Jack laughed—a dry, broken sound. “You rehearsed that speech.”
Carlton Reed was not.
“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
Silence stretched between them, thick as cordite.
The file on his screen flickered. A grainy photo from 1991. Pablo Escobar , smiling like a man who had never heard the word "extradition." Jack laughed—a dry, broken sound
“That’s not an answer.”
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.”