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-On the outskirts of Plácido de Castro, Greater Cape-

The morning was windy and overcast, yet the intense humidity made the sticky air feel much warmer than it was. Amidst the blustery gloom, three individuals stood talking, the small Amazonian town serving as a distant backdrop.

"When will the new shipment be ready? You know that a Víbora doesn't like to be kept waiting," the tallest and most well-built of the three inquired.

"Look, we're working as quickly as we can. There's only so much product we can make when we're dealing with limited hands, ne? Maybe if we had more people working with us, we could meet a Víbora's quotas," a shorter, thin man defended. "Besides, we haven't even been paid for the last shipment we sent out. I mean, we're stuck in this do-nothing town, it's hot all the time, we barely have any food to keep the team going, and we haven't even gotten our mosquito nets yet. We're miserable here. Tell that to a Víbora."

The tall, brutish man narrowed his eyes and pulled out a cigarette from a soft pack that sat in his shirt pocket. As he lit the cigarette with a cheap looking match, he took a long, slow drag and smirked. "You know what? Maybe you're right. Maybe I should go back to a Víbora and tell him you're reconsidering the deal he made with you and your people."

Quickly remembering the circumstances that led to their involvement with a Víbora's organization, the two shorter men caught each others' eyes and instinctively furled their eyebrows.

"It would be a shame should anything happen to your wives and children, ne?" the larger man mused as he, seemingly absentmindedly, caressed the handle of a pistol poking out from his belt.

With audible worry in their voices, the two meeker men nodded and said nearly in unison, "No, yes, you're right. Tell a Víbora we'll have the next shipment ready by Sunday night."

"Good. And for your insolence, make it an extra fifty kilos. I don't want to hear any disrespect ever again, especially when referring to a Víbora. Is that clear?"

"Sim, senhor. Absolutamente."

The two shorter men glanced at each other and turned to walk back to the village. The third man remained and slowly enjoyed his cigarette. The Rio Abuna meandered behind him, and the occasional sound of birds catching fish broke the tense silence. When the two others were nearly out of sight, the man pulled a satellite phone from a rucksack that was hidden behind a large tree. Dialling a number that had been ingrained in his memory, the man heard but one ring before a silent answer.

"The next shipment will be ready by Monday at dawn. And tell a Víbora there's a little extra to make up for lost time."

Without a response, the call ended and the man threw his cigarette into the river. His small motorboat awaited him on the riverbank just a few metres away. Surely there would be a late breakfast waiting for him at his camp.

Tag

Eulumia