The three-day trek had been grueling. The mountain road was less a path and more a gauntlet—a shortcut to hell. Along the way, rusted-out cars lay abandoned, half-swallowed by mud or crippled beyond repair. In this treacherous landscape, the raw wilderness of the jungle felt like a jagged scar across the earth.

"These must be vehicles from buyers who tried to reach the villages before us," said Deadshot, his voice flat with fatigue. "When the cars broke down, they ditched them and walked the rest. Out here, time really is money."

Adam, reins in hand, gave a distracted nod, "Luckily, we're not relying on engines. No breakdowns, no gas worries. Thirty-eight horses might look primitive elsewhere, but in this terrain, they're more reliable than any vehicle."

He wasn't exaggerating. He had insisted on using a horse team to carry the cargo, knowing full well that the rugged terrain would make motor transport a liability. He recalled the historical lesson of Scott and Amundsen—two explorers racing to the South Pole. Scott had trusted modern machines; they failed him. Amundsen used huskies and arrived first. In extreme conditions, nature often beat technology.

Deadshot nudged his chin toward the porters struggling behind the cavalry, "But asbestos tiles? And a dozen barrels of rum? That's a stretch even for you."

Adam didn't look up from his logbook and replied, "The tribes here want building materials, but no one's ever brought them in bulk. With no proper roads, it's nearly impossible to haul supplies this deep into the mountains. I chose high-demand items that the locals can't get themselves. As for rum…"

He trailed off with a shrug and said, "It travels poorly, but it sells high."

Even so, nearly 10% of the rum had already leaked or shattered in transit. The journey had been brutal. And this was only the beginning.

Beyond rum and asbestos, Adam had stockpiled basic necessities—refined salt, soap, textiles, and tools. Salt, in particular, was a rare commodity. In Bolivia's western salt flats, entire buildings were made of the stuff. Yet in the jungle, separated by impassable roads, indigenous tribes often went their whole lives without tasting it.

Deadshot wasn't impressed and complained, "Still can't believe you conned that plant girl into tagging along. Told her it was all for 'humanitarian aid'? What's next—getting her into bed in the name of botanical research?"

He gestured toward Pamela Isley, who was off photographing jungle flowers with childlike fascination.

She had been shunned by the official inspection team. Adam, needing cover for his operation, had fed her a lie. To his surprise, she believed it without question, and had followed him ever since. Maybe, he thought, the only thing she truly trusted were plants.

He shot Deadshot a cold look and said, "Focus. This isn't the place to joke around. One careless moment out here, and you're dead."

Then his gaze shifted toward the slopes ahead and said, "We're almost there."

All around them, the hills had been cultivated. Neatly arranged rows of seedlings dotted the terrain like a pale green carpet. To a casual eye, it might resemble farmland. But Adam knew better.

Local farmers paused as the group passed, whispering among themselves. Half-naked children, covered in dust and dripping noses, ran barefoot to greet the convoy. Their wide eyes gleamed at the sight of the horses and supplies.

"We'll reach the tribal village in half an hour," whispered Number One, sidling up beside Adam.

"Thank God we made it before the full moon. Maybe I'll finally get my cut this time."

Adam didn't respond. His lips were tight, his thoughts elsewhere.

The moment they reached the village, Adam and his team went straight to the makeshift marketplace—no rest, no delays.

Though trading hadn't officially started, crowds had already formed, examining the goods on display. For the first time, Adam saw the commodity at the center of all this effort.

It looked like a rotten sweet potato—black, gnarled, and foul-smelling. A local trader expertly sliced one open with a pair of scissors, revealing a sticky, brown substance inside. He then shone a flashlight into the cut, letting buyers inspect the texture.

Adam leaned in, and recoiled, "This is what they're fighting over?"

Even more bizarre than the goods themselves were the scales used to weigh them. There were no official weights—just coins, beer caps, and even pistol bullets.

Number One noticed Adam's confusion and whispered, "Out here, we don't trust outside scales. So we use whatever's common: beer caps for low-grade stuff, eagle dollars for mid-range, and bullets for the premium. If you're paying in ammo, you're buying something people would kill for."

That symbolism wasn't lost on Adam.

Then things got worse.

One of the sellers spit into a handful of product—first just saliva, then thick mucus. It was disgusting.

Adam turned away in horror, "What the hell was that?!"

Number One tried to explain, "The stuff's sticky. They spit on it to keep it from clumping—helps when packing or shaping it."

Around them, mountain women hocked phlegm into their hands, shaping and bagging the product without a second thought. Hygiene didn't seem to exist here. In some cases, there might have been two pounds of spit for every pound of product.

Adam gagged, "Jesus Christ! And people put this in their bodies? Do they even know what it's made of? Do they care?"

He turned pale, "If the buyers ever saw how this was made, they'd never touch it again."