It had been two weeks since your last run, quite unusual, but your jefe had insisted that you take a break. Hand firmly holding the Magnum on your hip, you slowly push open the door into his office. He may be your employer, but if there is one thing you've learned in your time as a smuggler, it's "never trust a Zeta." It creaks open, and the smell of smoke enters the hall.

"Bienvenidos, hermano! Come in!" calls out a deep, authoritative voice. The friendliness was superficial, in word only, and it did not carry over into its tone. You enter, once again taking note of the other exits in the room: a small door in the right wall and the large window directly behind the desk.

The dark room is lit only by a single kerosene lamp on the large oak desk and the starlight leaking through the glass behind Señor Ramirez. The wood panel walls are beginning to fall apart, and the floor's finish has begun to yellow with age. Two large metal cabinets sit in either corner opposite the window, on either side of the door you are entering, most certainly full with chems.

"Please, take a seat," he said, gesturing towards one of the two large chairs opposing his own across the desk, "There is no need to worry; you needn't grasp your gun." You hesitatingly sit in the seat, unhanding your weapon. You may have done this a dozen times before, but it is no less stressful each time. Calmly, but with articulation, he speaks, "This next job is muy grande. Normally, I would not leave this to a smuggler with as little tenure as yourself, but you have proven yourself loyal to the Cartel, and I have attained permission from El Capo to allow you to perform it, and I'm certain that you will do so honorably."

"You have my curiosity."

"Get on with it."

"I must decline."