"Sir Graham, are you sure you want to do this?"

Charles glared at the man on the other side of the desk. He was the office manager of Henrico's first and only branch of XP Investimentos, an independent stock brokerage expanding rapidly throughout Latin America. He was also his personal stock broker. "Of course I am."

"B-but this is practically gambling!" he protested. "The Internet is a highly speculative venture. Fanciful! These companies aren't generating cash flows yet and they're ridiculously overvalued. Bet a little bit on this, t-this novelty if you must but not, not 30% of your—

Charles sighed before grumpily interrupting the expert. "Thank you for the advice, Sir Herrera, but I know what I'm doing. Just go and buy the shares of Microsoft and Apple, as well as Amazon and AuctionWeb when they finally go public."

"I told you already, Sir Graham, those two companies aren't even on the Magallanes Stock Exchange! Even if I buy them at the quantity you want, the transaction costs will be sky-high!" Herrera was worried, as he should be. Charles knew that he was the broker's biggest client. He stayed silent and let the man say his piece. "Why not just put 5% of your portfolio into these… speculations? We can keep the remaining 25% local." 

Herrera plopped two pages on the desk. It detailed some business plans from two of the largest companies in Henrico. "Look here. As you can see, BDSM Corporation is currently constructing a new mall in the middle of Noatak while Mateo Land Corporation has just signed a joint venture agreement with Ayala Land Corporation—one of the largest real estate companies in the Philippines. One is expanding in the provinces while the other's increasing their exposure to an emerging market. Since you don't have these two companies in your portfolio, you should get them now before the market revalues their prices upward."

"No, Sir Herrera." Why was he so persistent with these two businesses? Was it because they were on the HSE index? Or was he earning a higher commission from local purchases? Charles decided he didn't care and instead doubled down on his decision. "Stick to the plan I gave you: 70% of my capital in the United States, and half that amount in these so-called 'tech' companies. As long we're not being stupid with the people we're picking, don't worry about the valuations. Believe me, the Internet will revolutionize everything!" he stated with a bit more jealousy than intended. "And increase our allocation to Berkshire Hathaway. The man in charge isn't called the 'Oracle of Omaha' for nothing."

Herrera seemed panicked. "B-but Sir Graham, the risks—

Charles raised his hand to stop the broker. Albert and another bodyguard, who patiently stood by his side, gazed at him askance. Herrera took a sharp breath, his eyes swiveling between the three of them, even dropping down to the assault rifle leaning innocuously on Charles' chair. His hands, steady on the desktop, seemed to quiver; Charles could even feel the broker rapidly tapping his foot on the floor.

Did he just remember he was in front of someone who could ruin his life, or worse? Ha! How quaint. Charles didn't know whether to smirk or frown at that realization. Pops definitely would have responded to Herrera's insistence with barbaric threats at this point.

While that was undeniably the culture in Henrico and while he was raised with Pops' constant yelling on what was Henrican and what was not, in the end…

Charles Graham was not his father.

"Sir Herrera, I opened my account with you because I like your company culture, and because the international market access is something I value highly." He took out an envelope from inside his Bulletblocker dress vest—ignoring the broker's flinching—and tossed it at the table. 

"What's this?" He asked, remaining motionless. Wary.

"My account closure form and instructions to uplift the shares I own into certificates I can transfer over to another institution."

Herrera blinked once, twice, then started breathing rapidly, nearly flailing in panic. "¡La Hostia! S-sir Charles! Sir Charles! You, y-you can't mean that you'll— but you're my biggest client!"

"But I do," Charles said, calmly, with a frigid tone. "If you aren't going to follow my informed, high-conviction decisions and instead pester me with offers I have zero interest in, then I have no reason to do business with you."

Charles Graham was not his father, but that didn't mean he was a maricòn to push around.

Herrera stared at the sealed envelope for at least a minute to process the blow Charles had given him. Then, finally, he yielded. "Very well. Customer is king, as the Americans say." He fiddled his hands, picking up a Parker pen and a blank sheet of paper. "You will still sign this fiduciary waiver, won't you?"

"Naturally, but only as it applies to this transaction."

Herrera added that bit of detail to the paperwork and offered it to Charles. "Here. Your signature, please."

"Good." Charles handed the sealed envelope over to Albert for safekeeping then taking the waiver form from Herrera's hands. "I'm glad we finally came to an understanding."

"Yes, yes," Herrera chimed in, the relief in his voice audible. He was quick to change the subject and move further away from the prospect of losing his biggest client. "Anything else you want to know?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. A friend mentioned there's a powder keg about to blow in Southeast Asia…"

For another hour, Charles went over current global macroeconomics with Herrera. A financial crisis in Asia had appeared on the horizon. Like Emil, the stock broker could not even guess when the bomb would go off. Charles was quick to notice the danger it posed to Graham Logistics, for Henrico had close economic ties to the Philippines and the rest of Southeast Asia. In a way he was thankful for the number of dragons they had over in headquarters. The fifteen reptiles there insulated them partly from the woes of human labor, because they could do the work of 150 men for the price of a few and in scrap meat at that.

