Page 5 of Born of Vengeance

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He moved to the mattress on the floor and sat cross-legged. The pistol sat within reach, cleaned and reloaded. A new shirt, dark and dry, lay beside it.

He stared at the board until the names blurred into shapes.

Then he picked up the next photo.

Santiago—Customs officer. Corrupt. Connected.

He would speak.

Or scream.

Chapter 3 – The Informant

Morning crept into Cartagena with a gray, reluctant light. The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving behind steaming rooftops and dripping gutters. The city smelled of diesel and damp earth, like it hadn't decided whether to cleanse itself or drown.

Rafael moved through the outskirts unnoticed, wearing a baseball cap low over his eyes and a faded canvas jacket. The kind worn by dockworkers, invisible to everyone who didn’t know what to look for. He walked like a man with no reason to rush and every reason not to be remembered.

The café was a crumbling corner spot near the edge of Getsemaní—a place where tourists didn’t wander and locals minded their own business. Its windows were barred, its door permanently propped open with a half-brick. Inside, three tables, one ceiling fan, and the smell of strong coffee mixed with frying oil.

Rafael stepped in and didn’t have to look. Javier Mendoza was already seated in the far booth, facing the door, one hand resting on a cup, the other casually draped across the seat beside him.

He looked older than Rafael remembered. Not by years, but by weight—like the past clung to him in places time hadn’t touched.

“Mendoza,” Rafael said quietly.

The man smiled beneath a salt-and-pepper beard. “I was beginning to think you were a ghost. Sit.”

Rafael slid into the booth across from him, eyes scanning the room once, quickly, out of habit. The only other patron was asleep on his arms at the counter.

“I heard you were dead,” Javier said.

“I was,” Rafael replied. “Then I got busy.”

Javier nodded like that made sense. “Still cleaning house?”

“I need a name,” Rafael said. “Someone called ‘El Juez’.”

Javier raised an eyebrow. “That name hasn’t come up in years.”

“It came up last night. From a runner with a knife in his side and piss down his leg.”

Javier sipped his coffee. “Then you’re closer than most. But ‘El Juez’ is just a name. A ghost. No one sees him, no one hears him. Just orders. But you know how ghosts work—someone still whispers for them.”

Rafael said nothing. Just waited.

Javier leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “Girls. That’s the current. You want to follow the current, follow the girls.”

“Where?”

“The ports. Smaller ones. Off-grid. Places without cameras. They come in from Venezuela and Ecuador. Mostly underage. Mostly scared shitless. They get sorted. Packaged. Shipped out.”

“To?”

“Wherever the money flows.”

Rafael’s jaw tensed. “And the man who watches the current?”

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