Page 23 of Born of Vengeance

Milo nodded. “Then don’t rush. We can drop this data on a dozen networks. Scatter it so wide they can’t plug the holes. But it’ll take time.”

“I can give you time.”

“Can you?” Milo said. “Because once this gets out, they’ll know you’re not just hunting. You’re leading a war.”

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Rafael turned, walked back to the table, and picked up the drive.

“I’ll be in touch.”

“You sure you’re not gonna bleed out before then?”

Rafael smirked. “I’ve bled worse for less.”

He stepped out into the night, into the cold wind coming off the mountains, and felt something strange in his chest.

Not rage.

Not grief.

Clarity.

He wasn’t just killing men now.

He was dismantling legacies.

Chapter 11 – Into the Lion’s Den

The map was hand-drawn, frayed at the edges, and dotted with coffee stains.

Rafael spread it across the table in a rented room above a butcher shop in the outskirts of Medellín. The compound sat in the hills west of the city—gated, secluded, and well-guarded. A single road snaked up to the entrance, with motion-triggered drones circling the perimeter. The locals called it La Fortaleza.

They weren’t exaggerating.

But Rafael wasn’t planning to walk through the front door.

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He arrived at dusk, riding in the underbelly of a produce truck with its VIN number scratched out and its floor rigged with compartments. The air stank of onions and diesel. He lay still beneath crates of yucca, breathing through a cut vent in the floorboard, a suppressed pistol tight against his ribs.

The truck passed through the lower checkpoint—no problem. Just another supply run. He’d bribed the right man in the right bar three nights ago to ensure the driver's name didn’t raise alarms.

Three minutes later, the truck stopped.

The driver made his delivery.

Rafael didn’t wait for a signal.

________________________________________

He emerged from beneath the crates and dropped into the service corridor that led behind the kitchen. The compound’s rear buildings were older—stone walls, cracked cement, and blind corners. He moved fast, low, silent. His face was covered in soot-black paint, and his jacket was lined with plastic explosives prepped for manual detonation.

He placed two charges—one beneath the electrical panel, another under a fuel reserve valve beside the garage. Just enough to cause chaos. Just enough to move guards away from where he needed to be.

He checked his watch.

Ten minutes until the cartel meeting began.

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