“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.”
“I’ve had thirty years to rehearse it. You were gone for most of them, remember? Chasing ghosts in the jungle. Mom died alone. I raised myself on your stories about Escobar. Not the killing—the structure . The way one man could hold a country in his palm.” Carlton’s voice cracked, just once. “You wanted to bring down a monster. I wanted to become the thing that monsters are afraid of.” jack carlton reed pablo escobar
The rain over Medellín had a way of washing everything clean—blood, ash, memory. But not this night. “Found it
His own son.