Chapter 3 - The Birth of Vanguard
Ten miles away, in a quiet, sunlit corner of an industrial park in Azcapotzalco, Gabriel was standing in front of an abandoned glass-fronted warehouse.
The air smelled of fresh paint and concrete dust. Beside him stood Valeria, holding a small box of colored chalk, drawing hopscotch squares on the smooth gray floor while two workmen adjusted a large metal sign over the entrance.
The sign read: VANGUARD LOGISTICS SOLUTIONS.
Gabriel’s phone rang. He pulled it out, seeing Tomás’s name on the caller ID.
"Hey, Tomás," Gabriel said.
"Gabo," Tomás’s voice was breathless, filled with a mixture of shock and awe. "It’s a bloodbath here. The federal agents just served formal subpoenas on Dad and Mariana. They’re seizing the central server logs. The legal team is telling Dad he might be facing personal asset freezes by the end of the week."
Gabriel looked at his watch. "It moved faster than I thought."
"Dad was asking for you," Tomás said quietly. "He offered to make you CEO. He said he’d give you forty percent of the shares."
Gabriel let out a soft sigh. He looked at Valeria, who was currently carefully drawing a heart around the number '8' on the concrete floor.
"Two days ago, Tomás, my daughter was handed a broken toy and told she didn't count," Gabriel said. "Yesterday, my father told me I was a clerk who would come crawling back on my knees. He doesn't want me as CEO because he values me. He wants me as CEO because he needs a shield to take the blame for his fraud."
"I know," Tomás replied. "I told him to go to hell on your behalf. Oh, by the way... I submitted my resignation twenty minutes ago."
Gabriel froze. "Tomás, you don't have to do that. You have a position there—"
"I had a position as a glorified coffee fetcher for Mariana," Tomás interrupted. "I’m twenty-eight years old, Gabo. I want to work for a man I respect. Are you going to hire me at Vanguard or do I have to submit a formal application?"
A rare, warm smile broke across Gabriel’s face. "I can’t pay you what Transportes Castañeda paid, Tomás. We’re starting from scratch."
"I don't care about the money," Tomás said fiercely. "I care about being able to look in the mirror without feeling disgusted. Where are you?"
"Azcapotzalco. I’ll send you the address. Bring your laptop."
Within two hours, Tomás arrived, carrying two large boxes containing his personal belongings and a stack of printed files.
He stopped at the threshold of the warehouse, looking around at the vast, empty space. The structure had five high-clearance loading bays, a clean administrative mezzanine, and a fully functional fleet maintenance pit.
"How did you secure this place so fast?" Tomás asked, staring at the floor plan. "This park has a six-month waiting list."
"It belonged to Mateo Delgado," Gabriel explained, gesturing toward a glass office on the mezzanine.
Mateo Delgado was one of the largest independent produce distributors in central Mexico—a man who had been ruthlessly squeezed by Don Rogelio for three years through inflated freight rates and delayed deliveries.
"When I called Mateo yesterday morning to tell him I was leaving Transportes Castañeda," Gabriel continued, "he didn't just offer me this space at a discount; he signed a two-year exclusive transport contract for his entire southern produce fleet on the spot."
"Without trucks?" Tomás asked, his eyes wide.
"We have trucks," Gabriel said calmly. He walked over to the office window and pointed down toward the rear yard.
Parked in a neat, shining row were twelve brand-new, ultra-low-emission Volvo heavy haulers, their white cabs gleaming under the afternoon sun.
"Where did you get twelve new haulers in twenty-four hours?" Tomás gasped.
"I didn't get them in twenty-four hours," Gabriel said softly. "I’ve been leasing them through a private holding company I set up two years ago using my independent consulting income. I knew the storm was coming, Tomás. I just didn't know which day my father would force me to open the umbrella."
Before Tomás could respond, a sleek dark sedan pulled into the driveway outside the warehouse.
The door opened, and a tall, elegant woman stepped out. She was wearing a tailored navy suit, her hair pulled back into a sharp, professional silver-streaked bun.
Gabriel’s eyes softened. "Tomás, you remember Sofia Morales?"
Tomás’s jaw dropped. Sofia Morales was the former Chief Financial Officer of the National Commerce Bank—a woman whose financial acumen was legendary across the Mexican logistics sector, and who had retired three years prior after a high-profile dispute with Don Rogelio over an uncollateralized thirty-million-peso loan request.
"Gabriel," Sofia said, walking into the warehouse, her heels clicking crisply on the concrete floor. She looked around, an approving smile touching her lips. "It smells like honesty in here. Much better than your father’s office."
"Sofia," Gabriel said, stepping forward to shake her hand warmly. "Thank you for coming."
"I heard the news about the federal audit twenty minutes ago," Sofia said, pulling a leather binder from her purse. "Your father’s bank accounts at National Commerce have already been flagged for administrative review. By tomorrow, Transportes Castañeda’s credit line will be frozen. They won't be able to buy diesel fuel by Friday."
She turned her gaze to Gabriel, her sharp eyes assessing him with deep respect. "You have sixty percent of the independent regional drivers waiting for your call, Gabriel. They know you paid them on time, they know you never forced them to run illegal shifts, and they know you are the only reason that company survived as long as it did. What is your first move?"
May you like
Gabriel looked over at Valeria, who was now sitting on a wooden crate, happily eating an apple while watching the mechanics check the tire pressure on the new Volvo haulers.
"Our first move," Gabriel said, his voice quiet, steady, and terrifyingly clear, "is to offer a fair, safe, and fully legal transport contract to every single client my father currently holds. By sunset, Transportes Castañeda won't have a single primary contract left."
