Page 24 of Born of Vengeance

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The main house was a colonial-era mansion—renovated with steel-reinforced windows and armored doors. Inside, Valderrama would be surrounded by cartel bosses, brokers, and loyal security. No one would be carrying a phone. No one would be wearing wires. These meetings were about power, not records.

Rafael bypassed the back wing using a rooftop air shaft.

He dropped down into a linen room, emerged into a dark hallway, and used a stolen keycard to access the guest quarters.

From there, he watched through a surveillance mirror embedded in the hallway frame.

One by one, the guests arrived.

A Venezuelan smuggler in a white suit. A Brazilian trafficker flanked by bodyguards. An American arms dealer with dead eyes.

Then—

Valderrama.

He wore a midnight-blue jacket and a silver watch that glinted with every gesture. Confident. Untouched.

Rafael adjusted the rifle scope from his shoulder bag, steadying it against the wooden frame.

He could take the shot right now.

But this wasn’t about distance.

This wasn’t about one bullet.

This was about truth, and pain, and ending it face-to-face.

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He waited for the signal.

At exactly 20:14, the estate lights flickered.

The fuel valve exploded five seconds later—sending fireballs into the sky and ripping through the garage roof.

The guards panicked.

Yelling. Gunfire.

Two SUVs caught fire. The side gates collapsed under the pressure.

Inside, the meeting scattered. The guests shouted over each other. Some reached for weapons. Others bolted.

Rafael moved.

He came through the east corridor, took down two guards with silenced rounds, and kicked through a side door into the inner study.

There were three more men inside.

Rafael moved like a phantom—two shots, one blade. A flurry of silence and blood.

And then…

There was only Valderrama.

Stunned. Angry. And finally, afraid.

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