Narcos ●

He was working late in the Monaco basement, a vaulted room with no windows, only the hum of air conditioning and the clack of an adding machine. A young sicario named Chuzo appeared in the doorway, a gold chain around his neck and a .38 tucked into his waistband.

“You know what Pablo said?” Chuzo asked, crouching down. “He said, ‘Luis is a good accountant. Too good. A good accountant knows where the bodies are buried—because he helped count them.’” Narcos

Peña didn’t look up. “He never made it to the airport. Neither did the family. They found the wife in a ditch outside La Ceja. The kid… they haven’t found the kid.” He was working late in the Monaco basement,

“He was turned the minute he took Pablo’s money,” Peña said quietly. “We just gave him a reason to die scared instead of rich.” “He said, ‘Luis is a good accountant

Luis had first seen Peña three weeks ago, leaning against a gray Fiat outside his daughter’s school. The American didn’t look like the other DEA agents. He didn’t wear a tie or a badge. He wore a leather jacket and the tired eyes of a man who had seen too many bodies stacked like firewood.

Chuzo pressed the .38 against Luis’s temple. “Don’t worry. We already picked up your wife and son. They’re going for a drive. A very long drive.”

Above him, Chuzo stepped off the motorcycle, pulling off his helmet.