Dante

I stepped into the dim conference room in that dusty hotel in Mexico City. The air smelled like old cigars and stale coffee. My meeting was supposed to be with a low-level mafia boss named Ramirez. We had business to settle about shipments crossing the border without extra fees. I had flown in that morning on a red-eye flight and felt tired, but I was ready to wrap things up quickly.

The door clicked shut behind me. Two guards stood there with their arms crossed, looking mean. I ...