Vasquez soon acquired a rivals’ drug lab, confirming the deal by slitting the man’s throat in front of the scientists and letting him bleed out, his fingers clutching desperately for life.

Vasquez had claimed it.

Just as he claimed everything.

But with fame came notoriety, and soon the police were sniffing around. Not to stop him, but to get their cut, and while their demands were outrageous, Vasquez soon forced them to lower their cut. Having their families dragged from their beds in the middle of the night and beaten will bend any dirty police officer to your will, and Vasquez realised then he was untouchable.

The favelas of Mexico City belonged to him.

When Raul introduced him to Edinson, a man who had recently been released from prison for manslaughter and several other charges, Vasquez kept him by his side as his own personal bodyguard. With Raul running the operation like clockwork, Vasquez decided to branch further north, infiltrating the United States and pumping the state of Texas with his own brand of poison.

Those who opposed him were introduced to Edinson.

Those who survived knelt before him.

The DEA were snooping around, but those agents were either bought or wiped off the face of the planet.

At one point, Vasquez had estimated he’d sanctioned the deaths of nearly hundred people.

By pushing his drugs further into the underbelly of Mexico, and now into the wealthier states of America, he’d been responsible for hundreds.

But it didn’t matter to him.

People were insignificant. Addicts were like weeds. If one died, more would grow in their place, and as the economy tumbled, and the next generation pushed back against authority, his product became more appealing.

Louisiana, Oklahoma, and Florida all fell before him.

The empire grew, but branching into another country required patience and, more importantly, collaboration. With every drug lord he encountered, Vasquez gave them the choice to fall in line or face Edinson. Many offered empty threats, but after five minutes of Edinson’s handiwork, they caved.

A few were defiant to the end, and Vasquez watched, unmoved, as Edinson stomped their skulls into nothing but a red paste.

It was when he began to filter into South Carolina that things became interesting. Despite the numerous palms he’d greased, the DEA and other agencies were swarming. South Carolina was a hotbed for drugs, manufactured and distributed by the reviled Death Riders. Vasquez had encountered a biker gang in Oklahoma but found the entire notion pathetic.

He could spot ‘fake tough’ in an instant, and considering his own history, he smirked at the notion of intimidation.

But the Riders were different.

They were not a gang of middle-aged men, addicted to the idea that they needed to cling to their youth in some ridiculous notion of machismo.

The Riders were a drug empire.

Not as large or as vast as his own, but they were strong. As a unit and from the throne.