No Way Back

I stare at Miguel, a man who just moments ago looked ready to tear the room apart, now deflated in his chair. The confession hangs between us, thick and heavy. The shattered remnants of his coffee cup still drip down the wall.

"Tell me everything," I say quietly.

Miguel's eyes fix on the floor. "Got caught red-handed a year ago. Stupid mistake with some stolen goods. They were gonna put me away for years." His voice drops even lower. "Then this detective, O'Malley, offers me a deal."

"What kind of deal?" I'm already thinking this can't be good. Cops making deals never ends well.

"Join the Cuban mafia. Help gather evidence to put away the boss. In exchange, clean slate." He laughs bitterly. "Sounded simple. Too simple."

I lean back, processing this. "So you became an informant."

"I was naive, man. Thought O'Malley worked for the law." Miguel finally looks up, his eyes haunted. "Turns out he's completely in the Colombians' pocket. Using me to gain an advantage in gang rivalry."

The pieces start clicking together. The Colombians who tried to grab Maria. Miguel's desperate need for help. The whole damn situation.

"So your position is..."

"Completely fucked, like I said." He finishes my sentence. "Survived at first only because I was low-level, feeding O'Malley unimportant stuff. But now..." He shakes his head. "Now he wants more. Substantial information. Names. Operations. Things that'll get me killed if anyone suspects."

I tap my fingers on the table, the rhythm matching the clock on the wall. My mind races through possibilities, weighing risks and rewards.

"O'Malley forced me to ask for a promotion in the organization," Miguel continues. "They gave it without problems. But now the assignments..." He swallows hard. "They'll become much more dangerous. Test my loyalty and skills."

"And if you don't deliver to O'Malley?"

"He'll throw me to the wolves. Or worse, tell the Cubans I'm a rat."

The tapping of my fingers grows louder in the silence. Miguel watches my hand like it's a ticking bomb.

"I'm no fool, Carlos. Surviving between cops and gangs?" He makes a slicing motion across his throat. "It's unrealistic. Time to act creatively. Recklessly, even. Though I don't know exactly how yet."

I stop tapping. "And where do I fit in?"

Miguel leans forward, desperation clear in his eyes. "I need someone I can trust and know my situation." He gestures to my healing knife wound. "You ready to extend a hand to a desperate man? Earn some good money and legal documents?"

The silence stretches between us. My fingers resume their tapping on the table, the only sound in the room. I think about my future, or rather, past that hasn't happened yet. The coming cocaine wars. The violence that will tear Miami apart. The opportunity sitting right in front of me.

I've always known timing is everything.

Finally, I smile. "I'm in."

The relief on Miguel's face is instant. He jumps up, pulling me into a tight hug that catches me off guard. "Thank you, hermano. Thank you."

He releases me and immediately starts picking up the ceramic shards scattered across the floor. His movements are lighter now, as if sharing his burden has physically lifted weight from his shoulders.

"They gave me two more guys under my command," he says, tossing fragments into the trash. "We need to go see my boss, Vargas." He glances at me over his shoulder. "Probably give us an assignment as a test. Did you bring your gun? It's better to go today so that you can go on a date tomorrow without fuss."

I nod, watching him clean. "I'm ready for some action."

My mind is already racing ahead, calculating angles, opportunities. This could be my ticket to establishing myself in Miami. Or it could get me killed. Either way, I'm about to intervene between the Cuban mafia, corrupt cops, and Colombian drug lords.

But unlike Miguel, I have an ace up my sleeve. Or rather, hundred of them, folded neatly in my pocket.

Miguel's Fort Fairlane rattles and groans as we pull away from his house. The faded green paint seems to absorb the Miami heat, turning the interior into an oven. I roll down the window, letting the warm air rush over my face.

"So tell me about this Vargas," I say, watching the neighborhoods change as we drive.

Miguel keeps his eyes on the road, hands tight on the wheel. "Eduardo Vargas. Lieutenant in gang. Paranoid as hell." He taps his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. "Man's got a scar on his left cheek. Don't stare at it. He hates that."

"Noted. What else?"

"He might test you. Ask questions that seem unrelated and easy, and then shock with a direct, crude guess. He's always looking for anything strange." Miguel glances at me. "Keep your answers short. Respectful. No jokes, no smart comments. And for God's sake, don't volunteer information."

I nod, mentally preparing myself. "How'd he get the scar?"

"Nobody knows for sure. Some say knife fight, others say his father did it." Miguel lowers his voice. "Whatever you do, don't mention Castro. Vargas lost family to him. It's a trigger."

We pull into a car wash. Nothing special, just a concrete building with faded blue paint and a old neon sign. A couple of guys in matching shirts half-heartedly spray down a Cadilac in the bay.

"This is it?" I ask.

"Front business. Real action's upstairs."

We park around back and Miguel leads me up an external metal staircase. Each step creaks under our weight. At the top, a thick door with three separate locks blocks our path. Miguel knocks: three short, two long.

The door swings open to reveal a dimly lit office. The air inside is thick with cigar smoke. A lean man sits behind a wooden desk, yellow-stained fingers holding a thin cigar. His sunken cheeks make his eyes seem to bulge slightly, and the scar on his left cheek pulls his mouth into a permanent half-sneer.

Eduardo Vargas.

His piercing gaze moves from Miguel to me, lingering. I can feel him cataloging every detail, like my posture, clothes, the healing cut on my hand.

"Miguel," he says, voice raspy from years of smoking. "This is your new man?"

"Yes, sir. José Ramírez."

Vargas's eyes narrow, suspicion evident in every line of his face. "Interesting timing, bringing a stranger to us now." He leans forward. "I don't like it."