Narcos -

Luis hung up. He walked back toward his apartment, not running, not walking slow—just moving. A man with no destination. A man who had just signed his own death warrant.

Peña didn’t look up. “He never made it to the airport. Neither did the family. They found the wife in a ditch outside La Ceja. The kid… they haven’t found the kid.” Narcos

He turned left. They turned left.

Luis’s mouth went dry. The DEA had given him a special paper. Invisible ink under normal light. But Chuzo had been staring at the sun through a car window all afternoon—his pupils were pinpricks. He saw everything. Luis hung up

Javier Peña sat in a folding chair, staring at a blank wall. On the table in front of him was a single piece of paper: the page from Luis’s ledger, the one with the eagle watermark. A man who had just signed his own death warrant

“Señor Herrera,” Peña had said, handing him a photograph. It was a picture of Luis’s ledger— his handwriting, his numbers. “You know what’s interesting about this? It’s not the money. It’s the smell. You keep the books for the north route. That’s the load that went to Miami last month. The one where they found a University of Miami student in the trunk.”