THE MASTER'S GAME PLAN

DISCLAIMER ALL CHARACTERS, INSTITUTIONS, AND COMPANIES PORTRAYED IN THIS STORY ARE ENTIRELY FICTIONAL. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DECEASED OR TO REAL INSTITUTIONS OR COMPANIES, PAST OR PRESENT, IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL AND UNINTENTIONAL. READERS DISCRETION IS ADVISED! MONDRAGON WAREHOUSE 7:00 PM... Light poured down from the roof, slicing through the darkness. Five trucks were parked in a row. Men moved quietly, counting boxes. Voices low. Mondragon extended his hand first, white suit catching the light, a ring on his finger glinting as he gripped Tang's hand. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Tang." Tang's tuxedo was pressed sharp despite the flight and held the grip a beat too long, reading him. "Of course. It's you, Mondragon." Mondragon turned to his right-hand man. "Marco. Secure the area." Ten men in tux peeled off without a word. Tang's smile stayed. His eyes didn't. "Final check before payment?" "Just caution, Mr. Tang." "It's okay." His fingers smoothed his coat — once, twice. A tell. Mondragon scanned his men. A gap where a face should be. "Where's Dave?" "He left, boss." "The attaché case?" Silence. Heads turning. Empty hands. Something cold moved through Mondragon's chest. He swept the yard. Nothing. "Simon." "Heading to the back, boss," someone offered. "Find Villamayor!" "Yes, boss!" Footsteps, already gone. Mondragon's eyes lock on the dark. Nothing moved. Not even shadow. Behind the warehouse. Near silence. Breath... Two men traded blows, no referee, no mercy! A kick caught on a forearm. A fist found the jaw. One man hit concrete and didn't get up! Minutes crawled... Marco reappeared. "Clean, boss." The words landed wrong. Clean meant ready. Ready meant the money should be on the table! It wasn't. "Where is the money ?" Tang's warmth was gone. Behind him, hands drifted toward holsters. "Wait a little, Mr. Tang." "Waiting for what?" Mondragon lost his patience. "WHERE IS VILLAMAYOR?" A shout. Steel. Concrete. An echo! Every man freezes. Bracing. The money's gone! One heartbeat from falling. Guns eased upward. Fingers found triggers! Forty men on his side. Fifteen for the Chinese! Sweat traced a line down Mondragon's face. Tang's men catch it first. Barrels lifting. Slow arc. "Where is the money!" Tang's smile is gone. Now he is done. Something colder now. Mondragon lifted one hand. Slow. Wait. Then — footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. A man steps from the shadows, out of the dark past the trucks. Black, head to toe. Boots. Jeans. Jacket. Hat. Attaché case in hand! Mondragon's breath broke loose. "Here! The money is here!" "Apologies, boss." "Where the hell did you come from, Villamayor?" He demanded. "Checking the area, boss." "Check it." A jerk of the chin. "Yes, boss!" Dave hands off the case. Jogs for the trucks. Doesn't look back. Mondragon trusted his left-hand man too, because he had once saved him from certain disaster. He had been in this line of business for more than eight years, yet he was always careful. His business had thrived thanks to the group. The group had its own private airplanes, where products from overseas were loaded. They were only transferred to trucks here, as tonight. "All set, boss." Dave set the two cans of imported sardines on a small table. The two groups met in the middle to inspect the contents before payment. "Open them," he ordered. Villamayor opened two sardine cans. First, fish in white sauce, shimmering. Second, white powder, pure, gleaming. "Something for the world to crave. Because of this product, there will be another creation." Mondragon said. "All through legal means." The joke landed. Low laughter rippled through both sides. He ordered "Marco." Marco snapped the case open — bills stacked tight, still smelling of ink. "Two million dollars, Mr. Tang." "You never disappointed me." "Will you stay after this?" "No. We're going back immediately." Handshakes. Done. However much he spent, he would earn nearly double once it was distributed to his partners. The warehouse needed to be closed up while the other party prepared to leave. Then — "Marco?" Mondragon turned. Empty space where his right-hand should be. "He left, boss," Dave said. Silence again. Then Marco walked back into the light, dragging something by the collar. A trail of red smeared the concrete behind him. Blood! "Simon..." The name broke apart in Mondragon's mouth. His eyes cut from the body to the Chinese nationals. Whatever warmth had been on his face a second ago was gone. Wiped clean. Flat. Lethal. He knew how the Chinese run their business. No credits given. No losses forgiven! Mondragon's gaze turned cold . "What is the meaning of this?" "I don't know, Mr. Mondragon!" "Nǐ chūmài wǒmen ma?" Ice. Iron. Certain now. His partner sold them out. "Dāngrán bùshì!" Too sharp. Too fast. A man watching the ground give way. "Believe me, please!" His hand found the .45 caliber pistol before he decided to draw it. "You must die!" The warehouse erupts! Both sides raise weapons. Same breath. One held note. About to break! Tang's hands fly up. Empty. Open. Too late. A gunshot! One shot. Impossibly loud. Tang's head snapped back. He dropped! Nobody breathe. Mondragon's finger hasn't moved. He didn't fire! Everyone