The SUV slid across the desert highway like it didn't belong there.
Too sleek. Too silent.
A blade among bones.
The road shimmered ahead, sun-scorched and endless, the pavement peeling in places, dotted with patches of tar like old scars. On either side, the Sonoran wasteland stretched in all directions—hot, humming, ancient. The land didn't bend for anyone. It just watched. And waited.
Inside the vehicle, the air was refrigerated and still. No music. No idle chatter. Only breath and machine.
El Fantasma sat upright, fingers gloved, posture composed—not tense, not casual. Just present. The mask they wore was flawless and smooth, neither ornate nor plain. It caught no reflection. It revealed no contour. And somehow, it made silence louder.
Across from them sat Romero, the only man alive allowed to be that close for that long.
His eyes stayed fixed on the Ghost—not out of suspicion, but out of instinct. He didn't look at El, but around them. At their shoulders, their hands, their breath. Studying, the way men studied detonators.
"The jet landed at 5:41 a.m.," Romero said, as if reciting scripture. "Private hangar. Puebla."
He tapped his tablet. An image appeared on the shared screen between them: grainy, long lens, timestamped.
Valentino Moretti, descending from the jet stairs with a bodyguard just out of frame. Rose in his pocket. No tie. Smile tucked into the corner of his mouth like a secret he hadn't decided whether to keep or sell.
El Fantasma didn't react.
Didn't even blink.
Romero continued.
"It's him. Not a proxy. Not a scout. He came in person."
That mattered.
The game had moved from chess to proximity mines.
"He wants to be seen," El said. Simple. Undeniable.
Romero nodded. "He's not hiding. Not here."
Another tap. A second photo loaded. Valentino in a Guadalajara restaurant the night before. No entourage. Just him, a glass of wine, and the manager of a shipping firm with deep ties to Veracruz. Three hours after this photo was taken, the manager disappeared.
"He's establishing weight," Romero said. "Wants to show he can erase people, too."
The Ghost's eyes flicked to the photo.
No expression. Just a long pause.
"His reputation was earned in Palermo," Romero added. "But it was built in Zurich."
El waited.
"He brokered peace between two families there. Sat them down. Made them drink espresso together. The next morning, both bosses had heart attacks."
A beat.
"Six hours apart. Different hospitals."
El nodded slightly. Not approval. Just acknowledgment.
"Fear," they said, "doesn't need explanation."
Then, almost too quiet to hear:
"It needs repetition."
Romero didn't speak. Not immediately. He was weighing the mood. The oxygen in the car felt thinner now.
"Do you think he's here to negotiate?"
El didn't look at him. Just watched the desert roll by.
"I think," they said, "he's here to measure me."
Outside, a small dust storm spun into view in the distance—just for a second. Like something angry trying to rise but failing.
"And will you let him?" Romero asked.
Another pause.
El reached toward the tablet. The loyalty audit was still open, quietly blinking.
Names. Faces. Status tags.
Loyal.
Uncertain.
Dead.
Some had no tags at all. That meant worse things.
"There's nothing to negotiate," El said.
"Even if he offers peace?"
"Then he's weak."
"And if he offers war?"
El turned then.
The mask caught the desert sun in a flat line of white across its center.
"I already won."
Romero didn't smile.
There was nothing to smile about.
Only the road ahead, and the growing sound of heat carving itself into history.