The Imperial Hunter

The names of the three who emerged from the basement were Raúl, Jorge, and Miguel. Ricardo introduced them in order of rank, essentially mentioning their military ranks from their time in the armed forces. Even the lowest-ranked Miguel wasn’t just a simple soldier, which was quite impressive. Their mere presence here hinted at a lot.

‘Group defection is almost always due to political reasons.’

Just as politics played a role in national politics, internal power struggles were also a form of politics. Presumably, the cartels’ top brass and their subordinates retired as a result of factional infighting. They had been “removed” from the “line.” Even if they received services from the casino, conceding defeat was apparent, and it was a voluntary retirement to some extent.

How often do high-ranking members retire from criminal organizations just out of loyalty? Especially if each of them was at the level of a mid-level officer? One person might be a coincidence, but if there were two, it was suspicious; if there were three, there was no need to look for further evidence.

Using a bit more imagination, one could even speculate that the faction that had removed Ricardo in the past was involved in the side trying to restrain Ricardo’s younger brother.

I didn’t mention this possibility aloud. Whether I was right or wrong, it was still a problem. The former was embarrassing, and the latter was reckless, as it could heighten suspicion. A negotiation that merely suppressed the opponent’s morale was unlikely to be a good negotiation.

“Are the four of you from the same unit by any chance?”

In response to my question, Ricardo gave a faint smile.

“Yes. We’ve been comrades for 14 years.”

“I suspected as much.”

“You had a hunch, didn’t you? I doubt you went through all this trouble just for ‘caution.'”

I could feel a slightly nervous tension. It was probably due to the fact that the friends from the basement and the tunnel leading to the barn were discovered. I pretended not to notice this sharpness.

“I heard that in the past, ‘Los Zetas’ had many cases where former comrades in arms became involved with the cartel. I wondered how things have changed now, but it seems like that aspect hasn’t changed much from the past.”

“Um…”

Ricardo, who seemed to be contemplating, slowly shook his head.

“No, that’s not it.”

Regret was evident in his voice.

“I hoped it wouldn’t change, but it has changed a lot. The ‘Los Zetas’ during the time of General El Kelvin is gone for good. We’re here now, just rookies from the best days and old soldiers reminiscing about the past.”

There was a certain irony in Ricardo’s eyes that I found quite amusing. Whether then or now, Los Zetas was an organization notorious for frequent civilian massacres. The fact that people who had been a part of such an organization were still indulging in their self-righteousness was absurd. At least I didn’t get carried away like that. I was a dirty human living in a dirty world.

El Kelvin was the nickname used by Rogelio González Pizaña, the second commander-in-chief of the Los Zetas cartel, known as ‘Z-2.’ Under González, Los Zetas were not divided into the three main factions and regional rulers as they were now, and they still retained the military identity established by the first commander-in-chief, ‘Z-1’ Guzmán. The four here were the leaders who had served in the organization during that time.

Looking at it from another perspective, it was somewhat surprising.

‘These guys ultimately survived the Los Zetas’ major split. They’re tough guys for cartel bosses, no matter what the supply chain was like.’

Even if he was a novice negotiator, his abilities and tactics as a mid-level officer were quite impressive. Or maybe he was incredibly lucky. Either way, there were enough reasons to revise the evaluation of the people in front of me. In this world, luck was also a skill, and experience was accumulated through luck as well.

“My apologies.”

I shifted my posture to refresh my attention.

“Now, let’s go back to the main topic… when and how much do I need to pay to get what I want, how will you acquire the goods, and how will you prove your ability?”

“Proof… yes.”

Ricardo, stroking his mustache meaninglessly, finally began to speak.

“Within the ‘Northeast Cartel,’ there are individuals who have acquired the technical know-how and blueprints to support my younger brother.”

“Technical know-how and blueprints? Does that mean you’ll start construction from now on, or are you offering the technology instead of the actual product?”

“The latter. If you’re satisfied with just one or two vessels for urgent use, that would be a shame. It would be more advantageous for you to have production capabilities, especially as a weapons dealer like yourself.”

Of course, it would be advantageous. The cartel’s submarines were small and were manufactured inland, then transported down rivers to the sea. The construction facilities were not on the level of a full-fledged shipyard, but more like large warehouses. Therefore, once you had the technology, you could set up facilities and manpower somewhere in a remote area like the Philippines or Indonesia and produced as many as you wanted, even with some trial and error at first.

However, there was one concern.

“Everything sounds good, but there’s one question.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the fact that the organization you represent is both ‘Los Zetas’ and the ‘Northeast Cartel.’ Can the ‘Northeast Cartel’ meet the ROC I’ve presented using its own technology? I have to be skeptical.”

ROC. This term stood for Required Operational Capability and literally referred to the specific performance the buyer demanded from the supplier when procuring a particular piece of equipment.

What I wanted was a top-of-the-line smuggling submarine that could maintain a cruising speed of 4 knots, submerge to a certain depth for a certain amount of time, exhibit high acoustic stealth and mechanical reliability, and cross the ocean with a minimum of 10 tons of cargo on board. Additionally, the hull must be made of non-metallic composite materials to be free from magnetic anomaly detection (MAD).

This ROC represented the pinnacle of submarine manufacturing technology accumulated by all cartels. The ‘Cartel del Noreste’ likely didn’t possess such advanced technology, as maritime smuggling was not its primary focus. After a moment of silence, Ricardo, who had been quiet, responded with a troubled expression.

“The technicians were brought in from the Sinaloa region. I heard they also brought the blueprints. It cost quite a bit.”

Was that so? The ‘Sinaloa Cartel’ was undoubtedly the number one player in the industry with no room for doubt. The cost incurred would undoubtedly include many lives.

“Don’t feel too bad about it. It was something we had to do.”

“No. I understand. We were… behind in such matters.”

Ricardo’s straightforward acknowledgment was something that wouldn’t have come out if he sensed a dark atmosphere on my side. He would have yelled and cursed at me.

I prodded at his weaknesses once again.

“So, in the end, you didn’t have the ability to provide a finished product from the beginning. Acquiring the technology doesn’t immediately guarantee production capacity.”

Ricardo’s face turned a little redder with my casual jab. I provided some empathy before his embarrassment deepened.

“Besides, in times like this, it’s necessary to reduce our dependence on regional operations. Border controls are getting tighter, and land-based smuggling won’t be as easy as before. It was a wise investment.”

The self-proclaimed ex-military supply officer stared at me for a moment, then took a cigarette from his pocket without seeking permission. He struck a lighter without asking and once the flame caught, he inhaled deeply. The smoke, rising up to the ceiling, dispersed like spilled ink under the slowly rotating ceiling fan.

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