For James, it was the Colombian national anthem. Odd as the choice may have seemed, no one questioned it; they all understood the significance. That number�wherever it called from, whatever it meant�was answered without hesitation. And though the ringtones differed, the source was always the same. Each man knew not only his own signal, but that of the others. It was protocol�silent, precise, and never broken.
�Boss,� he answered, his voice steady�untouched by the hours of alcohol flowing through his veins. Even his weary mind knew how to override intoxication when it mattered. A single misstep on this call could mean irreversible consequences. The voice on the other end carried the weight of life and death, wielded with the ease of a finger snap.
�Wednesday Six-thirty. Kempton,� the voice instructed.
�Alright, Boss,� James replied, then waited in silence for the line to disconnect.
�He�s coming on Wednesday,� he announced to his housemates, his tone low, measured�intended only for the six men in the room.
Silence fell. No one had expected this. They all understood the gravity of Malawi�s electoral triumph, but none had imagined him coming all the way to Africa because of it. It was Sunday. Wednesday meant they had just two days to prepare. They needed instructions�clear, uncompromising directives on how to receive him. But those could come from only one man, and that man wouldn�t be reachable until later that evening. They had to wait for the inauguration to conclude before placing the call for a briefing.
The Boss � Carlos Ramirez had never set foot in Africa�not once. International travel had long been off the table, thanks to an active warrant issued by the United States government. There was a bounty on his head: one hundred million dollars, an absurd sum�enough to tempt any desperate soul into madness. But anyone who truly knew Carlos Ramirez understood the truth: that bounty was more a death sentence than a reward. For five years, not a single soul had dared make a move. Not because the reward wasn�t enticing, but because collecting it usually meant one thing�an early grave.
At exactly 7:30 that Sunday evening, just as the six men were winding down their modest celebration, the Malawian national anthem rang out from James�s mobile phone. With the same urgency he had shown during the earlier Colombian anthem, he fumbled through his pocket and retrieved the device.
�Hello, Sir,� he said, his posture instantly straightening.