The noise of the rain forest was almost deafening in its intensity. I sat as still as a rock, sweat beading down my face adding to the messy camo face paint I had smeared across it and my arms. I watched the figures moving around the outside of the cocaine factory, which was tunneled underneath the rain forest floor.
I was waiting. Waiting for the peasants to be gone for the day. My private war didn't include them. They had little to say in being forced to do the labor they were. The drug operation I intended on busting up today wasn't going to change anything in the bigger picture. The flow of drugs out of Latin and South America would go on virtually unchecked. Whatever damage that I, as one man, could wreck would be minimal at best, but justice would be served on some today, who richly deserved it.
An Escalade pulled into the damp mud of the compound and a richly dressed cartel lord got out laughing about something. I stared at him in utter distaste of the hypocrisy of his existence. There were many like him and I hated them all.
He had seven children, a beautiful wife and a great big mansion on the hill an hour's drive from here. After he finished checking up on this facility he would head back to his palace of a home in time for supper. He'd get there early and be greeted by his wife, who was genuinely enamored with him, perhaps even in love with him.
She of course knew what he did and the kind of man that he was, but she didn't care about that. The children of America were far away and out of sight and thus out of mind. What was important to her was that her kids were safe and living in a utopia like setting.
In worshipful seduction she would greet her husband in a revealing dress and likely lead him away for a private exchange before dinner meant to secure her continued status, as number one in her husband's eyes. She knew he had a woman in every city he visited, but that didn't matter overly much, as long as she held onto the lucrative and secure position of being his wife.
Refreshed after a shower, the cartel lord would saunter out onto his immaculately maintained lawn, and throw a baseball with his son for a while, complement his daughter on the proficiency of her attention to her riding instructor's advice, as she practiced on top of a several million dollar horse in the south paddock.
Finally it would be time for dinner. His children would be dressed in their finest, as liveried servants brought out a feast prepared by private chefs. The cartel lord's wife would lean on her husband's arm listening to his every word, as the twin oversized globes of her chest, living testimony of a plastic surgeon's creation, threatened to spill out of her several thousand dollar dress, that had been flown in from Paris, especially for her.