As Warren Buffett once said, be greedy when others were fearful and be fearful when others were greedy. With everyone in Asia abusing cheap credit like unregulated methamphetamine, now was the time to be like the dragons of the European myths and safeguard their hoard. Only after the bomb went off would Graham Logistics push forward with an aggressive capex plan, and with all the bells and whistles to boot. In the meantime, they needed to buy more dragons. He needed to hire an engineer and work together with him on figuring out how to transport such precious livestock to their subsidiary warehouses in the other provinces.

Charles grimaced at the thought. This meant giving Uncle Paul another call, if not another visit to that illegal warehouse of his at Montecinos Boulevard. He hated going there—hated being reminded of the way business was generally done in Henrico—but he had to do it. 

It was the Henrican thing to do.

When his conversation with Herrera had devolved into mere pleasantries and personal affairs, Charles decided their meeting had gone on long enough by the time Herrera offered to hook him up with his 15-year old daughter.

"...isn't Natasha pretty?" Herrera was saying—no, bragging. The broker had placed his daughter's photograph on the desktop. "Her mother's Filipino, but she was with an old German before. We met at a bar near the country club a couple years after he died. It's actually just a few blocks from here. A bachelor like you can meet plenty of girls there. But honestly…"

He winked and clicked his tongue. "Trust me, Sir Charles, you're better off hooking up with my little Tasha."

Charles hid his disgust for Herrera's actions. He couldn't deny that Natasha was seriously and temptingly drop-dead gorgeous, yet he also condemned the man in his head for offering his daughter's hand in marriage as though they weren't on the cusp of the 21st century. What a shitty father…

Pops would take the offer without hesitation. He'd do it for the hot sex and drop Natasha as soon as she passed the tender old age of 25.

But Charles Graham was not his father, and he wanted it to stay that way for as long as he had to.

"Thank you for the offer, Sir Herrera, but I'll have to decline." A polite refusal was the way to go. "If I get a girlfriend, I'd rather it be someone who accepts me for who I am and someone I sincerely win over." He got up from the chair. "Anyway, I need to go. Got plenty of work waiting for me back in the office."

Finishing the cup of coffee that Herrera's secretary had put on the table for him, Charles Graham nodded to Albert and the other guard and picked up his PPS-43, slinging the assault rifle behind his back. Sandwiched between his escorts, the business executive walked to the stock broker's office.

Herrera stopped Charles before he could walk out of his office. “Sir Charles!" He called. “One last thing, if you don't mind."

“What is it?" Charles asked.

“Your father, Stephen, he's running in this year's senatorial elections, right? How's that going?"

Charles froze. He almost grimaced at the mere mention of Pops' name. As the man who built Graham Logistics into the freight powerhouse it was today, many businessmen and managers revered the man as an iconic Henrican. If Charles' resentment towards Pops ever became public, who knew how they would react? They'd call him an ingrate at best and sabotage his attempts to grow the company at worst. Thankfully he managed to suppress the frown in time and answered Herrera's question with one of his own. “Why do you ask? You can always just check the IHP survey results in the newspapers."

Even if he knew, he wouldn't have told him. He didn't know who Herrera was connected to and what they would use the information for. Pops warned him to be careful. So he was.

“It's different coming from you," Herrera said while fidgeting his hands. “You're an insider. You would know more about his campaign. I'm actually curious about the political agenda he'll be pushing if he wins a seat."

Political agenda, he said. Charles would've chuckled had he been at Sharky's instead of a business associate. In Henrico, everyone in the national government took money from the country. The Senate and the House of Representatives were the biggest businesses in government. Businesses that rolled power and riches into a single package. Charles knew the country as a whole suffered because of them, but those malparidos would happily vote for politicians who'd slip a bit of food and a sliver of economic prosperity into their hands while pocketing the rest and laundering it. The smart ones would either leave the country or die trying to change the system, if not embrace it.

Whatever Pops had in mind after rising to power, for sure it would have something to do with Customs tariffs and legitimizing known smuggling rings, if not tax cuts or budget cuts to the Office of Social Welfare. For all he knew, the man might be even thinking about introducing regulations for the emerging dragon industry, legitimizing smugglers like Uncle Paul, and then taking his "fair share" from all the duties and taxes to be gained from importing said reptiles.

