Chapter 2: A Deal in the Shadows

Reggie Johnson sat in Captain Torres’s office, facing a hulking oak desk, its dark, scarred surface a testament to decades of wear. Each shift of the captain in his swivel chair unleashed a grating creak, a jagged note that sharpened the tension coiling in the dim room. Reggie’s wrists, bound tight behind his back, chafed against the cuffs as he sat silent, his ears tuned to Torres’s voice—a heavy, ominous tide flooding the space between them.

Torres leaned back, the chair groaning under his weight, punctuating the charged air. His words fell deliberate and measured, each laced with a veiled threat like venom in a velvet glove. “I have nothing against drug traffickers like you, Señor Johnson. In fact, I admire your ambition, and I relate to you as a fellow man of color. We’re not so different—beyond race, generations, and borders,” he began, his tone warm yet edged with menace.

“I don’t mind feeding drugs to the youth of your decadent country—lost souls who can’t even name their gender—to hasten its fall. But you hauled Morales Cartel product through Lopez territory, and that’s a line you don’t cross,” he continued, his voice hardening, a blade unsheathing.

“I could hand you to Señor Lopez, and he’d gut you on the spot, no trial needed. But I’ve weighed your situation, Señor Johnson, and you might serve me yet.” Torres paused, letting the words dangle like a noose. “I’ll take your generous gift of cash from your arrest—can’t return your drugs, of course. When the Magistrate’s back, I’ll report just a pinch of weed, and with my word on your cooperation, you’ll walk with a fine. As for Lopez, he’ll stay in the dark.”

Reggie sat still, absorbing the deal, his options shrinking under Torres’s iron grip, a predator toying with cornered prey.

A wry smile cracked Reggie’s lips, defiance glinting as he met Torres’s gaze. “You funny, Captain. I don’t recall givin’ you no cash,” he said, his moderate drawl rough with street grit, a gangbanger’s jab masked as banter.

Torres’s tight smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course you did, amigo. Your memory’s slipping,” he shot back, his voice smooth with mock pity, a thin veil over the threat beneath. His cool authority left no room for pushback.

Reggie mulled it over, thoughts heavy as lead. Torres was the crookedest “official” he’d ever met—a title stretched thin over a cartel thug. Still, it wasn’t all bad. Losing over $25,000 in drugs and cash stung like a shank, but it was the toll of the game in these wild lands. He swallowed the bitter pill, framing it as a brutal tax on his hustle.

His brows furrowed, glare locking on Torres. “Don’t see you leavin’ me much choice, fam,” he said, his tone clipped, thick with resignation.

A grin split Torres’s face, crooked teeth flashing like a jagged fence. His eyes roamed Reggie’s dark, chiseled frame, lingering on the massive bulge in his orange prison pants—a sight he’d first discovered when Reggie used the facility’s shower, raw and undeniable. Perfect for the task, he thought, a twisted thrill sparking. “You know, that’s an impressive tool you’re packing. How big’s that thing?”

Reggie smirked, pride flickering. Fully hard, he hit near 11 inches long, over six thick—a beast that turned heads. “You a fag, Captain? ‘Cause Reggie don’t swing that way,” he spat, defiance and disgust lacing his words.

At 60, Torres bore a paunch that sagged like a burden, his erections a fading memory propped up by porn—rare interracial clips of forced sex, where polished white women bent under hulking Black men. The acting often flopped, the “victims” too eager, ruining the fantasy. True resistance was gold, scarce as desert rain.

Years had passed since a chance like this landed in his lap. The vision of Señora Jordan—haughty, pristine, chaste—ravaged by this dark-skinned stud, all caught on video, set his pulse racing, breath quickening. Reggie’s rippling bulk, every muscle a coiled spring, fanned the flame. This kid could deliver the sick dreams Torres and his ilk craved.