Joachim Tavez reached his pot farm early.
He liked to keep his men on their toes, and arriving at the farm before the scheduled time was part of his method.
He had six shooters with him and ten workers.
Four other gunmen were in the forest, forming a perimeter around the pot farm.
They had flown to Canada, evaded the border patrol by walking by night through farmland along the boundary, then driven to the outskirts of the wilderness, trekking through the forest to the farm.
The stealth was just an extra precaution. Tavez was passing as a Mexican businessman and had ten other fake passports he could use.
He arrived to see Koeman hopping mad. The guard was swearing up a storm as he clutched his shoulder.
‘What happened?’
Koeman jumped, startled. His face lost its color when he saw the cartel boss and his men, who had crept up on him silently.
Tavez was five feet ten, lean and clean-shaven, with short, cropped hair. His darkly tanned face and black eyes could split into a warm smile.
But that warmth was a façade. Joachim Tavez was violent, ruthless and emotionless.
His face could turn cold in an instant. He took pleasure in killing.
Koeman had seen the gang boss enjoy watching a snitch’s hands be hacked off.
The guard told him what had happened and closed his eyes for an instant, expecting a bullet to the brain.
‘You told him this is my farm?’
‘I had no choice. He would have killed me. He had a gun to my head,’ Koeman quavered.
‘And you think I will let you live?’
‘I hope you will. I know how he looks. He won’t have gone far. We can find him.’
Tavez looked at his man. Koeman had served him well for a long time. He had not once let the cartel boss down.
Koeman was probably not at fault.
However, Tavez hadn’t grown his business by being big-hearted. Carelessness deserved to be punished.
Especially when it concerned the pot farm.
This was a new venture for the drug lord. If he could grow pot in this wilderness, in America, right under the noses of law enforcement, he could grow it in other forests.
He could build cook shops in these wild places. His cost of distribution would plummet.
Tavez was a killer, true, but foremost a businessman. And now, a couple of strangers knew about the farm.
No, such carelessness could not go unpunished.
He nodded to one of his shooters, who produced a silver-plated Colt, Tavez’s personal weapon.
He cocked and pointed it at Koeman, who begged and trembled.
He was pulling the trigger, focused on the guard’s terror-stricken face and oblivious to movement around him.
‘Stop!’