Kyle Pearse kept his head down in the driver seat behind the dilapidated warehouse next to a dank lake with a broken fountain in the middle as bullets flew all around the stationary getaway car. Then, he raised his head for a peek, and a bullet zinged him above the right eye.

Kyle ducked down, nursing the bloody wound, lamenting his regrets…” So, I’ll never get to see either Billy or Sylvia again…Jesus…,” as Kyle passed out. Kyle hadn’t seen his siblings for over two decades after the El Cajon, San Diego incident.

Two hours later, he awoke in the dark to a sullen streetlight-lit dump. “I’m alive, he said,” as he slowly exited the car and found three dead bodies.

He paused for seconds, weighing his options. He then searched until he found rusted drums with lids.

He poked holes in the drums and stuffed the bodies in, wiping off sweat as the vision in his right eye blurry in and out. He pushed the drums into the sordid lake and watched them submerge, hissing.

He opened the car trunk, loaded in the guns, and opened one of two bags loaded with dollar bills. He gunned the engine, shook his head in self-pity, “Brass Nacchio is gonna kill me…” the right eye, focusing and unfocusing as he merged onto a Texas highway.

Brass Nacchio is the kingpin for the Georgia wing of the Tijuana, Mexican, Fentanyl Cartel. .