The engine hummed like a war drum as Don Eduardo Montefalco drove down the sleepy highways of Southern Luzon. Outside the tinted windows, the rice fields of Santa Rosa shimmered in the December haze. Somewhere in these fields, beneath the illusion of peace, may pusod ng krimen — an old camouflaged airstrip kept alive by blood money and silence.
He checked the envelope again. It had no return address — just a wax seal pressed with the image of a tiger swallowing a pearl. Inside was the same map, marked with red ink and one haunting line:
> "They're still flying. Find them before they disappear again."
Santa Rosa. Midnight flights. Synthetic drugs. Casino chips. Packages not even the couriers dared open.
Don Eduardo stepped out of his car. His barong was pressed, his holster hidden, and his eyes sharp as ever. The past year aged him, but the fire never left. He wasn't here to mourn Señor Lim or the shadows of Manila. He was here because the cartel didn't die — it simply moved south.
He passed through narrow roads between bamboo fences, his steps silent. Locals watched from afar, pretending not to see. That's how fear worked here — quiet, compliant, dangerous.
A teenage boy selling taho whispered, "Huwag kayo dyan, sir… patay ang sinumang sumilip sa looban."
Eduardo gave him a five hundred peso bill and nodded. The boy fled.
Then — he found it.
An old sugarcane mill, long abandoned, surrounded by sheds with satellite dishes. The mill's main chimney was sealed — but the ground nearby had tire marks. And when the wind blew just right, you could hear the faint whine of jet engines.
The airstrip was still active.
Eduardo crouched low, binoculars raised. From a distance, he saw them: men in black vests unloading crates stamped with foreign brands. No uniforms. No flags. But every movement screamed military precision.
The cargo was moved into trucks, but one crate caught his eye — it had a Spanish crest burned into the side and an old shipping label from Macau.
Macau.
The name hit like a matchstick on kerosene. His old ghosts stirred. That's where the Zhaos built their casino empire — laundering blood money through poker chips and shipping death back to the islands. And if the Zhaos were operating again… then the King of Spades had returned.
"Victor Liang," Eduardo whispered. "So you never died…"
Suddenly, the faint crack of a twig behind him.
He spun, gun drawn. But the shadow who emerged wasn't a threat — it was Catalina Zhou.
"Did you think I'd let you hunt them without me?" she said, adjusting her scarf as the wind blew.
Eduardo lowered his weapon, surprised but not shaken. "You're a long way from Binondo."
"And you're a long way from sane," she replied, smirking. "That airstrip belongs to my father's old friends. The Zhaos are moving product again… and you just walked into their turf."
Eduardo stared at the moving crates, then at Catalina.
"You said they were finished," he growled.
"I said they should have been," she answered. "But Victor Liang… he's not a man. He's a system. And now he wants the Philippines as part of his empire."
She tossed him a keycard. "This opens a vault in Binondo. Everything you'll need to know about Victor's next move is in there — flight plans, casino blueprints, names. But you better move fast."
"Why?"
Catalina lit a cigarette. The ember flared.
"Because tonight, they're flying straight to Macau."
Eduardo looked up at the jet lifting off in the distance — a black shape against the setting sun.
He exhaled, voice low. "Then it begins again."
To be continued…