Chapter 11: Acceleration
Seven days blurred into a single sustained effort.
Day one: I restructured the brokering operation. Badger handled the west side contacts—lower risk, smaller payouts, but consistent. Combo took the south side, where higher volume meant higher danger but better margins. I stayed in the center, coordinating, analyzing, never touching product or meeting clients directly.
Day two: Three deals closed before noon. A territorial dispute resolved before it escalated. $400 in commissions, split three ways but still significant. I ate a convenience store sandwich while reviewing notes on tomorrow's opportunities.
Day three: Combo almost walked into a surveillance operation. Deal Sense pinged from three blocks away—I called him off before he got close. He didn't question how I knew. Just turned around and reported back. That trust was valuable. That trust was earned through results.
Day four: The medical connection. I'd been asking around for weeks, carefully, through layers of deniability. "Discreet procedures." "Mexico trips." "Doctors who don't ask questions." Most leads went nowhere. But a contact mentioned a dentist named Fisher who'd helped people disappear.
Fisher's office was in a strip mall between a nail salon and a vape shop. I went in claiming tooth pain, sat through a brief examination, and then—when we were alone—made my real request.
"I need facial reconstruction," I said. "Somewhere outside the country. Somewhere that doesn't keep records."
Fisher's hands stopped their movement over his tools. He was maybe fifty, balding, with the tired eyes of someone who'd made compromises long ago and learned to live with them.
"That's not the kind of service I provide."
"No, but you know people who do."
Silence. He studied me—taking in Pete's gaunt face, the track marks that hadn't fully faded, the overall appearance of someone with reasons to look different.
"It's expensive."
"I know."
"And risky. Mexico isn't America. Things go wrong, no one's coming to help you."
"I understand."
More silence. Then Fisher named a price: $500 for the information. A name, a number, a recommendation.
I paid without negotiating. Haggling would have signaled desperation, and desperation got you screwed.
The name was Dr. Hector Vargas. Tijuana clinic. Specialized in facial reconstruction for people who needed to become someone else. Cartel money, witness protection rejects, criminals with too much heat. Fisher claimed he did good work—clean, professional, reliable.
I memorized the information and destroyed the paper it came on.
Day five: Two more deals. Badger's contact network proved deeper than expected—his family connections opened doors that Pete's history never could. $600 total. The pile grew.
Day six: I hit a wall. Physical exhaustion compounded by mental strain. NZT kept my mind sharp, but my body was running on fumes. I'd been sleeping four hours a night for nearly a week, eating irregularly, pushing through the fatigue because every day I delayed was a day closer to Jesse making a decision that couldn't be undone.
I took an afternoon off. Sat in a diner and ate a real meal—steak, potatoes, vegetables. Drank three cups of coffee and watched the world go by outside the window. The waitress refilled my cup without being asked. Small kindnesses.
Day seven: Final push. A complicated three-way deal that required precise timing and perfect coordination. Badger handled the first leg, Combo the second, and I managed communications from a coffee shop with good WiFi. Everything went smooth. $800 commission split three ways.
By sunset, I was sitting on a hill overlooking Albuquerque, watching the desert turn orange and gold. The Sandias caught the last light, their peaks glowing like something from a dream.
$2,900 total. Nearly 20% of target in one week.
My body ached. My eyes burned. My hands trembled slightly from sustained NZT use and inadequate sleep. But I'd proven something important: the operation could scale. With the right people, the right structure, the right approach, I could generate real capital.
The question was whether I could do it fast enough.
My phone buzzed. A text from Jesse: yo mr white wants to talk about chemistry lol wtf
I stared at the message until the screen dimmed.
It's happening.
Walter White had made his move. The partnership was forming. The clock that had been ticking since Jesse mentioned the gas station encounter was now screaming an alarm only I could hear.
I typed back: for real? thats random
Jesse's response came quick: ikr. super weird. gonna see what he wants
I wanted to call him. Wanted to tell him not to go, not to listen, not to get pulled into the gravity well of Walter White's ambition. But that wasn't how this worked. You couldn't save people by making their decisions for them. You could only show them alternatives and hope they chose differently.
The sun finished setting. The desert went dark except for the scattered lights of the city below.
$2,900. Dr. Vargas in Tijuana. A team that worked. And a friend walking into a trap I couldn't spring without revealing everything.
Tomorrow would be a long day.
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