Jack Carlton Reed Pablo Escobar -

Jack picked up the aguardiente, raised the bottle to the empty room, and drank until he couldn’t see the photo on his laptop anymore.

“That’s not an answer.”

The rain hammered harder. Jack’s hand drifted toward the holster under his jacket—old habit. “You’re selling poison to kids.” jack carlton reed pablo escobar

“You should go,” Jack said quietly.

His own son.

The knock on the door came soft, three times. Jack didn’t turn. “It’s open.”

Jack Carlton Reed sat alone in a rented apartment overlooking the old neighborhood, a half-empty bottle of aguardiente sweating beside his laptop. He wasn’t a cop anymore. Wasn't exactly a journalist either. He was the kind of ghost that former DEA agents become: useful to some, hunted by others, invisible to most. Jack picked up the aguardiente, raised the bottle

The file on his screen flickered. A grainy photo from 1991. Pablo Escobar , smiling like a man who had never heard the word "extradition."