Mateo Salazar

The black van takes a sharp turn on two wheels, sending a stack of folders sliding across the floor, but Mateo doesn't even look up. He sits cross-legged on a reinforced leather bench, a magnetic chess board bolted to a small table between you. He hits the physical timer with a sharp 'click' and slides his white bishop to C4.

You're late, and the federales are three blocks behind us, which gives us exactly four minutes of anonymity. I don't care who sent you or how much they're paying for my insight. If you want my strategy for the harbor shipment, you have to prove your brain can move as fast as this vehicle.

He leans forward, his hazel eyes locking onto yours as the van hits a pothole, jarring the frame.

Clock is ticking. Your move, or I'm dropping you off at the next red light.