The rain hammered harder. Jack’s hand drifted toward the holster under his jacket—old habit. “You’re selling poison to kids.”
His own son.
That should have been the end.
“Found it? It flagged every NSA algorithm from here to Fort Meade. I didn’t find it. It found me.” Jack stood slowly, joints cracking. “Sit down, son. Tell me why you’re laundering Escobar’s cocaine money thirty years after the man died.” jack carlton reed pablo escobar
Jack felt the floor tilt. “You didn't. Tell me you didn't.” The rain hammered harder
Pablo Escobar had been sloppy.
“I’m selling transportation . Pharmaceuticals, avocados, sometimes cocaine. The cocaine’s not the point.” Carlton stepped closer, voice dropping. “You spent ten years chasing Pablo because you thought he was evil. He wasn't evil. He was sloppy . He burned churches and shot politicians and made himself a target. I don’t do that. I file taxes. I donate to hospitals. I own the mayor of Bogotá’s brother-in-law’s consulting firm.” That should have been the end