Hector’s rattletrap Land Cruiser struggled to make it the hour and a half drive to the massive mansion hidden deep in the jungle. As it jolted through the ten-foot high gates and past a guardhouse fully stocked with weapons and intimidating men, Hector couldn’t help but suppress a feeling of anxiety. There was nothing to make him feel this way- he had always been given a warm welcome at the party (and a complementary gold-plated iPhone- Flores was incredibly rich). Even so, the sounds of distant chatter that reached his ears served only to upset him further. Hector was very much on edge, and he had been ever since trying out the fern-drug. Maybe it’s just the plant… I hope so. Nothing bad could happen, anyways. One would need surprise, fate, and a large force of heavily-armed warriors on their side before they could take down a man like Cruz K. Flores.

The opulent drug-lord himself was now visible as the truck rattled around the final bend. Hector couldn’t help but be amazed every time he saw Flores’ mansion, a sprawling complex populated with huge dining-rooms, indoor pools, a vault/treasure room the size of a house in itself, and, of course, an armory displaying diamond-encrusted AKs and gleaming golden revolvers.

As Hector exited the vehicle, he glanced up at the large, round, greasy man approaching him. Flores wouldn’t make the height requirement on some amusement park rides, but he could probably intimidate his way past anyone who tried to interfere. When Hector had seen him, he had always been in a jovial mood, but no one wanted to get on his bad side. Flores’ face was round, dark, and, at the moment, smiling broadly.

“Ah, Hector Domini! Good to see you, good to see you! Please, please, come right in! I am so glad you could come!”

“Um, thank you, Senor Flores, it’s very kind of you. I am sure I will have a wonderful time.” Hector trembled inwardly as he moved on into the throng. He had nothing against Flores personally, but the presence of such a powerful and dangerous man made him nervous. As he stumbled through the crowd, Hector came upon many half-acquaintances that he saw about once a year. Flores’ annual party consisted of men from most large and wealthy countries- arms dealers from Dubai, British smugglers, American drug dealers, and many, many more. At least 150 people filled the mansion with loud conversation. Six seedy-looking men played poker around a circular table. A pair of dapper Brazilians discussed the accidental death of a feared INTERPOL commander. Hector recognized one of them as the famed “Quiet Juan” Giablo, a mercenary known in criminal circles for carrying out “clean” assassinations that never offered enough evidence to convict the guilty party.

After a lavish four-course dinner that probably involved killing at least one endangered species, Hector met Dante in a corner. After some brief preliminaries, Hector confided in his friend.

“I don’t know why, Dante, but I have a strong feeling something bad is about to happen.”

“Really? Amigo, are you sure you should have, uh… used that fern? It seems to have messed with you. What could happen, the police arriving?” Dante laughed. “That’s nonsense. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I guess.” Hector glanced around the huge banquet-room. A man in the corner caught his eye. He was tall and spindly, dressed in an exquisite black suit. His hair was slicked back and a small mustache decorated his face. Hector would have ignored him if not for the long white scar running across his forehead and nose. Who is that? Hector knew almost everyone at the party by sight, but as he studied the man, he realized he had never seen him. The man consulted his watch, glanced around secretively, looked out the window, and nodded at somebody that Hector couldn’t see. What is going on?

Then, chaos broke loose.