Ronnie is waiting by the car parked at the far side of the road. Engine running. Black rental SUV. The teenage guards don't follow me out this time like they did the last two times. Smart.
They learned.
Santos is standing on his porch with a drink in his hand, watching me walk away. He thinks he's won. He thinks because I walked out of his cantina without shouting, without shooting, that I'm weak. That the American college boy doesn't have the stomach for it.
He's still shouting something at my back. Something about respect, about how this is Nayarit, about how his grandfather planted these fields.
I don't turn around. I just keep walking.
Ronnie sees my face before I even get to the car. He already knows.
"Tell them to burn it. EVERYTHING." I flatly order.
Ronnie nods. No question. No hesitation. He grabs his walkie-talkie, and gives the order to the guys we have stationed at the back — at the club, at the warehouses, at the main barn and the farm itself.
