Luis’s mouth went dry. The DEA had given him a special paper. Invisible ink under normal light. But Chuzo had been staring at the sun through a car window all afternoon—his pupils were pinpricks. He saw everything.
“Now.”
“What’s this?” Chuzo asked.
Luis did the only thing he could. He laughed. “You think Pablo would let me use American paper? It’s a watermark from the Bogotá printer. Counterfeit. Like everything else.” Narcos