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Zone 12
Guatemala City, Guatemala

To industrial magnets and businessmen, Zone 12 was known to be a hub of production and logistics, but to the people who lived and worked there, it was a place of low wages, frequent exploitation, and high crime.
For David Cole, his once thriving textile empire had begun to feel like a noose around his neck, as exploited and intimidated by corrupt government officials and a ruthless cartel as the people he employed. He only had himself to blame. Cole had been greedy and moved too quickly, cutting under-the-table deals with FuEzras Armadas Rebeldes, or FAR Cartel for protection, secure transport routes, and minimal labor disruptions as his company Pacífico Apparel Group (PAG) quickly expanded.
The FAR had sunk their claws deeper at every turn. Cole had tried to speak with local police and government officials about getting the cartel off his back, but they all had their hands out, expecting payment before they did any work, and most were either affiliated with FAR or terrified of them.
He’d once believed capitalism could change any culture. Guatemala taught him otherwise. The Northern Triangle—El Salvador, Guatamala, and Honduras—the region that PAG operated in—was too full of corruption and instability.
Stepping from his armored GMC Yukon, Cole walked across the street with two armed bodyguards trailing behind him. He stepped into the tiny café and passed through the seating area and the kitchen. He knocked twice on a storage room door. It cracked open just enough for Cole to see a sliver of brown face and black eye.
The man stepped away from the door and opened it for Cole to step inside. Cole motioned for his bodyguards to stay in the hallway as he entered the room crowded with boxes, dish towels, food trays, bags of whole coffee beans, and other items needed to run the café’s day-to-day operations. At a small desk shoved into the corner sat Maria Montenegro, Guatemala’s Minister of Labor and Social Welfare.
“You may go, Alehandro,” Montenegro said to her bodyguard.
Alehandro stepped out, leaving the two men alone.
Cole glanced around the room, trying to spot any video recorders or listening devices, but nowadays, they are so small that most would go unnoticed without a detection device. He hadn’t brought one with him and knew it was a mistake on his part. He had dealt with Montenegro for several years. She’d taken bribes and payments to facilitate labor disputes and acted as a go-between for Cole and the cartel. He’d always suspected that FAR had rigged the election to put her into the labor office after serving in several other high-ranking capacities.
“Why all the secrecy, David?” the labor minister asked.
“I need to get out from under the FAR,” Cole replied. “They’ve taken it too far by putting drugs in with my shipments. If U.S. Customs finds those drugs, they’ll shut me down. We have to stop the contraband.”
Montenegro stood. She was only one hundred fifty-seven centimeters tall with her head coming chest high on Cole’s lanky frame. Part of her popularity stemmed from her Mayan heritage and the resurgence of indigenous peoples taking active roles in the government after centuries of being maligned and discriminated against.
“Are you threatening the cartel, David?” she asked casually.
“No,” he said quickly. “I’m trying to protect us. Like I said, if we’re caught smuggling, the U.S. government will shut us down.”
“It sounds like you’re backing out of the deal,” Montenegro replied.
“I’m only asking them to cut back. We can’t afford to become targets of investigation.”
“What is the outcome you would like to have from this conversation?”
“That FAR backs off my business. We go back to our original deal of protection, and they stop demanding more money, extorting my workers, and sending contraband with my shipments to the U.S.”
“You’re asking a lot of your business partner,” Montenegro said.
“They’re not my partners!” Cole exclaimed. “They didn’t help me start PAG. They only use PAG to further their own goals. We are no longer in alignment for what is best for my company.”
“I can promise you one thing, David. If you keep pushing for the cartel to back off, it will not end well for you,” Montenegro said.
Cole felt heat rising on the back of his neck. The tiny storeroom felt claustrophobic. He wanted out of the storeroom, out of the cartel—hell, he’d even get out of business if that’s what it took. Cole had plenty of money stashed in various offshore bank accounts and could live like a king without ever working another day in his life.
“You tell them to back off,” Cole warned.
“Or what, David?” Montenegro asked calmly.
“I’ll blow the whole damn thing wide open!” David Cole threatened.
Cole stormed out of the café storage room, the air outside thick and suffocating. He didn’t look back. He’d said what needed to be said.
His bodyguards scrambled to keep up as Cole cut across the street and climbed into the armored Yukon.
Let them come, he thought. I’m a U.S. citizen. They wouldn’t dare bite the hand that feeds them.
Cole slammed the door shut and stared through the windshield.
He told himself what he needed to hear, believing he was untouchable because of his status.
Because deep down, Cole knew the truth. The FAR didn’t care about borders, passports, or the illusion of protection.
