The voice on the other end didn't question Rodriguez's reasoning. This was a game, and they both knew the rules.
Rodriguez's orders were never about direct results—they were about stirring the pot, setting things in motion. He enjoyed watching chaos unfold, and Miguel's survival was part of the plan. It was more fun that way, more satisfying when the final blow came after a series of calculated moves.
The man on the phone finally spoke again, his tone flat. "When?"
"Tomorrow night," Rodriguez said, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Miguel takes that same route home every evening. Set it up there."
"He has been awol for a while now," the man said.
"Then where the fuck has he been?!"
"I don't know," the man said. "But I can send my men to spy on…"
