The next day, Daemon and Jason arrived at the location where the shipment was expected to arrive. As they approached, Jason hurried down while Daemon took a more deliberate pace.
'This is a heavily guarded hacienda in the middle of a dense forest, with armed guards patrolling the perimeter... This is how they avoid getting caught,' Daemon thought, surveying the scene.
Observing the guards, Daemon noted their dark glasses, black leather jackets, and military-grade rifles slung over their shoulders. They scanned their surroundings with cold efficiency, and security cameras were strategically placed.
Mentally mapping the hacienda, Daemon memorized the layout and identified potential weak points, noting the intervals of guard patrols.
Entering the hacienda, he observed multiple men and women chatting and drinking—some rough-looking, others smoother, likely indicating different roles within the cartel.
'Are all these iron enforcers?' Daemon wondered silently.
As Daemon and Jason neared the group, Adam suddenly appeared in front of everyone.
"I'm glad everyone could make it. We're here for one thing and one thing only," Adam declared. "I'm sorry, but we don't have time for anything else. This shipment is large, and we need to control it and distribute it among the hideouts."
'So everyone here gets a share? I thought Adam would take it all as overseer. Shouldn't that be his role?' Daemon thought, observing the proceedings.
Adam do play the role of overseer. But why share the spoils?
After Adam's announcement, he led the group out of the hacienda to the edge of the forest where a large cargo ship awaited, surrounded by containers and people. At a table under lights, a woman meticulously counted papers.
'Do they really need such precise records of their illicit goods? These workers seem more like broken slaves than cartel members,' Daemon mused.
Adam began coordinating the unloading using a walkie-talkie, while the others continued chatting. A man approached Daemon, noticing he didn't have his weapon drawn, just a wristband.
"You're new around here, right? How did you manage to join us? We don't just let anyone into our ranks," the man inquired.
Daemon met his gaze with a cold, steady look. "Took care of a problem for the boss a few months back. Let's just say the competition isn't an issue anymore. Besides, I have a knack for handling delicate situations... like this one," Daemon replied, giving a faint, knowing smile. 'Jason might question why I said that, but I doubt he'll report it,' Daemon thought to himself.
"Alright, well, sorry about Jackson. He was a good man," the man said.
'Good man? How can anyone be considered good while involved in such activities? Am I good for taking out most of your leadership?' Daemon pondered silently before responding. "Yeah."
Leaning in slightly, Daemon lowered his voice. "But enough about me. What's the word on the street here? I've heard rumors that the local police are sniffing around more than usual. Anything we should be worried about?" he asked.
"Yeah, damn pigs. For the past few months, everything was running smoothly, then suddenly they started searching everyone in the city... I have a feeling something big is going on," the man replied.
'Something big... Could it be related to the evil the hunter warned me about?' Daemon wondered, his mind racing with possibilities as he contemplated the implications of this new information.
When the cargo doors opened and revealed a young captive tied up, barely a teenager, he seized the opportunity and bolted towards the perimeter in a desperate bid for freedom.
Daemon, always vigilant and quick to react, understood his role immediately. Even without using his death step, he closed the distance with swift, purposeful strides. In just a few steps, he intercepted the young man who was about a hundred meters away from safety, grabbing him firmly by the collar and halting his escape.
In this world, dominance isn't just about physical prowess it's about commanding fear, enforcing consequences.
The captive screamed for help, but they were isolated from anyone who could assist him. The other iron enforcers were taken aback by Mortis' sudden movement, unsure of what to make of it.
Daemon's voice, low and icy, cut through the tension. "Trying to run, huh? Didn't anyone tell you that's a very bad idea?" His expression was cold and devoid of emotion, projecting an intense aura that made both enforcers and captives uneasy.
He dragged the struggling captive to the center of the gathering, forcing him to kneel. Standing over him, Daemon addressed the assembled group with a raised voice, ensuring his words carried weight. "This is what happens when you try to escape. There are consequences for every action."
From the sidelines, a guard stepped forward, wielding a short, heavy baton. With precise control, he delivered calculated blows to the boy's back and legs, causing pain without causing permanent damage.
Daemon leaned in closer to the captive, his voice a menacing whisper. "Remember this pain. It's a mercy compared to what you'd face out there."
After the punishment was administered and the captive collapsed to the ground, visibly shaken but still conscious, Daemon turned his attention to the rest of the captives in the cargo. His face remained impassive, devoid of any emotion as he addressed them sternly.
"Anyone else thinking about running? Know that you'll face the same, or worse," Daemon's voice rang out across the assembly of enforcers and captives.
The enforcers exchanged glances, a mixture of respect and wariness in their eyes. The captives, now visibly cowed, had their hopes of escape shattered by the brutal display they had just witnessed.
Daemon handed the baton back to the guard and stepped away, his demeanor calm and collected, as though what he had just done was routine. Internally, he reflected on the strategic importance of asserting dominance through controlled violence to solidify his position within the cartel hierarchy.
"Keep an eye on them. We can't afford any more distractions," Daemon instructed the enforcers, who nodded in agreement, their respect for him begrudging yet undeniable.
Am I becoming desensitized to the brutality I witness and sometimes inflict? How do I justify these actions to myself, especially when dealing with escape attempts?
Returning to the enforcer he had spoken with earlier, Daemon inquired about the intricacies of the auction process.
"So, how exactly does the auction process work here? I've been part of smaller operations, but nothing on this scale," he asked, eager to grasp the details of their operation.
The enforcer explained in a straightforward manner, emphasizing their rigorous protocols to maintain order. "The captives are held in the lower east wing until auction day, under constant guard and separated. We move them in groups to the main hall on the day itself, about four trips in total. Bidding is aggressive, so organization is key."
Daemon nodded thoughtfully, absorbing the information. His curiosity piqued, he pressed further. "Who's running the show for this auction? I want to make sure I know who to report to if anything goes sideways."
"The top authority overseeing it all is El Jefe himself, though he stays in the shadows. Carlos and Luis are your main points of contact. Carlos manages security, ensuring everything stays secure, while Luis handles the logistics of the auction. Both are key players you should be mindful of," the enforcer replied, casting a cautious glance at Daemon.
As the conversation unfolded, Daemon realized the enormity of the auction's scale and significance within the cartel's operations. It was far larger and more complex than he had initially imagined, signaling a critical juncture in his involvement with the organization.
Where do I see myself in this hierarchy in a year, or five years from now?