Charles actually had no idea about his agenda, not because Pops never told him, but because he didn't care what Pops did as long as it didn't interfere with the way he ran Graham Logistics. Deep down, a part of him still felt ill embracing Pops' methods and style of doing business. That last remnant of his conscience insisted—demanded that he at least ignore everything Pops did or planned.  

Charles replied with an irritated growl, “Politics is full of uncertainty. I don't ask my father about his agenda and I won't give a cucumber until he wins a seat and I see signs that his plans are gaining traction." He continued with a scathing tone, as the fact many have been pestering him for updates on Pops' campaign had long been annoying him. “I'm CEO of Graham Logistics by function, Sir Herrera. I'm far too busy running the family business."

“I understand, Sir Charles." Herrera's eyes dilated a little when Charles inserted one hand into his dress vest. “A-anyway, that's the only thing I want to ask you! Have a good day."

Charles snorted to himself as soon as he walked out into the reception room. He would've tossed his sealed envelope right at the nosy broker had he continued questioning him. Luckily, Herrera knew his limits and stopped himself before forcing Charles to permanently cut ties with XP Investimentos. Charles saw two other bodyguards waiting for him, with Mario engaged in some small talk with the executive secretary and Danny fast asleep on the sofa. 

Danny and Mario had Kevlar vests and Kalashnikovs just like the two who'd accompanied him, and they'd been hired by the family years ago. Pops trusted them more than the other, newer hires, even though they weren't as competent or as serious in their work as Charles would've liked. Mario was a womanizer, constantly flirting with any beautiful woman who catches his eye and cheating on his wife despite being a devout Catholic. Meanwhile, Danny had a penchant for sleeping on the job, and he would find a place to sleep wherever they went. 

They were definitely a massive security risk, but they were still more trustworthy than anyone. And in Henrico, absolute loyalty and the willingness to do anything were far more valuable and precious than competence and experience. 

XP's office was located in one of the newest skyscrapers in Fort Loreto, the premiere business district in Metro Magallanes. Waiting for the elevator and taking it down to the ground floor took ten minutes longer than expected. Their elevator stopped a few times on the way down, but all would-be riders were repelled by the sight of Charles, his four guards, and all the guns they were openly carrying.

On the ground floor, even the security guards hired by the building management stopped whatever they were doing and saluted Charles' party. One receptionist got to her feet and gave a short, respectful bow. "Have a good day, Mr. Graham. Hope to see you again soon."

"Thank you," he answered back while internally hoping that wouldn't happen for months to come. Shitty landline service was the only reason he visited Mr. Herrera in the first place. If the GSM signals weren't terrible in the metro—or anywhere else in the Federative Republic of Henrico—Charles would've phoned the broker from the safety and comfort of his own office.

They exited the building through a revolving door. It opened to a wide street, with three lanes on each side. Henrican traffic, of course, treated them no differently from mere guidelines. As a result, the road in front of Charles was as chaotic as it always was, with colectivos, motorcycles, and cars noisily squeezing past each other. Thank God auto rickshaws weren't allowed in Fort Loreto.

The sidewalk ended about 8 meters away from the door, after a short series of steps led them down from the building. Charles could see his vehicle and the rest of their entourage parked in front of the building. Two police motorcycles flanked them from front and back—assigned by the San Mateo Police Department in exchange for charitable contributions from Graham Logistics. Under the table, naturally.

Charles frowned as his eyes fell on a few vagrants on the sidewalk. Loitering in front of the building was a mother carrying an infant. She sat on top of a cot, one arm outstretched. She was begging for alms. Her dirtied clothes, her haggard appearance, and her despondent visage all served to sell the image of a poor soul condemned to destitution and in need of generosity. 

Noticing that the street traffic had stopped, Charles saw several people plodding from one vehicle to the next, rapping on windows and moaning at passengers and drivers alike. Some were disabled or blind. Some were old and frail, barely able to stand. The group even included prepubescent children, who should be playing at home instead of begging for alms. 

As a child he used to feel pangs of sympathy and compassion tugging at his heartstrings. Now, they had been numbed not just by Henrican culture, but also the likely fact these people wanted to be here. 

"Have mercy, sir," the mother called out to him. "Please spare us some change."

"Change?" A man approached Charles directly, his voice hoarse. "Change?"

Albert stepped into his path. "No further," he said, one hand giving the stop sign and the other on the Coldsteel folding knife in his pocket. The policemen escorting their convoy did nothing but watch, apathetic for so long as there wasn't any trouble.

"Please!" He begged. "My daughter has polio. My mother's in the hospital with dengue fever."

"Like we give a shit about your sob story, capullo. Have you taken a look at my balls? We know they're all lies—hey!"

