WOODCREEK

CHAPTER FOUR

Guadalajara, Mexico

The air was thick with the scent of marigolds—vivid orange blossoms scattered like sacred confetti across cobblestone streets. It was Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, but the city of Guadalajara pulsed with life. Candles flickered on every corner, illuminating the faces of dancers, drummers, and mourners-turned-revelers. Acoustic guitars wept and laughed through alleys, while families carried portraits of the departed, placing them gently atop gravestones dressed in offerings—pan de muerto, tamales, bottles of mezcal.

This day wasn’t about grief. It was about memory. Celebration. A portal between worlds.

They believed the dead returned—ancestors roaming among them in spirit—and so they sang, danced, and feasted, as if welcoming old friends home for one last night. Cemeteries transformed into places of laughter, of stories whispered to the soil. Photos, candles, and favorite meals were left at tombs like sacred invitations for the departed to dine among the living.

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From the edge of the city, far from the festivities, Michael Woodcreek stepped out of a dust-covered taxi. He adjusted the brim of his tan cowboy hat, shielding his sharp eyes from the punishing sun. He’d come to meet Pedro Gonzalez, a local fixer and loyal dog of one of Mexico’s most feared drug lords—El Jefe.

Pedro waited in a rusted four-by-four truck, engine idling like a growl. Without a word, they rolled off the tarmac and into the wilderness, kicking up clouds of dust as the city gave way to the breathless green of the forest.

The drive was long, silent, and sweltering. The deeper they went, the hotter it became. Michael felt like they were descending into some infernal pit—like they were trespassing into Hell itself. Trees towered around them like watchmen. Every mile stripped away civilization. Every mile whispered: No one leaves here clean.

Finally, after hours of travel, the truck rumbled to a halt in the heart of the jungle.

Smoke lingered in the air—thick, bitter, chemical. Ahead, masked men moved like shadows. Some wore gas masks and military gear, others civilian clothes, all armed to the teeth. They stirred concoctions in massive jerricans, guarded by rifles and machetes. The jungle had been turned into a laboratory, and the canopy above stretched like a shroud over their sins.

Just beyond the smoke, nestled under the arms of the trees, sat a weather-beaten shanty. Outside, on a reclined leather chair that looked absurdly regal in the setting, sat El Jefe—a legend draped in denim, gold chains, and casual menace.

As Michael approached, the drug lord rose and embraced him like an old friend.

“Señor Michael,” El Jefe grinned, his teeth sharp and perfect. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He’d been on the FBI and DEA’s most wanted list for over a decade, and still no one could touch him. Once, when asked how he stayed hidden so long, he laughed and said:
“Even dogs have secrets.”

The sun flared high and unforgiving. Michael winced, cursing under his breath. Damn. Forgot sunscreen.

“You’ve been quite the nuisance, amigo. Comprende?” said Michael, voice flat.

El Jefe chuckled and made a lazy calming gesture with his hand. “Relax, my friend.”

He stepped inside, emerging moments later with a fine bottle of cognac. He poured two glasses, his movements slow and theatrical.

“First,” he said, lifting his drink, “we celebrate.”

Michael took the glass, though his eyes remained hard. “Cheers,” he said without a smile.

“Salud,” said El Jefe, clinking glasses.

They sipped together—synchronized, like two dancers in a dance neither of them trusted.

But the mask slipped quickly.

Michael’s voice dropped, sharp and low: “What kind of shit did you pull at my house?”

El Jefe raised a brow.

“You do not send mules. Or any FUCKING BODY. To my house,” Michael roared, his voice slicing through the humid air. Around them, the masked men froze mid-task. Eyes turned.

El Jefe didn’t flinch. He only smiled wider, amused.

“Tranquilo, Papa,” he said. “Just remember where you are.”

A pause. The air grew still.

“It’s understood,” he added smoothly. “We’re friends, no?”

Michael knew what that smile meant. This man was a narcissist, a serpent wearing a saint’s grin.

They emptied their glasses and walked together toward the compound behind the trees—where the real conversations, the dangerous ones, would begin.

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