Friday came at six.
I was downstairs before the sun. The black SUV was parked in the loading bay, washed, fuel in the tank, keys on the dashboard. Ramirez had prepared it the way Ramirez prepared everything: exactly right, no deviation, no detail overlooked. The man was a machine, and machines were useful because machines didn't think, and not thinking meant not questioning, and not questioning meant the pyramid held.
Mateo Cruz arrived at five fifty-eight. Two minutes early. Not five minutes, which would suggest eagerness, and not on the dot, which would suggest indifference. Two minutes early said: I respect you, I'm not desperate, I'm here.
He stood by the SUV. He didn't lean on it. He didn't check his phone. He stood the way men stand when they've been trained to wait. Construction workers leaned. Construction workers checked phones. Construction workers smoked and shifted their weight. Mateo Cruz stood still, weight centered, hands at his sides, eyes on the door.