An eight-year old child suddenly slipped past Albert's defenses. Mario had been too busy keeping two other beggars from approaching Charles while Danny noticed a few seconds too late. The child saw the opening and, ignoring if not overlooking the assault rifle slung behind his shoulder,  fearlessly went straight for the only well-dressed man in their group.

As soon as he got within spitting distance of Charles, the kid thrust his hand forward palm up. "Spare some change, guey? We've got no food at home." He was caked in layers of dirt from all the smoke being vomited by trucks and colectivos. His clothes were both loose and tattered. He was also barefoot, and smelled as though someone had mixed sewage and garbage with shit and he'd jumped into it.

Charles couldn't help but feel disgusted. To him, this was stronger than the tenacious smell of an unwashed dragon, and multiple times worse. He wanted to scrunch his nose, to gag, and to forcefully send the kid away. But he was out in the open—out in public, where people might recognize him. He couldn't do that.

Aware of his position, he said to the boy, "Kid, I don't have any change right now."

"But guey—

"Danny!" Charles called. "Give him what he needs."

Danny, who'd been standing on the side, strolled over to them, taking out a pack of Takis Fuego from his sling bag. He tossed it over to the child, who almost fumbled the catch. The young Henrican stared down at it in a daze, as though he didn't expect to receive something.

"Let's go," Charles said, wanting no more than to leave before they're swarmed by these filthy malparidos. 

He hadn't taken more than three steps when the child's face contorted into a scowl. He crushed the pack of Takis Fuego and audibly threw it on the sidewalk. "¿Pero que coño, guey?" He exclaimed. "I want money!"

Charles whirled around. "¡Hostia puta, I knew it!" He scolded the child, "You think I'm a pinche pendejo, ah? I know you work for a fucking syndicate!" He slapped the young beggar on the face and shoved his forehead with enough strength to send him staggering backward. "Now get lost, you son of a bitch!"

"¡Chinga tu madre, cabron!" The eight-year old shot back, letting loose a curse even Charles had never heard from someone that young.

Charles disregarded him as walking human trash. He made eye contact with nobody, and the beggars who'd seen his reaction all went quiet. "Reverendo capullo," he muttered under his breath. "All of them."

One of the policemen waved at him when he drew near the Jeep Wagoneer. "Need some help, Boss Charles?" he asked. "We can send them to a police station if you want."

"They're not worth our time," he said as Danny opened the door for him.

"Why did you do that anyway?" asked the cop, in an incredulous tone. "You know they only accept money. Office of Social Welfare built housing for them in Mariquina years ago, yet they'd rather make a living here, sitting in the sun begging all day." 

"I know," he said. "I was just hoping."

"Hoping for what?"

Charles didn't answer.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Charles' convoy of Jeeps sped across Fidel D. Roosevelt Avenue, the arterial highway that cut across Metro Magallanes. 

His Wagoneer was sandwiched between two Laredos. The convoy itself had one police motorcycle to its front and rear. They had hired the policemen less for security and more for convenience. FDRA was starting to look like a slow-moving parking lot nowadays; with the Henrican government more concerned with kickbacks over bankrolling infrastructure projects at best prices, Charles had a sinking feeling that FDRA, no, the entire metropolis would transmogrify into a daily carmaggedon after the year 2000.

Thankfully, having policemen shoo away the plebeian motorists at pain of possible confiscation of their licenses rendered their convoy largely insulated from FDRA traffic. They only stopped during the few times that the policemen used their sirens and batons to "persuade" recalcitrant drivers to yield.

Charles Graham nonchalantly checked his watch.

It was 1 PM in the afternoon.

They would return to the municipality of San Mateo in about thirty minutes. Lightning fast by common Henrican knowledge. All the reports he'd heard from GLC employees before indicated an average drive time of 75 minutes, give or take. 

He stretched in the Wagoneer's front passenger seat. Albert was driving while Danny and Mario were in the back. Charles noticed that Danny was fast asleep as usual, having taken off his ballistic vest and used it as a pillow. 

Charles asked Mario about Herrera's secretary and how she'd been, knowing he had plenty of crazy stories from all the women he'd been together with. Albert had the radio playing in the background, not even remotely interested in their conversation.

"And another one gone and another one gone, another one bites the dust! ...Hey! I'm gonna get you too…"

Charles thought nothing of it when Albert lowered the volume, but when he'd realized the man actually shut off the radio right as the Queen song was approaching its peak, his gaze sharpened. "Albert, what's wrong?"

His eyes were on the rearview mirror. "Two motorcycles riding pillion just turned in from Montecinos Boulevard, Boss Charles."

"So?" Montecinos Boulevard led to an infested shithole. Uncle Paul's smuggling business was located there. "People ride pillion all the time in FDRA."

"I don't know, Boss. They're wearing black cloth and sunglasses over their faces." 

