Chapter 7

It was only a matter of time.

The world had been watching the storm grow in Medellín — and now, the eye had turned inward.

Pablo Escobar was preparing for war.

The hit on the DEA task force hadn't gone unnoticed. It became a spark. Within days, American political pressure forced the Colombian government into action. Military units flooded the hills. Helicopters buzzed over neighborhoods. Checkpoints littered the highways. Foreign agents, mercenaries, and covert teams all moved like shadows in the smoke.

The city was ready to erupt.

And Pablo needed guns.

Real ones.

Not secondhand Soviet crates or dusty Kalashnikovs. He needed quality. Custom work. American-grade firepower. He needed what Vekom had.

Alonso arrived unannounced.

No guards again. This time, even the driver stayed in the car.

His face was paler than usual. Tired. As if the weight of Colombia itself had decided to settle on his shoulders.

"He wants to see you," Alonso said.

"Escobar?" Vekom asked.

"Yes. Personally."

"And if I refuse?"

Alonso looked him in the eyes.

"Then you're not walking out of this city."

Vekom smirked. "So that's how it is?"

"You made too much noise. Killed agents. Tore apart every balance we had. The other cartels are spooked. Europe's breathing down everyone's neck. The whole damn jungle is twitching, and you're sitting on a mountain of guns like it's just a business."

"It is just business."

"Not anymore."

They met at a secluded finca outside Envigado.

The house was massive, old-world style with red tiles, white columns, and guards at every tree line. Not cartel thugs — these were professionals. Combat-ready. Nervous.

Pablo Escobar was waiting under a veranda, shirt open, cigar burning between his fingers. He looked at Vekom the way a lion watches another predator: with respect, and the promise of death.

"You're the ghost," he said.

"I am," Vekom replied.

"I don't like ghosts."

"Neither do I."

A silence fell between them. A silent weighing.

Then Pablo motioned to the seat beside him.

"They tell me you can get anything."

"I can."

"RPGs?"

"Yes."

"Stingers?"

"Yes."

"Mortars?"

"If you can pay."

Pablo grinned. "I can pay in dollars, coke, gold, or bodies."

Vekom didn't smile. "I prefer dollars."

Pablo looked at Alonso. "I like this one. He's cold."

"Too cold," Alonso muttered.

Pablo turned back to Vekom. "We're going to war, Fantasma. Real war. The gringos will land on this country like ants. I need guns. Enough to arm a thousand men. You give me that — I give you a kingdom."

Vekom leaned back in his chair.

"I don't want a kingdom," he said. "I want control."

"Then you need me."

"No. You need me."

That landed hard.

Pablo's smile disappeared.

Alonso visibly tensed.

But instead of violence, Pablo laughed. Deep, loud, unbothered.

"You're either suicidal or the smartest bastard I've ever met."

"Maybe both."

Pablo stood.

"Then let's start with five trucks. M16s, M60s, grenade launchers. If the Americans come, I want them to bleed."

"You'll have it in seven days."

"Three."

Vekom didn't flinch. "Done."

They shook hands.

A pact sealed in blood and ambition.

"System Notification: Escobar Pact Engaged.""Bulk Order Contract Initiated – Tier 3 Pressure Bonus Applied.""+325,000 USD / +12,000 System Credits.""New Perk Unlocked: Prototype Weapon Schematics.""Unlocking: XM214 Microgun / Experimental Urban Mines / Suppressed Grenade Delivery Modules."

The numbers flashed across his vision as he left the estate.

This wasn't arms dealing anymore.

This was a shadow arms race.

He used the credits to build a fabrication wing in his underground facility — a hidden weapons lab run entirely by clones and system auto-tools. There, prototypes were born: magnetic mine clusters, anti-vehicle drones, even a shoulder-mounted flechette cannon disguised as a radio pack.

The city was preparing for hell.

And Vekom was its armorer.

Camila returned from Cali with intel: the European arms dealers had formally contracted a mercenary kill team, codename Valkyrie Unit. Trained in Serbia. Armed by Belgian suppliers. Tracking through jungle routes under forged cartel flags.

They were coming for him.

But Vekom wasn't waiting.

He assigned Sarah and Dean to map the jungle paths.

Kyle and Marcus planted directional charges.

And in the dead of night, he personally flew in with Nico and a railgun prototype packed into a disguised crop duster.

The trap was elegant.

The Valkyrie Unit never made it out.

As the flames of their last campfire still smoldered, Vekom stood on the ridgeline, staring down at the glowing ruins.

He pulled his radio.

"Alonso," he said.

"What now?" came the reply.

Tell Escobar his guns will be early.