turned toward the source. It was Marco! His right-hand man! Gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel, face unreadable. Time seemed to slow as the Chinese man collapsed. In the same instant, Dave grabbed Mondragon by the shoulder, pulling him back and shielding him as they ran, exchanging gunfire with the enemy along the way. When they looked back, the building exploded unexpectedly! The trucks detonated in sequence, one after another, each blast throwing men off their feet. His left-hand man held his wrist as they ran for the exit. The warehouse became a blazing hell. Panic spread. People scattered, desperate to survive only to be cut down by gunfire from angles no one could trace, an enemy nobody could name, striking from every direction at once. Mondragon froze. The fire reflected in his eyes — flames devouring everything he had built. Rage and grief burned in his gaze. Years of hard work, reduced to ash in an instant! Mondragon screamed at the top of his lungs! "WHO THE HELL TRIED TO BRING DOWN A MONDRAGON?!" But it wasn't the fire that turned his stomach cold. It was what would happen the moment the group found out. Their group was known as "The Silent Four" here in Zamboanga, and he was the fourth. No one would touch him because of the group's connections with the authorities and with influential people in society. They moved quietly, but they secretly ran all of Zamboanga City. But now... "This way, boss!" Dave's grip closed hard around his wrist. They ran! They were almost at the car few more steps, and they'd be gone — when the phone rang. Mondragon stopped mid-stride like he'd hit a wall. He was already reaching his pocket, movements slow, like some part of him already knew what he'd see before he saw it. No. 2 calling… The screen glowed in the dark, and for a second he just stared at it, chest rising and falling too fast. Not the client. Not one of his men. No. 2. His hand started to shake, enough that the phone nearly slipped from his grip. Villamayor's eyes flicked between Mondragon's face and the phone. "Boss, we don't have time-" "Shut up!" His voice came out hoarse. "I know." He closed his eyes. One breath. Two. Then he answered. "Hell—" ["It's really hell. You've been caught."] The voice cut him off before he could even finish. The word flat, unhurried. Not the voice he'd expected. "I'll make it right-" The words tumbled out too fast, too desperate, before he could stop them. "Sen-" ["You're out of the game."] "No." He said it quiet at first, like he could argue this, then louder, cracking. "No! I have Jeric, my son! We'll make it right, I promise-" ["You know the rules."] Something in Mondragon's chest caved in. Eight years. Eight years of building this, of proving himself, of climbing, and it was ending in a phone call that lasted less than a minute. "Please... " The word came low than he'd ever let himself sound in front of anyone. "Have mercy. Please." Silence. Then the line went dead. "Boss." Dave's hand closed around his arm, firm, urgent. "We need to go. Now!" Mondragon lowered the phone. He said nothing. There was nothing left to say. He let Dave pull him and walk while his mind stayed several steps behind — still hearing that voice on the phone, the click of a line closing on the only life he'd known. They reached the car. Mondragon's hand was already on the door when the sound stopped him cold: the unmistakable click of a gun being c****d behind them. Cold fear washed over him. Dave's grip tightened around his wrist. His hand turned into a fist. They exchanged a look, both silently calculating... how to survive what was coming. The man behind them spoke, gun aimed and steady. "You're under arrest, Joaquin Mondragon." Mondragon didn't move. Didn't raise his hands. He just turned his head, slow, unhurried... like a man who already knew something the gunman didn't. A smile crept onto his lips. Because standing directly behind the man who held him at gunpoint was Marco. Gun raised. Aimed at the back of the intruder's head. For one heartbeat... nobody breathed. "BOSS, RUN!" Marco's voice cracked through the silence like a whip. Startled back to his senses, Mondragon bolted, only to freeze as an arm suddenly wrapped around his neck. A gun pressed against his head yanked him to a dead stop. "It's time to know the truth." Mondragon's whole body went rigid. Not from the gun. From the voice. "Dave..." The name came out low, disbelieving. His eyes cut sideways, and he saw who was holding him. His face... the same face that had stood at his side for years, the man he'd trusted enough to send looking for a missing case of money not an hour ago, was empty. No guilt. No hesitation. Around them, the standoff held: Marco's gun still trained on the agent, the agent's gun still on him, and now Villamayor's gun against his head. A triangle of steel with no clear way out. Mondragon's mind raced backward, fast, piecing together everything that had gone wrong tonight. The missing case. Simon's body. The explosion. Someone had planned all of it, and it hadn't been the Chinese. It had been him! "What does this mean, Villamayor?" Mondragon's voice shook not with fear now, but with fury, betrayal cutting deeper than the gun ever could. Villamayor said nothing. This is the hint! A man who'd been waiting... for this exact moment!