The Caribbean breeze blew gently over the coast of Santa Marta, but high up at the estate "La Fortaleza," the tension was palpable—like it could be cut with a knife.
It was a full moon night, and the manor house that Gustavo had taken as his operations center—a property confiscated from a corrupt politician—glowed with dim lights and heavy security. Twenty armed men patrolled the surroundings, and another ten guarded the main entrance, all armed with M16 rifles and encrypted radios.
Gustavo sat in the main room, beside his solid mahogany table. To his right was Mateo, with his usual serious face, and to the left, "El Tigre," relaxed but alert. Both were ready to intervene if anything went wrong.
On the table, there was a tray with coffee, rum, and Cuban cigars. The air smelled of gunpowder and ambition.
"They've arrived," one of the guards announced over the radio.
The guests were no ordinary visitors: direct envoys from three neighboring cartels—one from Valle del Cauca, another from Norte de Santander, and a third from La Guajira. They had come to negotiate access to the maritime and land routes that Gustavo had cleaned and protected with blood and fire.
The first to enter was Luis Felipe "El Mono" Barrera, representative of the Northern Cartel. He wore white linen and carried an arrogant smile.
"The young boss... so you're Escobar's son, huh?"
"I'm Gustavo Márquez," he said, unfazed. "And this is my house. Sit down."
The second was Iván Meneses, aka "El Tiburón," a burly man with a frown and a jacket stained by the coastal humidity. He represented the Pacific Cartel.
Finally came Eduardo Silva, "Lalo," from La Guajira, wearing dark glasses even at night and a more diplomatic attitude.
The three sat down. Gustavo poured coffee without asking. Absolute silence filled the first few seconds. No one wanted to be the first to speak.
"We've heard you control the coast," "El Mono" finally said. "We want to use your dock to ship goods to Panama and Miami. And your land routes to Barranquilla."
"And we'll pay well for the favor," added "Lalo," pulling out a briefcase with $200,000 in cash—a down payment. The rest would be negotiated.
Gustavo looked at them coldly. Then he stood up, walked toward the window, and in a deep voice began to speak.
"Santa Marta was a war zone. I turned it into a functional city. I drove the rats out of their holes, wiped out the micro-cartels, and brought order where there was none. I'm not a messenger. I'm not an intermediary. If you want my routes, pay as if they were yours—because they are."
"El Tiburón" frowned.
"What percentage are you asking?"
Gustavo turned slowly. He approached the table and, in a low but firm voice, said:
"Thirty percent of every shipment. Cash, upfront. If you use my routes, my men guarantee safe passage. If just one of your idiots causes trouble, I'll kill you first."
The three envoys exchanged glances.
"Thirty is too much," protested El Mono. "That's what the DEA takes when they bust you."
"Then let the DEA bust you," Gustavo replied with a half-smile. "Or better yet, use the Pereira Cartel's routes and see if you survive a month."
A long silence filled the room.
"El Tiburón" lit a cigar, thought for a few seconds, then extended his hand.
"We accept the deal. But we want guaranteed safe passage and total discretion."
Gustavo shook his hand firmly.
"My routes are like temples. No one enters without leaving an offering. And no one leaves without permission."
The other two reluctantly agreed as well. The reputation of Escobar's son was more dangerous than many established capos. And the strength of his army made him nearly impenetrable.
At the end of the meeting, Gustavo escorted them to the exit. As the trucks drove away, "El Tigre" approached.
"Don't you think thirty percent is too much, boss? They'll seek revenge."
Gustavo looked at him steadily.
"I know. That's why I already sent to reinforce the access points with snipers and bought a batch of C4 explosives in case anyone gets creative."
"And what do we do with the down payment?"
"Give it to 'Helping Hand.' Tomorrow, I want hot food in Mamatoco and new mattresses in Boca Grande. Wars are won with bullets, but also with bread."