And if they did come for him, no embassy letterhead or offshore account was going to save his life.

2
As David Cole’s driver negotiated heavy traffic through Zone 12 toward Pacífico Apparel Group headquarters, Cole couldn’t help but think about his past.
Cole’s first venture to Central America had been in the early 1990s on a break from Harvard Business School. During a backpacking trip, he’d fallen in love with the beaches, the mountains, and the generous people, and he saw opportunity.
Upon completing his trip, Cole had returned to university and developed business prospectuses for future corporations operating in Central America, but it wasn’t until he began a career in private equity, following in his wealthy father’s footsteps, that Cole had been able to put his ideas into practice.
During his year in pirate equity, he invested in low-cost manufacturing ventures, expanding them into larger companies. Then, Cole saw a shift in trade policy when Canada, Mexico, and United States signed the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) into law. NAFTA had a rising-tide-lifts-all-boats effect through Central America, with economic growth, job creation, and investment opportunities.
Cole gathered as much capital as he could get his hands on and jumped into Guatemala with both feet. He began importing cotton and synthetic fibers from Asia and assembling garments in Guatemala City. Soon, he was one of the top-producing manufactures of T-shirts, blue jeans, and military and industrial uniforms.
While he had a thriving business, the winds of fortune billowed his sails when countries around the region signed the Caribbean Basin Initiative and the Central America-Dominican Republic Free Trade Agreement, allowing duty-free exports to the U.S. Suddenly, PAG was even more competitive than it had been, and orders poured in.
But those economic fortunes had also come with a price. FAR demanded more bribe money for his increased shipments. And with Pacífico Apparel Group headquartered in Houston, Texas, PAG could unload shipments in the Port of Houston’s Foreign Free Trade Zone and not be subject to rigorous inspections, allowing FAR to tuck their own contraband exports into PAG’s shipments.
Cole knew fighting back against FAR would make him a target. That was why he had increased the presence of his bodyguards and hired more private security to monitor his homes in Houston and Guatemala City. Cole had even insisted that a security guard accompany his daughter, Catalina.
She had worked for PAG since she’d graduated from college and had recently taken the role as PAG’s new vice president of operations. Cole had been reluctant to promote her for fear that she would soon learn of the tangled web of corruption and deception that he’d become involved in.
And he’d been right. Catalina had come to him, seeking reasons for multiple payments to government officials and to the FAR. It shamed Cole that his daughter now knew how tainted his legacy really was. So, he’d vowed to end his association with the cartel before she found out just how deep his corruption ran.
Arriving at his office, Cole sat at his desk and opened his computer. He found the phone number for a reporter he’d met several years ago when she was working on a story about FAR and their elusive leader, El Fantasma—The Ghost.
Cole dialed the number and waited anxiously for Bridgette Quintero to answer.
At the time of their first meeting, Quintero had pressed Cole for answers about his dealings with the cartel. Cole had denied any association with FuEzras Armadas Rebeldes. Now, Cole was going to tell her the entire story.
“This is Bridgette,” the reporter said.
“Hi Bridgette, my name is David Cole. We spoke a few years ago about …” he hesitated to speak the cartel’s name over the phone for fear that they had tapped his line.
“I remember,” Quintero replied. “How can I help you?”
“I’d like to meet. Can you come to my office?” He immediately chastised himself. If he thought his phone was bugged, his office probably was too.
“I’ll be there in an hour, David. If this is what I think it’s about, then you had better stay put. I’ve heard rumors that an assassination team in the city with your name on their bullets.”
“What?” Cole demanded.
He hadn’t expected El Fantasma to react so quickly to his meeting with Maria Montenegro.
“Just stay put, David. I’m on my way,” Quintero said.
Cole heard the dial tone beep in his ear and set the landline receiver back in its cradle. He realized just how far out of his league he was in dealing with the cartel. In less than a half hour, David Cole had become a liability, and FAR wanted to eliminate him.
Staring at the clock would drive Cole insane. He watched the black secondhand sweep around on the white industrial clock above his office door. If he listened hard enough, he could even hear the click each time the hand moved.
Cole forced himself to look away from the clock and gaze out the plate-glass window at the factory floor below. Most of his workers were young indigenous women from rural areas, lured to the city with the promise of better wages and the ability to support their relatives. In reality, Cole paid most of them pennies on the dollar. When one of the women disappeared, he suspected the cartel had snatched her off the street to traffic her. Cole’s business was an integral part of the cartel’s operation and goods flowed in both directions. Drugs and humans north, illegal weapons and laundered cash back to the Northern Triangle.