"Still not enough reason to be suspicious," Charles replied. "Everybody does that here. Even the police."

"I just don't like the look of them," said Albert.

At this point, heeding Albert's concerns or ignoring them was up to Charles' discretion. With Pops' warning echoing in his head, he decided to err on the side of caution. There was a good reason why Albert and Gerry were the most trusted guards in the Graham family. "Okay. Mario, radio the gura behind us and have him tell those assholes to fucking stay away from our convoy."

Every vehicle in their convoy had a short-wave radio for communication between vehicles. Mario held theirs. "Croc-1, we have two suspicious pillion riders approaching us from behind. Tell them to stay away. Over."

A second passed before the radio buzzed back. "Roger that, Wag-1."

Mario switched frequencies. "Laredo-1, we think something's going on behind us. Get ready just in case. Over and out."

"Understood. Over and out."

Charles leaned over his seat and cuffed Danny on the leg. It took a couple strong hits before the sleepy bodyguard was startled awake. "Hey! Hey! Wake, up!"

"B-boss Charles! What's—

"May have a possible situation here," he explained. "Put on your vest and ready your Kalash. I don't know why, but Albert's spooked by a couple pillion riders behind us."

"Eh? But there's a million of them!"

Albert spoke before Charles could, "Better safe than sorry!"

"I agree. Albert's instincts haven't failed us yet."

Charles had a little more to say. Unfortunately a faint crack echoed from behind. Albert shouted, "¡Ay caray! He shot him. He fucking shot him!"

A shocked Charles whipped his head to the rear window right in time for him to see the police motorcycle behind them plunge to the asphalt. Its driver plummeted in tandem and rolled right into a passenger bus's path. He would never forget the sight of a man being crushed like one would squish a bug. 

Charles sharply inhaled as various vehicles behind them veered in multiple directions to avoid the accident, only to deafeningly collide with each other and cause a tragic pileup that would surely be on front page news by tomorrow.

"Son of a thousand whores," Mario muttered, appalled.

Charles had barely begun to process the disaster when three heavily-tinted SUVs burst forth from the wreckage, slamming away stopped cars and colectivos with wanton disregard for the deaths they caused. Ignoring the unsightly dents to their bumpers and the fresh blood dripping from the metal, all three increased their speed the second they could do so.

Accelerating ahead.

Accelerating straight at them.

"I shit on God! They're after us! They're fucking after us!" Charles yelled, frantic. "Albert! Get us out of here!"

Mario screamed at the radio. "Laredo-1, watch our backs. We need to get Golf-2 back to HQ."

"Copy that, Wag-1," replied someone from the trailing Jeep.

The instruction came too late. Just as the convoy picked up speed, one of the pillion riders revved their engine and shot past Laredo-1 before its driver could do a thing. The guy riding on the back brought out what looked like a Russian pistol and quickly fired four shots at the Wagoneer. 

Dull cracks resounded in the Jeep in tandem, causing everyone inside to flinch. None of the bullets made it through the bulletproof glass, but they pulled Danny and Mario out of their daze. 

Danny hastily put on his vest while Mario checked his Kalashnikov, eyeing either window. Charles wasn't sitting around doing nothing either. While disbelief was still ripping through his mind, with quivering hands the executive picked up the PPS-43 and, like Mario, inspected the firearm and the spare magazines in his cargo shorts.

Albert stomped on the gas pedal to accelerate the Wagoneer. He smashed the car horn and flashed the lights multiple times at any vehicles still meandering ahead. The lone policeman leading them was doing the same.

"¡Puta madre! They're bringing out a stronger weapon!"

"Danny! Window down!"

Before he could do so, the gunman had already aimed a rifle at them. Another damned Soviet weapon! Charles let out a curse. Even if the armor modifications prevented them from bringing the entire window down, the spray of gunfire would deter any attempt at a counterattack.

Charles glanced ahead. Maybe they could use the Wagoneer? Heft its weight and crash into the motorcycle? Send it spinning? Yes, that'd be a great idea. It would—

No, it wouldn't work. Though most vehicles had already vacated FDRA, many had stuck around due to their distance from the pileup and the violence. Others were cruising along at a steady clip, still joshing around with the other vehicles like it was a normal day.

FDRA didn't have the space to maneuver the Wagoneer around. They needed support. "Mario," cried Charles. The cracks on the window were looking more ominous each second. "Talk to Laredo-1. Have them—

Shots from behind rang out, cutting off Charles mid-speech. Fortunately it'd come from Laredo-1; one of the guards dropped the window as far as the bulletproofing allowed and opened fire on the assailants. 

Both went down as the high-caliber bullets ripped them and their ride to pieces. The motorcycle fell to the asphalt thunderously, leaving both debris and bloody chunks of flesh in its wake. 

