The Call

Prince’s phone buzzed at 3 AM.

“Lima?” he answered.

“The miners are dead. All of them.”

He sat up, already reaching for his boots. Through the hotel window, Washington slept.

“How many?”

“Seventeen. Cartel left a message.”

Prince walked to the window. A black SUV idled below—his, or theirs, he couldn’t tell anymore.

“Wire the advance. I’ll be there by noon.”

He hung up. Dressed. Checked his Glock.

The elevator descended in silence. In the lobby, two men in suits pretended to read newspapers. Prince nodded. They nodded back.

Outside, the SUV’s engine hummed.

“Airport,” he told the driver he’d never met.

His phone buzzed again. Different country. Same problem.

He let it ring.

The city lights blurred past. Somewhere over the Atlantic, another small war was waiting for him to arrive and make it smaller.

Or bigger, depending on who was paying.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​