Ailin came to walk beside Zachary as he climbed out of the rusted Chevy. They’d driven deep inside his stretch of land; construction had to start close to the border. He wanted his project completed as soon as possible, and further away from the Rio Grande he began, the longer it would take to complete.

One of the engineers he’d hired for the job gave him a brief nod. Then he returned to his study of a blueprint. It had been trapped beneath two rocks on a makeshift table—a pair of planks spanning the distance between two barrels.

He had no interest in blueprints. His only interest was in the lead engineer telling him the project was complete.

And then that delightful sound as he put a bullet through the man’s skull. Yes, he’d promised him riches and safe passage for his family across the border. But they both knew information of this construction project could never pass the borders of his property.

Everyone working on the project—engineers, workers, even the women they’d brought along to help with their laundry and cooking their meals—none would be allowed to leave Zachary’s land.

For their sakes, he hoped they’d said fond farewells before they’d left Mexico.

His footsteps echoed back to him as he descended the gently sloping decline that led into the mouth of the excavation. Later, when the project was nearing completion, a building would be erected over this site. A solid floor cast. And then mechanisms put in place that would slide open to allow his men to enter.

That was all less than a month away, if he was to believe Ailin’s reports.

Cool air slid over his skin as he and Rodrigo stepped deeper inside. He had more than a foot of space above his head, and could stretch his arms out to either side without touching either wall. The ground was flat, still dirt here, but a rough ceiling had already been put in place. Ailin stooped—he was definitely in danger of hitting his head—but most men could walk inside comfortably.

A worker hurried toward them, leaning his weight into a narrow mining cart.

Zachary felt like a miner from the gold rush era. The anticipation of striking it rich weaved through the air like smoke. He could taste success and the victory of a project seen to completion.

No longer would he have to try and expand his empire in Mexico. All he had to do was keep a tract of land, no more than a few hundred acres, on both sides of the borders. In time, Sinaloa and El Calacas Vivo might even forget about him.

Until his first shipment arrived. Methamphetamines that would make junkies commit murder for one more hit. Yes, heroin was more addictive and had always been cheaper, but with a hefty increase in supply of meth, and a drastic cut in price, those tweakers could shell out the same amount they spent on their daily heroin fixes for three times the amount of crystal. He would undercut every cartel currently supplying meth to the southern states, and introduce the drug into new territories. It would be so cheap, a school child on a pittance of an allowance would be able to afford it.

It was purer, too. He cherished the health of his customers, after all. The longer they lived, the more he profited. Heroin users could overdose on a single—

His cellphone rang shrilly, the sound echoing strangely in the tunnel. The worker looked up in astonishment, and immediately began backing up with his cart. There wouldn’t be enough space for them to pass each other. But Zachary waved a hand, turning and heading for the exit to take the call.

“Don Zachary,” came Rodrigo’s flustered voice. “She escaped.”