"Give me that!" Charles seized the radio from Mario and pushed a button to talk. "Laredo-1, there's one more motorcycle! Take it out now! Do it before—Hostia puta!"

The scenario Charles was fearing happened faster than anticipated. One of the black SUVs thumped the Jeep Laredo at just the right angle to send it careening into the dividing fence. As it was speeding through FDRA at a swift 100 kph, the vehicle crashed into the divider with enough force to literally flip it above and over the concrete fence.

It must have been a gruesome sight, hearing the disturbingly loud and jarring screech of another pileup occurring on the other side. "This can't be happening," Charles mumbled in shock. How many of them survived there? How much was the damage? "This can't be happening!"

"¡Chingada madre, they're surrounding us!" Albert cursed, eyes constantly darting around. "Danny, Mario, do something! Shoot them, flatten their tires, anything! We need to get away!"

The desperate tone had them scrambling. With nobody shooting at them now, the two were able to lower the passenger windows by two-thirds—the limit allowed by the Wagoneer's bulletproofing.

Danny and Mario leaned over and trained their Kalashnikovs as far back as they could. They opened fire on their pursuers, who swerved to the lanes in their blind spot to avoid their lines of sight. Gunmen popped out from the windows, precariously leaning out and firing back at them. Multiple bullets cracked into pieces on the rear window and thumped the bulletproof panel hidden beneath it. 

Albert responded by breaking formation and giving his colleagues the range to fire back. He slammed his hand on the horn, shooing away another slow-moving motorist whose vehicle made contact with the divider and scraped the wall as it rolled to a stop.

"Laredo-2, this is Wag-1," Albert barked into the short-wave radio. "We're pulling ahead. Cover our asses! Tell the damn gura in front to call in backup This is a pinche desmadre and"—his face suddenly lit up. Albert must've heard good news.—"That's great, guey! When will they get here? Where're they coming from? We're approaching Serrano soon…"

Charles Graham didn't catch the rest of Albert's conversation. He had taken out his Nokia 8110 and was presently calling Pops. He could hear his own heartbeat while he palpitated anxiously, waiting. "C'mon, Pops, pick it up already. Fuck!"

After what felt like a minute, the call finally went through. "Hello? What is it, Charles? I—

"Pops! We've been ambushed on FDRA! Pillion riders shot the gura escorting us from behind and caused a pileup right in front of BDSM Supermall!"

"¡Hostia puta!" Charles heard Pops mutter under his breath while fiddling with something in the background. A few seconds passed and suddenly he could hear the calm voice of a newscaster in the background. "...Jesus Christ, two pileups on FDRA…"

"What do we do?" Charles asked. "We're rushing back to San Mateo as fast as we can!"

"Damn it. All my life I've never heard of political kidnappings being this brazen. I'll find out who's behind this. Don't get caught and—

A loud crash drowned out Pops' voice. Charles suddenly dropped his 8110 as the Wagoneer jolted sideways. "Fuck!" He whipped his head to the right and blanched when he saw one of the SUVs in his face, the driver's silhouette barely visible through the opaque tint. Gunshots repeatedly hammered the passenger window behind him, the crackling sounds rattling—

The sound suddenly changed.

Somebody screamed. 

Danny was dead, slumped on the window with his eyes glazed over. Blood and flesh seeped through bullet holes on the side of his head. 

“¡Ay caray, Danny!" Charles shouted. He reached for his PPS-43 and, twisting in his seat, aimed the assault rifle awkwardly at the offending vehicle. He cursed at them as he unloaded a third of his magazine on the masked shooter. His gun swayed as Albert tried to regain control over the Wagoneer, but his aim remained on target. Danny's killer died and fell unceremoniously on the road. 

The SUV backed away. Mario let out another cry and fired a few rounds outside his window. The second SUV was on the other side. Charles realized they were being pincered. Albert arrived at the same conclusion just before the first SUV swerved in their direction again. He reacted quickly and floored the brakes. Everyone who wasn't tethered in place by seatbelts had their heads knocked when they lurched forward. Pain and nausea assaulted Charles at the same time as a disgustingly loud crash reverberated from behind. 

Charles did not realize the Wagoneer had also smashed into the second motorcycle and killed its riders until Albert stomped on the gas pedal and accelerated past both SUVs at full speed. A moment later they even brushed past the policeman leading the convoy.

He was beginning to think about the other Laredo when another crash took place not far behind them. The Jeep in question was laying on its side, having slipped on a white slurry of snow—of ice. The sight unsettled Charles, as this shouldn't exist in Henrico's torrid climate. He was still processing how this happened when a Glass dragon unexpectedly touched down beside the vehicle, its cobalt scales making it pop out from the dull, greyish tones of Metro Magallanes. It then spat out the same white sludge at the Laredo's underside.

