Chapter 501: Wait for Me to Kill You

Chapter 501 -329: Wait for Me to Kill You

The Santa Caterina District, about 20 kilometers south of urban Monterey. A winding mountain road snaked its way up, the vegetation on either side gradually transitioning from dry shrubs to sparse pine forests.

Halfway up the mountain, a sizable estate was hidden amongst the trees.

From the outside, the estate didn’t look much different from the villas in the wealthy neighborhoods surrounding Monterey—white exterior walls, a crimson roof, a manicured lawn, and a few dark-colored SUVs parked in the courtyard.

The only differences were the surveillance cameras on the perimeter walls, the gunmen who were clearly not security guards standing watch at the gate 24/7, and the underground structure buried deep beneath the mountain behind the estate.

In the estate’s living room, a television was playing the local news from Nuevo León.

The female anchor spoke quickly as the screen cut to a highway in the northern outskirts of Monterey. The wreckage of an overturned pickup truck came into view, with shell casings scattered across a scorched section of the road. Armed federal soldiers were setting up a police cordon.

“…The conflict between the Sinaloa Group and the Jalisco New Generation Cartel continues to escalate in the northern region of Nuevo León. According to local media reports, at least five gang shootouts have occurred in the Monterey area within the last 48 hours, resulting in multiple deaths…”

“…At a press conference this morning, a spokesperson for the federal government reiterated that they will work with the DEA to intensify crackdowns on the northern drug corridor…”

Across from the television, a man sat in the main seat of the sofa.

He was around sixty years old but looked much older. His skin was rough and dry, his eyes were sunken, and his cheekbones were prominent. He had a salt-and-pepper crew cut, wore a silk shirt, and had a tattoo on his wrist of a venomous snake coiled around a dagger.

He held a cigar in his right hand but wasn’t smoking it, seemingly lost in thought.

This man was Kuchilo, the de facto leader of the Sinaloa Group in the Monterey region.

He had just hung up a call from the emergency room at Monterey Public Hospital.

Diego was dead. Drug overdose. His pupils were dilated, he wasn’t breathing when he arrived, and resuscitation efforts failed.

Of the remaining 23 men, 17 were critically injured, and 6 were in comas.

All of them had comminuted fractures in all four limbs. All their phones were gone. The vehicles were totaled, and the dashcams were missing too.

Kuchilo stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray.

‘Strange.’

“It was most likely those sons of bitches from Jalisco,” he said slowly. “But I don’t know why they’d do it this way.”

He felt no emotional turmoil over the loss. He’d been in this business for decades; people dying was as normal as breathing. Diego was just one of his grunts. If he died, he died. He could be replaced just like that.

But why cripple 23 men at once without killing them? What kind of move was that?

“It’s not Jalisco’s style,” said the aide beside him. “They don’t leave survivors, and they like to leave a mark. This time, nothing was left behind.”

“Maybe they want to wear us down. After all, we just had 23 men crippled at once—”

“They expect me to take care of these men?” Kuchilo chuckled. “Tell the doctors to give us an estimate.”

The aide understood immediately. “Understood.”

Most of them had intact internal organs; only their limbs were ruined.

“Also,” Kuchilo stood up and stretched, “pull back the men stationed outside. Add twenty to the warehouse and ten more here at the estate. Halt the Laredo line for a week. Let’s see what Jalisco’s next move is.”

The aide took his orders and left.

The living room fell silent again, leaving only the sound of the female anchor chattering on the TV.

Kuchilo sat back down on the sofa.

A moment later, a man walked in through a side door.

Carlos Hernandez, Raphael’s father’s old partner.

He wasn’t in uniform today, just civilian clothes—a rumpled gray shirt under a dark jacket.

“Sit,” Kuchilo said without a glance in his direction.

“About Raphael,” Carlos began as he sat down. “He only gave the item to me. I had the envelope. It’s been destroyed. There are no other copies.”

Kuchilo picked up the tequila in front of him, took a sip, and said nothing.

“I’m reaching my mandatory retirement in March, Mr. Kuchilo. I…” Carlos said. “The boy… can you spare his life?”

Kuchilo didn’t speak. He picked up a new cigar and slowly lit it.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes on Carlos through the haze.

“Carlos,” he said, not with anger, but with something closer to bewilderment. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“You’re the one who told me to grab him,” he said. “And now you’re asking me to spare his life. What the hell do you want? Do you want him dead, or do you want him alive?”

“I…” Carlos’s throat bobbed. “Maybe we could send him away?”

“Send him to see his dead father,” Kuchilo nodded. “That was my plan all along.”

“No, no, I…” Carlos opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Carlos Hernandez,” Kuchilo’s tone hardened slightly. “Don’t forget, you’re the one who killed his father.”

Carlos flinched.

“You killed his father, yet every year on the anniversary of his death, you visit his family, bring them gifts… You think that makes you feel better?” Kuchilo tapped the ash from his cigar. “Carlos, I don’t know if I should call you a good man or a bad one.”

“You… you can’t be a hero, and you can’t be a villain either,” he sneered. “You want to be a hero, but you’re not willing to risk your life. In my game, you chose to sacrifice your partner to save your own skin. But you can’t be a villain either. Your conscience won’t let you get over it. That’s why you’ve never been able to climb the ladder.”