"You underestimated me, Don," he said, stepping out. "That’s your last mistake."
He worked for Don Cleto, a relic of the old narcos—slow, superstitious, content with mules crossing the border once a week. Aurelio saw the future: planes. Fast, invisible, untouchable. "We move powder like Coca-Cola," he told Cleto. "Airborne."
The Lord of the Skies had just begun.
Cleto laughed. "You’re a mule with wings, boy."