Jack Carlton Reed Pablo Escobar -

Carlton stepped in, rain dripping from his leather jacket. Twenty-nine years old. Blue eyes like his mother. And something else behind them—a stillness Jack had only ever seen in two kinds of people: special forces, and men who had already decided they were beyond redemption.

“That’s not an answer.”

“I didn't wake it,” Carlton said softly. “I bought it. Three billion dollars in dormant claims. Every route, every safe house, every politician who still remembers how to look the other way. It’s not a cartel anymore, Dad. It’s a logistics company.” jack carlton reed pablo escobar

Carlton turned. For a moment, he looked younger—almost the same boy who’d asked Jack why he was never home for Christmas. “Escobar didn't just leave money. He left a machine . A network of couriers, judges, pilots, cops. After he died, that machine didn't vanish. It just went to sleep. Waiting for someone who knew how to wake it up.” Carlton stepped in, rain dripping from his leather jacket