Pondering his options, Cole saw he had only two: continue with the status quo or close his business. Walking away sounded like an excellent plan. A major asset management firm in the States had made several offers to buy PAG, but Cole had rejected their low offers. Now, they seemed tempting. He wondered if the cartel would allow him to sell.
Cole stiffened his spine and resolved to not only sell his company but to spill his gut to Quintero about his involvement in the cartel.
As if the universe had heard his intentions, a siren began to wail on the factory floor.
Cole’s bodyguard, Ezra, opened the office door. “Fire alarm, sir. We need to go.”
Glancing at the clock, Cole saw it was nearly time for Quintero to arrive. She had advised him to stay in the building.
“Is there really a fire?” Cole asked.
“I believe so, sir.”
“Check it out. Come get me if there is a fire. If not, leave me alone. I’m expecting a visitor.”
“Yes, sir,” Ezra replied.
Cole closed the door and waited anxiously staring down at the machines and people who manufactured his products. The workers had heeded the alarm and hastily walked toward the nearest exit.
The alarm continued to blare.
Cole’s pulse had quickened, and he could barely catch his breath. He wondered if this was a diversion to drive him into the open. If there were assassins gunning for him, they could be lying in wait right outside the door.
Ezra ran up the stairs to Cole’s office, his suit coat flapping and his tie askew.
“There’s a fire in the cotton storeroom,” Ezra reported. “Emergency workers are on the way, and we have employees battling the blaze. We need to get you out of here, sir, in case the fire spreads.”
“How did it start?” Cole asked.
“We’re not sure, sir. We’ll check it out, but right now, we need to get you downstairs. Jimmy has the SUV waiting out front.”
“Fine. Okay. Give me a sec,” Cole said. He grabbed his laptop off the desk and stuffed it into a briefcase. Kneeling before his safe, Cole spun the combination lock and began pulling the contents into the briefcase including bundles of currency and important contracts.
“There’s smoke on the manufacturing floor, sir. We need to go now!” the bodyguard urged.
Cole reached into the safe and scooped the contents into the briefcase. He shoved the door closed but didn’t bother to lock it.
He followed his bodyguard down the stairs and through the array of sewing machines, clothing presses, and other machinery. At the front door, Ezra clicked his radio and spoke to Jimmy. “We’re at the door.” Ezra opened the door and scanned the sidewalk and street for threats as Cole stood inside the building.
“We’re clear,” Ezra said to Cole, then into his radio, he said, “Moving to the vehicle now.”
Cole stepped out onto the sidewalk with Ezra on his right side, guiding him toward the open passenger door of the silver Yukon. Jimmy sat behind the wheel with the engine running.
“Let’s go!” Jimmy shouted.
Cole turned to glance back at the factory. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several masked men charging down the street with automatic rifles in their hands.
“Ezra!” Cole shouted, rushing for the SUV.
Two of the masked men paused and opened fire on Cole and his bodyguards. Before Ezra could pull his weapon, a hail of bullets cut him down. Cole tripped, his briefcase skittering from his hand and sliding under a car parked behind the SUV.
Two men tackled Cole. As the men shouldered him to the pavement, Cole heard the explosive pops of gunfire and tasted blood on his lips. Struggling under the weight of the men on top of him, Cole twisted enough to see Ezra lying beside him, his face shattered by multiple rounds. Cole tried to scream, but it came out as a whimper.
He glanced toward the SUV, hoping Jimmy would come to his aid. Cole caught a glimpse of the driver’s seat empty through the SUV’s open door. He had no idea if Jimmy had fled or fallen.
A black hood went over his head and the bagman viciously cinched it tight around Cole’s neck. Cole choked and fought for air as his windpipe closed. The men roughly jerked Cole to his feet and shoved him into a vehicle.
Cole tried to sit up, but the men shoved him down to the floorboards. He tried to rise again, but the men kept him pinned to the floor with their feet.
“What do you want!” he shouted.
His kidnappers’ response came in via a kick to the back of the head.
Cole tried to cover his head. The kidnappers ripped his arms back and cuffed his hands behind his back.
Helpless, Cole knew this was a result of his conversation with Montenegro.
FAR had come for him.

Publisher: Third Reef Publishing, LLC
Publication Date: July 11, 2025
ISBN: 979-8-9920981-5-0
Print Length: 352
File Size: 1MB
Language: English
Series Information: The John Phoenix Thrillers
Book: 6
Bisac: FIC002000 FICTION / Action & Adventure
FIC022090 FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Private Investigators
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FIC031050 FICTION / Thrillers / Military
Fiction > Action & Adventure > War & Military
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