Chapter 1: Dust and Despair / Chapter 2: The Road to Los Altos
Garcia left school. The sun was setting, painting the building facades a warm orange. Torrevieja is beautiful at this time of day. Tourists haven't yet flooded the promenade, and the locals haven't yet opened their bars to full capacity. The city belonged to those who knew its underbelly.
Garcia climbed into his Seat Leon. The car coughed, but started. In the glove compartment lay a pack of cigarettes and a revolver. No, not a revolver. A stapler. But in this city, this year, the line between office paraphernalia and a weapon was becoming increasingly thin.
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He typed the address into the GPS. Los Altos. It was a hillside neighborhood with a view of the sea, but the streets themselves were narrow and tangled, like a labyrinth created by a drunken architect.
Garcia drove slowly. He thought about what was happening. Why coke? Why now? 2026. Supposedly the age of technology. In provincial Spain, in a school where the budget was cut to repair the roof of the town hall, coke is everything. It's a symbol. No coke, no lesson. No lesson, no education. No education, no future.
It sounded pompous. But Garcia knew in his gut: this wasn't just a supply disruption. It was a blockade. Someone had turned off the tap. And this "Lord God" was the only one with the key.
He turned off Avenida de la Libertad onto Calle Ramón y Cajal. Here the road began to climb. The engine howled. The Fiat didn't like hills. Garcia shifted gears.
It was getting quieter around him. Tourist apartments gave way to private villas, hidden behind high cypress fences. Some villas looked abandoned. Windows boarded up, mailboxes overflowing. The 2024 recession had hit this region hard. Many had left, never to return.
Garcia found Paseo Vista Alegre. It wasn't exactly a street, more like a dead end leading to an old lookout point. The asphalt here was broken, and dry grass was growing through the cracks.
He parked at the curb. He turned off the engine. Silence fell immediately. The only sounds were the chirping of cicadas and the distant sound of the sea.
Garcia got out of the car. The air was different here. Less salty. More dusty. He looked at the paper. "Garage #4."
The row consisted of three concrete boxes. The doors were rusty metal. The first had a lock. The second garage door was ajar. Not a sound came from inside.
Garcia approached the second door. He knocked. The metal responded dully.
No one answered.
He knocked louder. With his knuckles.
"Anyone there?" he shouted.
Silence.
Garcia was about to turn away, deciding it was a dead end, that Velasquez had tricked him, when the garage door clanged open. The mechanism was old and creaky.
A figure appeared in the doorway. A man. Of medium height, thin. Dressed in a dark suit that cost more than the city hall's annual budget. His face was hidden in shadow. Only his glasses gleamed in the reflection of the setting sun.
"Are you lost?" The voice was low, calm. With an accent. With a strange intonation, as if the man hadn't spoken Spanish for a long time.
"They told me you can buy marble powder here," Garcia said. His heart was pounding somewhere in his throat. He clasped his hands in his pockets to hide their trembling.
The man grinned.
"Peace and Love. Old code. Who sent you?"
"That's not important. What matters is that I have money. And I need the goods. White. Clean."
The man stepped forward. The light fell on his face. It was pale, almost transparent.
His eyes were cold, gray.
"Come in. But I warn you: if you're a cop, or a journalist, or just an idiot who likes to take pictures on his phone, you won't be leaving here."
Garcia nodded. He stepped inside.
The garage wasn't a garage. It was a warehouse. But not an ordinary one. It smelled... of sludge.
The dry, clean smell of coke. The walls were lined with shelves. On the shelves were boxes. Lots of boxes.
"Sit," the man pointed to an old wooden chair in the center of the room. He remained standing. "My name is... Call me Lord God. Señor Dios. It's more convenient."
"Garcia. Javier Garcia. Teacher."
"I know who you are, Javier. I know how much you earn. I know you have a mortgage on an apartment in La Mata, which you pay three days late every month.
I know your wife left you last year, taking the dog with her."
