Jack Carlton Reed Pablo Escobar -

Silence stretched between them, thick as cordite.

Reed had chased that smile for three years. Lost a partner. Lost a marriage. Almost lost his sanity in the Colombian jungle chasing radio signals and half-dead informants. And then, rooftop, December 2, 1993—he hadn't pulled the trigger, but he'd been close enough to hear Escobar’s last breath rattle through the tile roof. jack carlton reed pablo escobar

“Found it? It flagged every NSA algorithm from here to Fort Meade. I didn’t find it. It found me.” Jack stood slowly, joints cracking. “Sit down, son. Tell me why you’re laundering Escobar’s cocaine money thirty years after the man died.” Silence stretched between them, thick as cordite

“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.” Lost a marriage

Carlton nodded. At the door, he paused. “The money from those wallets? It’s not for me. It’s a pension fund. Every driver, every look-out, every old sicario who kept their mouth shut for thirty years—they get paid. That’s what empire means, Dad. You take care of your own.”

Carlton Reed was not.