The group paused as "Mad Dog" suddenly leapt up, snarling:
"Are you out of your minds? How dare you—!"
"Bring him under control!"
Several lieutenants immediately rushed toward Mad Dog, who struggled violently but was soon subdued—after all, anyone able to serve as a cartel lieutenant wasn’t to be underestimated.
"Should we kill him?" one low voice asked. Everyone knew Mad Dog had been Hector’s most loyal enforcer. Yet they brought Mad Dog here purposely: if he were captured, his subordinates would scatter like headless flies, and Hector would lose his steadfast lieutenant.
But an older lieutenant shook his head. "Not yet. We may still need him."
Nobody argued—after all, as long as Mad Dog was restrained, he posed no threat. And once Hector was out of the way, they could deal with him later.
"Hold on—are we really going to kill Hector?" came another voice—not out of loyalty, but fear. Hector’s cruelty had earned him both hatred and dread, yet no one had dared to move against him; if he lived, none of them would ever be safe again. But if they went through with this, the fear wouldn’t just belong to Hector’s enemies anymore—it would belong to everyone here.
The older lieutenant glanced around the room as those assembled revealed uneasy expressions. He sighed:
"Hector has gone mad—look at the ridiculous things he’s done since his son died. The first time, we let it pass. Now he’s stirring trouble in the Western Territories. If this continues, the whole Salamanca Cartel will be dragged down in ruins with him. "
"Do you want to be buried in the cemetery with him? I have plenty of comfortable days left, plenty of money to make—his son is gone, but mine is still alive."
"And anyway, so what if his son died? You can have another one. If you can’t, so what? Your kid grows up and leeches off you anyway—having or not having a son doesn’t change much."
"Tell me— is it worth sacrificing us for a dead kid?"
Silence. Then someone shouted: "No—it’s not worth it!"
One man stood, eyes cold: "Hector’s gone mad. Look what happened to his loyal lieutenants—he fed them to lions. So why are we hesitating?"
"Do you think Hector can’t see what we’re thinking? We’re still alive only because we are still useful and haven’t openly opposed him—don’t think he doesn’t know."
"But Hector is no kind man. Once we stop being useful, he’ll drop us immediately. If we don’t strike him first, he’ll strike us."
A few of the previously hesitant men nodded in agreement. The older lieutenant, encouraged, allowed the momentum to build. United, they believed, they could overcome Hector—at least they hoped.
Suddenly, the door was flung open and a squad of brutal-looking enforcers charged in. The lieutenant’s faces drained of color—they didn’t recognize these men, and their own guards outside wouldn’t have let outsiders in unless...
One lieutenant stood, shouting, "Who are you? Do you know who we are? Get out!"
No one replied. The intruders fanned out and positioned themselves behind the assembled lieutenants. As the last enforcer entered, the shock registered:
"Hector?!"
Hector Salamanca himself strode in and took his place at the head of the table. One of the enforcers lit a cigar and handed it to him.
"What meeting is this? No one told me about it."
No one dared to speak. Fear tightened their throats.
A few years after his son’s death, as Hector’s behavior grew erratic, these lieutenants had met secretly in Tijuana. Technically, Hector shouldn’t even have known about this safehouse—so how did he find it?
"Mad Dog, why are you lying on the floor? The floor’s cold no?"
He signaled, and the enforcer helped Mad Dog to his feet, removing the restraints. Mad Dog immediately started to protest, "Hector, sir, they’re—"
Hector raised a hand, silencing him with a cold stare. No one dared to meet his gaze.
"Are you all mute?" he asked.
One lieutenant, voice quivering, spoke up. "Mr. Salamanca, we were discussing that terror attack in San Diego. You know, there are rumors..."
"Oh? What rumors?"
"I—I"—the lieutenant glanced around, hoping someone else would finish for him, but no one did. Regret flickered across his features, but he pressed on. "Some believe the San Diego attack is connected to the Salamanca Cartel. I’m not accusing you, sir, but if the rumors spread, it would hurt us."
Hector’s response was calm, and utterly unexpected: "Yes. I did it."
Stunned, the lieutenant stammered, "You... you did?"
They had expected Hector to deny everything or feign ignorance. No one thought he’d confess. Hector was brutal, but not stupid—yet he had just admitted to the entire room.
Their heads spun as silence fell.
"So, you all gathered behind my back just for this trivial little matter?"
"Trivial matter?" The lieutenants felt a bitter taste in their mouths at that.
Hector had truly lost his mind, reducing such a monumental event to something insignificant.
The elder lieutenant felt he could no longer remain silent. He swallowed, then spoke up.
"Mr. Hector, you must know that our cartel primarily operates for profit, and though we exist in the underworld as a criminal organization, our ultimate goal has always been to earn money together—that is what drives the Salamanca Cartel to grow and become stronger."