Garcia froze. A chill ran down his spine.
"Who are you?"
"I'm a supplier. I solve problems. And you, Javier, have a big problem right now. Without coke, you're a clown. With coke, you're a teacher. The difference is one ingredient."
God walked over to the nearest box. He opened it. Inside, neatly arranged in a row, were white packets. They shone. They looked like silver bars.
"Try it," God handed one packet to Garcia.
Garcia took it. It was heavy, dense. The surface was smooth. Garcia ran his fingernail over it.
A pleasant springiness.
"Where did you get this?" Garcia asked. "There's a shortage in the country."
"There's a shortage in the country because I bought everything," God said simply. "The supply chains are broken. Factories in Germany have modernized. The Chinese have raised prices tenfold and are making crap. And I... I have reserves. Old reserves. And new channels."
"It's a monopoly," Garcia said. "It's illegal."
God laughed. The sound was dry, like the crack of an old chicken bone breaking.
"Illegal?" Javier, we're in Spain. Parking in handicapped spaces is illegal here. Everything else is a matter of agreement. Do you want to buy it or do you want to...
Lecture about morals?
Garcia looked at the coke. Then at God.
"How much?"
"A bag? 150 euros."
"A hundred and fifty?!" Garcia choked. "It's ten at the store!"
"It's not at the store," God snapped. "But it's here. And it's not just cocaine. It's a guarantee that your mind will be clear. That your reputation won't crumble like that colored trash. You're not buying calcium, Javier. You're buying a high."
Garcia was silent. He was calculating in his head. He had eight hundred euros on him. Withdrawn from his credit card.
For food until payday.
"I need ten bags," Garcia said.
"For you alone?"
"For starters." If it works...
— If it works, the price will be different. For wholesale.
God walked over to another shelf.
— Look. I have more than just chalk.
He pulled a smaller box off the shelf. Opened it. Inside were bags of weed.
The real deal. Not that crap they sell on every street corner.
—Different varieties. To forget. To think. To laugh.
He then showed me the accessories (you can write them yourself, I don't know what they have).
—A complete set, God said. "I can supply you with everything. I have connections."
Garcia looked at this assortment. It looked like a wartime warehouse. But instead of bullets, here were the means for a new, high-spirited life.
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"Why are you doing this?" Garcia asked. "You could sell anything.
Guns, for example."
God looked at him with a long, piercing gaze.
"Guns destroy the body." Cocaine... Coke destroys illusions. It's the most dangerous commodity in the world, Javier. Whoever controls coke controls the future. I'm simply...
providing the tool.
Garcia felt a shiver run down his spine. This man wasn't just a speculator. He was an ideologue.
"I'll take ten bags of coke. And five bags of LSD," Garcia said. "But I need a guarantee. That it won't run out in a week."
"A guarantee?" The Lord God smiled. "My guarantee is your addiction. Once you and your colleagues get used to white, they won't accept colored crap. Parents will start asking questions. The principal will start pressuring you. You'll be the hero who found the solution. But you'll be dependent on me."
"That's blackmail."
"It's business. Vince Gilligan style, if you like. A small man makes a big choice."
Garcia pulled out the money. The wad of bills was crumpled. He placed it on the table.
God didn't count it. He simply picked up the pack and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
"I'll send the coordinates for the next meeting to the director's phone. Don't call me.
Don't look for me. I'll find you."
"What if I tell the police?"
God came closer. Garcia smelled his perfume. Sandalwood and something metallic.
"They would have looked. But you won't tell. Because you need to. You won't snitch. It's a matter of honor. Besides..." God leaned toward Garcia's ear. "I have a video of you buying stolen coke from an unknown person. The wording can be anything. Do you need it?"
Cocaine, best quality in Spain / Torrevieja
Garcia swallowed.
"No."
"Smart boy. Take the stuff and go. The car is parked behind you."
Garcia took the bags. They were heavy. He walked out of the garage. The door clanged shut behind him.