The third SUV pursuing them rolled to a stop beside the reptile. The fact its head remained above the hood testified to its size. Charles felt chills when it dawned on him that this beast was unfettered, unmuzzled, and untamed unlike any of the dragons at Graham Logistics.

To his astonishment, armed men disembarked from the vehicle and congregated around the fallen Laredo. The people within were doomed. Terror swelled inside Charles when the dragon swiveled its cerulean head in the Wagoneer's direction.

"Boss Charles!"

Even though the distance between them was increasing by the second, Charles was struck dumb the moment he witnessed the Glass spreading its wings and taking to the air. He couldn't deny it anymore. The dragon was working for their pursuers.

"Boss Charles!"

It was surreal! How did they tame the reptile? How did they get it to obey their commands? Who were they? Were they still Pops' political rivals? Were they members of the NHA? Or were they from something new altogether?

"BOSS CHARLES!"

Shaken out of his stupor, the business executive found himself staring at Mario. "Boss, what do we do?" The bodyguard asked. "We, w-we aren't any match for that!"

As though proving Mario correct, the Glass caught up to the police motorcycle. The gura had seen it from his side mirrors, having picked up his 9mm. He shot at the approaching dragon. None of his bullets penetrated its thick hide and instead enraged the animal. 

White fluid struck the policeman's helmet from above, belting his face down on the handlebars. Motorcycle and rider both rolled forward and tumbled violently to a stop in front of a McDonald's, leaving a streak of blood in the middle of FDRA. The injured policeman could barely move, unable to dislodge the block of ice that had formed on his helmet. One of the black SUVs slowed down as they approached the scene.

At this point, everyone in the Wagoneer knew the gura was as good as dead.

"It's headed to us now!" Albert said.

"Shoot it!" Charles ordered. "Shoot it down!"

Mario argued, "But our bullets—

"Are strong enough! Don't be comemierda!" By God the Father, their rifles were chambered with 7.62mm rounds. Charles knew for a fact this caliber could easily pierce dragon scales. He had seen it himself.

Charles led by example and took opportunistic shots at the blue dragon. Mario felt encouraged by this and did the same. Yet they couldn't figure out the reptile's flying patterns and how it was navigating the winds to catch up with something moving between 80 and 100 kph. 

Consequently, their shots were inaccurate. If they landed a hit, it wasn't enough to shoot it down. Unfortunately for them the other two SUVs had caught up and bullets struck the Wagoneer. Albert noticed they were trying to destroy the tires and swerved wildly to prevent that at the cost of their speed.

Charles recognized the buildings located just before FDRA intersected with Sorreno Lane. He saw the road ahead split in two—two lanes ascending up a flyover and the other two leading to a stoplight on the side. To his dismay, it was full of traffic. There was no way they could escape there without slowing to a crawl. Even the sidewalk had many obstructions.

They had to go around.

After descending the flyover, a slight relief washed over Charles when the blue-and-white cars of the SMPD emerged from Sorreno Lane and began setting up a protective formation around the Wagoneer. However, the Glass following them responded with a clamorous roar before swooping down to attack and disrupt the police operation.

To make matters worse, one of the black SUVs stopped next to the growing wreckage. A second dragon burst forth from the side door. Charles instantly recognized it as a Techerta. Techerta were dragons that bore no weapon other than their ferocious strength and their thick, impenetrable hides. This specimen was no less hideous than a fully-grown crocodile as tall as a person on all fours. Emanating a fierce aura, it was surprisingly larger and more menacing than all the Techerta they had in Graham Logistics.

It wreaked havoc immediately while the Glass supported it from the air. A few gunmen exited the SUV and joined the mayhem. As the Wagoneer left, Charles glimpsed two police helicopters approaching the scene.

They couldn't relax just yet. The last SUV still pursued them, and they had finally caught up. Cars rushed out of their way while they shot at Albert, web-like cracks appearing on his window for the first time. Knowing his protection wouldn't last for long, the other two shot at them from Mario's window while Albert tried ramming the vehicle in an attempt to drive it off-course.

They had slain at least one man after a few harrowing seconds, only for the situation to immediately turn to shit. A black fluid suddenly struck Mario in the eyes. He fell back, screaming his head off. Charles had only just realized there was one last dragon among their assailants when the SUV smashed into the Wagoneer, dragging the Jeep right in front of the many concrete barriers set up by the Metro Magallanes Development Authority.

The Wagoneer careened out of control, spinning madly multiple times. Charles' vision dissolved into a blur of colors. Air rushed past his face. The vehicle quaked as it thumped into several things. The distraught wailing that followed would've made him vomit if he wasn't too busy shutting his eyes and clinging on to consciousness for dear life. 

