payment verification is standard in every deal, Ricardo."
"I know."
The retired quartermaster stroked his mustache, dithering pointlessly before laying his cards on the table. "Someone inside the Northeast Faction backing my brother has the tech team and blueprints."
"Tech team and blueprints? You mean we start building from scratch, or you're handing over the tech instead of finished subs?"
"The latter. If you just needed a couple quick ones in a pinch, fine—but for you, owning production capacity is the real win, right? Especially a arms dealer like yourself."
Obviously. Cartel subs are small enough to build inland, float down rivers to the sea. No need for full shipyard facilities—just big warehouse setups. Grab the tech, and I could kit out some backwater in the Philippines or Indonesia with gear and manpower, crank out as many as I want. Trial and error at first, sure.
But one hitch. "Sounds good, but I've got a question."
"Shoot."
"It's the organization you're repping—Los Zetas, Northeast Faction. Can they really meet my ROC with their own tech? I'm skeptical."
ROC: Required Operational Capability. Exactly what it sounds like—specific performance specs the buyer demands from the supplier. What I wanted: cruise speed of 4 knots, full submersion at sustained depth for set periods, high stealth and mechanical reliability, ocean-crossing range with at least 10 tons cargo. Plus non-metallic composite hulls to evade magnetic anomaly detectors. This was the pinnacle of cartel sub tech.
The Los Zetas Northeast Faction didn't scream high-end like that. Smuggling wasn't their main gig.
Ricardo paused, then answered with a sour expression. "The tech team's from Sinaloa. Blueprints too, from what I hear. Cost a fortune."
Ah, that explained it. The Sinaloa Cartel was undisputed kingpin. Plenty of lives factored into that "cost."
"Don't take it personally. Had to be addressed."
"Nah, I get it. We're... behind on that front, truth be told."
His frank admission wouldn't have come if he thought I was clueless about the scene. He'd have barked about disrespect instead. I prodded the weak spot again.
"So you couldn't deliver finished products from the jump. Tech acquisition doesn't guarantee instant production."
His face flushed deeper at the casual jab. Before the shame sank too deep, I tossed him some empathy. "Makes sense, though. Tough economy means diversifying beyond local ops. Land smuggling's tougher with tighter borders. Smart investment."
The self-proclaimed quartermaster stared at me, then pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it without asking—flicking the lighter right there. He inhaled deep, the cherry glowing bright, paper crackling. He exhaled toward the ceiling, smoke curling lazily under the spinning fan, dispersing like ink in water.
Getting antsy from me stonewalling. I got it—I'd engineered it that way—but manners exist, you unmannered prick.
Honestly, this negotiation was rigged in my favor from the start. Los Zetas is infamous; my "Company" is a shadowy unknown. Unequal prep ground. They had no choice but to face me exposed.
He stubbed the cigarette—burned down a third—between his fingers, took a sip of water, and met my eyes again. "We don't need cash. Give us weapons."
Cutting the bullshit, going straight to keep me from dragging it out more.
"Heard you're a big-shot arms dealer in the Far East. Chief said you might even outscale the North Koreans."
"Ended up that way somehow."
"That Eastern humility I've heard about?"
"Eh... half humility, half fact. Less my brilliance, more their idiocy flipping the scales."
North Korea dominated the arms black market, especially third-world legacy Soviet gear—production, upgrades, maintenance lines few others kept. And among those, only Pyongyang dared the smuggling game. Handy for China too: rogue state, no betrayal risk, takes the heat if caught.
But. Never forget: credit is the lifeblood of trade.
Take Chinese shipments: if it was something they lacked, NK would crack it open for a peek. Send quality Chinese rifles and ammo? Arrives as junk NK knockoffs. "Quality" relative to NK crap, mind you. China eventually dialed back NK reliance—and I reaped indirect benefits.
"Anyway, weapons..."
I drummed my fingers on the armrest, feigning thought to buy space, then tilted my chin at Ricardo, whose fists clenched anxiously under the table.
"I'll hear you out and decide. Items, quantities, deadlines, location. Lay it out one by one."
The quartermaster licked his lips. "Aut rifles to arm 800 men, 800 sets of Gen 2+ NVGs and laser sights, 800 dot sights, 8,000 mags and 240,000 rounds live ammo, 7,200 grenades, 160 LMGs with 32,000 rounds, 80 RPG-7 launchers with 640 rockets."
Insane quantities. Rockets especially. Third-world chaos had jacked prices, and this topped half a Somali warlord's arsenal. Wholesale black market? Like ordering 6,000+ Mercedes C-Classes at once. Conservative math, assuming no markup.
But cheap for tech transfer. Most "stockpiled" by screwing over Chinese anyway.
"That volume to—"
Ricardo slowly drew a map from his jacket—not to rile my men—unfolded it, and tapped a port on Mexico's west coast.
"—Puerto Vallarta south docks, by month's end."
Now an insane deadline. Normal order? Massive premium. Eyes on his finger, I wagged my index twice with my right hand.
"Possible?"
"Yes." Suyeon approached at my signal, checked the port, and whispered firm confirmation. "Stock's ample. Issue orders today, arrives in 17 days max. Five-day buffer to end of month."
Good. If she said yes, it's yes. Her mind was already plotting hour-by-hour logistics.
But the real issue. I waved Suyeon back and eyed Ricardo, tensed by our Korean exchange.
"All fine, but isn't this Sinaloa Cartel turf?"
Sinaloa Cartel. Mexico's top dog. Last year, they waged total war on the regular army, forcing the president into de facto surrender. Government's ceasefire excuse? "Too filthy to continue." Still, throwing 2,000 troops and 5,000 cops at one cartel and failing? Humiliating loss.
Puerto Vallarta port sat smack in that filth's territory.