Transporte - De Personal Pemex

Don Javier killed the engine. He pulled out his logbook and wrote: 06:47. Arrived. All personnel accounted for.

The bus groaned as he swung the wheel hard left. Branches scraped the paint of La Dama de Acero . Workers held their breath. The wheels spun for a terrifying second in the soft mud before finding traction. For twenty minutes, they bounced and swayed. Luis turned pale. Marta held his arm. transporte de personal pemex

He watched them file out, joining the river of fluorescent vests heading toward the helipad and the crew boats. He was already invisible to them, just the bus driver. But as they walked toward the towering distillation columns and the endless hiss of high-pressure steam, each one of them looked back for just a second and gave a small wave. Don Javier killed the engine

Don Javier smiled, revealing a gold tooth. “Mijo, I have been driving this route for eighteen years. I have never lost a single worker. Not one. That is my Pemex. Not the directors. The drivers.” All personnel accounted for