Page 52 of Echoes and Oaths
"I love interesting shit," Raven said brightly, right before the sound of her small puppy barkingin the background made her curse under her breath.
Jinx muttered, "One minute out." The dusty road ahead looked clear, but he needed confirmation.
The comms crackled. "Copy," Brando said, his voice dropping low. "The area is clear. You’re the only heat signature. We just got some intel on your boy Ortega."
Jinx ducked beneath the heavy sweep of a tree branch, the rough bark scraping the top of his shoulder. Even alone, every muscle in his body stayed coiled, ready.
"Go ahead," Jinx said quietly.
A beat of silence. Then Brando’s voice, cold and steady. "Tomás Ortega has a brother."
"Right. Esteban," Raven said. "Rumored to be dead."
"I wish," Brando growled. "Listen to this, Esteban Ortega isn’t just another thug, Jinx. He started young. Bodies on him before he hit twenty. But they never stuck a real label on him. No cartel ties. No loyalties. Just pure predator."
Jinx stayed crouched low, his eyes sweeping the dark, empty field. Across the cracked dirt road, the battered old mailbox stood alone, half leaning off its post.
"And?" he whispered.
"Check your phone when you can," Brando instructed.
"You sure I’m clear?" Jinx asked again, still feeling the prickling weight of being watched.
"Positive," Brando said after a pause. "The cows back at Eira’s place are the closest heat signature to you."
Jinx drew his phone, shielding the screen with his hand to block the glow. A grainy photo loaded of a younger man stared back at him, dark-eyed and smirking like he owned the world. He resembled Tomás, but where Tomás looked brittle, the man’s demeanor was carved from stone. The glint in his gaze held coldness and absolute confidence.
"Meet Esteban Ortega," Brando said. "Born on a farm not far from Eira’s place. Started killing before he could legally drink."
Jinx scrolled through the file, gaze sharpening. "Serial?"
"Yeah," Brando confirmed. "Started small once he hit Maracay. Gang initiations, some contract work. But by the time he was twenty-two, he was hunting for fun. Patterns suggest he preferred isolated victims like street kids, women no one would miss. Real psychopath. He was finally nailed for a triplehomicide, but the evidence barely stuck. They dumped him in Tocorón Prison."
Brando paused, letting the weight of the name settle in the dark air. "That’s where things got worse," he said quietly. "Way worse."
Raven’s voice sharpened, all business now. "Tocorón. That’s where Tren de Aragua was born."
"Exactly," Brando said grimly. "Tocorón wasn’t a prison. It was a kingdom. Inmates ran it like a cartel hub. Tren de Aragua controlled everything , drugs, weapons, trafficking networks. You name it."
Jinx tapped through the files quickly, crouched low against the soft wind that whispered through the brittle grass.
"Ortega didn’t just survive in there," Brando continued. "He thrived. Most guys would’ve been fresh meat. But Ortega already had the instincts. Violence. Ruthlessness. He caught the eye of the higher-ups fast."
Jinx shut off his phone, letting his eyes readjust to the dark. "They groomed him," he muttered.
"Yeah," Brando agreed grimly. "First as an enforcer. Then as a strategist. Taught him how to build networks and how to move product and people without getting caught. Gave him access tooutside contacts, cartel liaisons, corrupt military, even international smugglers."
"How did you get this information?" Raven asked.
"An inmate from Tocorón wanted to migrate to the United States," Brando said. "He wanted political asylum. In order to get it, he sold out everyone and everything. He was a mid-tier gangster, but everyone inside Tocorón knew what was happening. As soon as I saw the prison mentioned on Ortega’s rap sheet, I pulled everything I could. This guy spilled on damn near every fucking inmate in the facility."
Jinx took one more careful look up and down the deserted road before crossing to the battered mailbox. The dry wind lifted the dust around his boots, and the distant murmur of crickets filled the humid Venezuelan night. His voice was low, almost a growl. "They turned a predator into a professional."
Raven made a small, frustrated noise through the comms. "What happened after Tocorón?"
Brando exhaled heavily, his tone grim. "Details are sketchy, but when the government started pressuring Tren de Aragua leadership, a lot of high-value inmates ‘escaped.’ Actually, they evaporated. Ortega disappeared into the wind. Since then, we've tracked whispers of an operator moving between Venezuela,Colombia, and Mexico. Smuggling routes. Targeted hits. Cleaning up problems for cartel elites."
Jinx’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking along his cheekbone. "Ortega is the Ghost."
