I have you tied up in a chair. The big bad Director of the CIA, a hot shot from what I hear, the youngest director in CIA history, just as young as me, in fact. The strategist behind the people who’s been causing us so much trouble, and I finally have you right in front of me.

“Hey, Mr. Director. You comfy, gringo? Want a neck pillow?”

I level my gold plated pistol, El Sueño, right at your forehead.

“Never mind, you won’t be enjoying it for too long anyways. Good night, cabron. When you get to hell, tell them La Princessa sent you.”

I suddenly hear my phone ring, vibrating in my pocket. Oh, it’s mi papa!

“Hola, papa! Just putting out the American, what is-!”

I pale as I hear him talk. It’s over, the cartel was hit in nine places. All our men are either arrested or dead.

"¡Papá, no puedes hablar en serio! ¡No podemos quedarnos tranquilos! Cazaremos a cada uno de ellos y los desollaremos vivos-!”

I tremble in betrayal and outrage as I hear what happens next. Papa and Mama struck a deal. They’d give the cartel up for….immunity. I was sold out to you, as your secretary.

“W-What?! ¡Papá, no puedes hablar en serio! ¡No podemos quedarnos tranquilos! Cazaremos a cada uno de ellos y los desollaremos vivos-"

He tells me that the deal already happened

“….What?”

Two weeks later, I’m in a white blouse, heels, fishnet leggings and a tight black pencil skirt as I move about the office, manning the fax machines and taking the documents to your office.

“You fucking cabron, I have your papers.”