As soon as the Wagoneer jolted to a sudden stop, Charles weakly opened his eyes. Albert and Mario were unresponsive. He couldn't tell whether they were dead or unconscious. The Jeep's hood was mangled, its engine totaled. Even if his guards were conscious, they'd still have to travel on foot. 

Charles retrieved his cellphone and PPS-43 from the floor, replacing the spent magazine for a fresh one. Fatigue from the dizzying crash nipped at him, constantly tempting him to simply close his eyes and sleep. Knowing this was the worst thing he could possibly do, Charles forced himself awake—forced himself to move despite every muscle in his body groaning in protest. 

He kicked his door open; it took two tries before he succeeded. Charles fell on his knees when he finally got out of the Wagoneer and found himself in front of a wet market. He could hear people sobbing. Bystanders were staring at him, afraid to approach out of fear.

Charles turned his head when he heard the rumbling of an engine coming from FDRA. As he watched the SUV close in on him, a strategy formed in his head. He'd be fine as long as he could escape from the road and hopefully elude his pursuers in the wet market and the maze of callejon around it. He could phone Pops or Vanessa once he was safely hidden.

With hope in his heart, Charles raised his PPS-43 and fired a three-shot burst at the SUV. The Tokarev bullets easily pierced—shattered the windshield, revealing the driver who fell face first on the steering wheel. The man in the passenger seat took control of the wheel, but failed to regain control. 

Charles would've had a clear shot at the man if the SUV wasn't going straight towards the tree behind him. He took a deep breath before leaping to the side, narrowly avoiding a direct hit as the vehicle collided with it. He sprinted towards the wet market. He had almost entered the noisome facility when the side door slid open with a solid thud. 

The third dragon lunged out of the car with a bestial snarl. It was a Caudate with a striped black-and-green pattern on its scales. Every bystander near them shrieked at the sight of the massive reptile while it roared furiously and violently shook the chitin rattle on its tail. Summoned from the Caudate's diaphragm, the booming growl was simultaneously eerie and terrifying. Its weight was hefty enough for Charles to feel his chest thrum.

Terrified, Charles completely forgot he could shoot at the reptile and continued fleeing towards the market. Little did he know that the outcome wouldn't have changed either way, for the Caudate moved with a swiftness unnatural for its mass. It whirled around when it landed next to him in a single bound, tail slamming into Charles like a concrete pole. He soared into the facility and landed on a butcher's table, displacing the fresh meat on top. He nearly dropped his firearm in the process.

Not noticing that dead blood stained his clothes, Charles aimed his PPS-43 at the Caudate with great difficulty. With his posture and condition, he could only fire a couple shots before the recoil proved too much. To his shock, the dragon reacted much faster than anticipated and actually evaded the direct line of fire.

Before Charles could shoot again, it went up to a plastic drum filled with foul-smelling garbage and sent it flying towards him with a powerful swipe of its paw. Charles dropped to his back to avoid the drum, but he couldn't go fast enough or low enough to stop it from knocking the PPS-43 out of his grasp. 

Charles sat up only to find the Caudate growling from the entryway, its slit eyes fixed on him. For some reason it didn't want to go near him. His heart dropped when the reptile whipped its snout towards the entrance and…

It spoke.

“Take human now!"

It spoke in broken Spanish, the words slurring out like they'd been dragged across sandpaper and coursed through a defective stereo. 

Charles had no time to process the words when reality quickly reminded him of his dire situation. Two masked humans emerged from the side, brandishing rusted Soviet weaponry. They looked old enough that they could pass for relics from World War II. 

Their guns alone were enough for Charles to instantly identify them as members of the NHA—the New Henricans Army. With the militarized division of the Communist Party of Henrico involved, this was clearly much more than a simple political kidnapping. Someone like him obviously ranked very high on the kidnap list. He didn't know what the CPH would do with him and he certainly didn't want to find out.

Charles turned and vaulted off the butchers' table. “¡Que te folle un pez, pinche rojos!" He shouted at the communists in despair. “You aren't taking me!" He brought out his M1911 and opened fire. He clipped one of the rebels on the shoulder and dropped him on the floor. The other unskillfully fired back, his shot not even coming close.

Charles would've killed the man if the Caudate hadn't somehow slithered over to his blind spot and flanked him. The dragon appeared out of nowhere, pinned him to the counter, and bit his arm before he could react. Searing pain blanked his vision. He screamed, releasing his sidearm on reflex. Desperate, he punched the scaly muzzle. The beast responded by tightening its bite, the pain peaking to the point he could only stand there and wail in agony like a dying man.

Until the last communist standing had come up to Charles Graham and firmly bashed his face with the butt of his rifle. “¡No hay tu tia, daddy's boy! Now stay down!"