Page 2 of Don't Trust Him

Let other business travelers discuss their mundane lives in express hotels where they don’t even have a bar, much less a waitress in a private lounge. I’ll take doing advance work for narcotraffickers if it means I get priority turndown service and dinner at Michelin starred restaurants.

It feels surreal, to feel the San Diego Bay breeze, and talk about some magic new cocaine product. But this is my life. I love it all. But there’s something else that’s itching at me. Why I wanted a change of scenery.

Because there are a few things about my life that I would like to change. For now…only the location can change.

Juan points to a few lab charts, bringing me back to reality as he starts to talk again.

“I know that we only move this shit,” he says, belittling our positions. “But the higher ups think that they need your specific skill set for coke squared.”

I shrug. I’m not opposed to getting my hands dirty. Human capital needs to be deployed where its most effective. We’re basically like any other executives in billion dollar companies, except our product is highly illegal.

Juan continues. “This product has no comedown, which means it will completely change the marketplace. Problem is, there was one only batch produced, and the chemist and his supplies are all gone. The lab? Gone. Looks like the guy blew it up and took the formula. So we need to piece this shit together and get it onto the market for our bosse

s at Cabeza Dios.”

I nod.

“We need to figure out how to make coke squared so that Cabeza Dios can start selling it on the street. Because apparently whoever goes to market with this shit first is going to reap a fucking killing. And they’ll get customers who will never go back to cocaine. So it’s really going to be winners and losers on this one,” Juan continues, emphasizing his point.

Cabeza Dios is the cartel that Juan and I work for. Our capo, big boss in charge, Lorenzo Quentin, will be all over this new formula. My wheels are turning in my brain and I look to Juan, wondering what he’s thinking.

“Nice to have a change of pace?” I ask him, raising my drink.

Juan ponders for a second. “For you, sure,” he clinks his glass to mine. “But me, I like not having any change. Change is where shit gets fucked and brown motherfuckers like my ass end up dead. Your pretty ass survives just about anything and you get to enjoy the thrill. I’m like one of those no-name guys with a red shirt on in Star Trek. Not big jefe shit like you coming up in the world. Do they treat me like shit? Sure. But I can’t do anything about that now. I just gotta take my lumps and live with it.”

Juan looks into my eyes and for a second that shit makes me uncomfortable, because I’m fucking paranoid and I play my cards close to the vest. Don’t want anybody prying or looking too closely. But I listen to Juan. “You’ve got a sparkle in your eyes. You still have a desire to hunt. Me, in my old age, I want predictability.”

I laugh. He’s basically my age, and I’m in my mid-twenties. I think Juan’s more concerned about the four kids he already has at home. Yeah, he’s married with children. He doesn’t want the thrill.

The Juan that I knew when I first started working with him would never have said those words. I know there’s a bit of professional jealousy in his eyes. I live the life. I travel. I spend. He goes home to his wife and kids.

I get the respect. He pays my restaurant bills.

I get glamour. He gets grind.

I’d go insane.

The thrill is all I have in the glamorous life of narcotrafficking.

I’m Columbian born to American, now deceased, parents…and I have no one else is in the picture. No family, no ties to anyone, so I’m free I travel the world smuggling cocaine for Cabeza Dios.

No, I’m not a mule. Think of it more like air traffic control. Except all illegal.

I make bribes where I need to. I hire the men, muscle, and movers for a globe girdling multinational operation. I’m on a first name basis with dockmasters, police commissioners, and shipping magnates.

I stick out of the war and stick to smuggling products. I keep my nose clean—literally in that I don’t fucking do cocaine, and because I’m squeaky clean and avoid the ire of the law.

To anyone else, I’m not smuggling, I’m heading logistical operations for a microwave manufacturer. Because the number one appliance in the world is a person’s microwave. And it so happens that they’re perfect for plating sheets of cocaine to in our shipments and getting our product out there.

I love my work. I love my life. Fuck, if I was just shipping microwaves, I’d be happy to be in the world’s finest hotels...but more than anything it isn’t just the beautiful locations and the work that I’m good at.

I like being a bad girl.

I like smuggling cocaine.

It’s not something you’re supposed to be proud of. I don’t feel any guilt about what I do.

Because it’s wrong.

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