Colombiano

by Rusty Young

  The bodyguard obeyed, and I walked through with the two of them following closely.

  Boris Sandoval was seated at the glass display counter at the far end of his store, punching buttons on a calculator. Behind him was the staircase that led up to his apartment. Down the centre of the store, effectively dividing it into two separate spaces, ran a two-metre-high metal shelf stacked with light fittings and transformers.

  As we entered, Sandoval looked up from his accounting, recognised me and smiled in greeting, perhaps relieved that I’d arrived in the company of my ‘boss’, Ratón.

  ‘Good to see you again!’

  Luckily, it wasn’t clear to whom he was speaking, but I had to act quickly. Sandoval’s next utterance might give me away. Walking towards the counter with my enemy at my back, the narrow aisle seemed to contract, hemming me in on all sides.

  I quickly scanned the shelves and saw what I needed: a roll of electrical cable. I’d disarm Ratón and the bodyguard, make Sandoval lock down the outside shutter, and then bind the bodyguard with electrical cable before interrogating Ratón inside the store.

  ‘After you,’ the bodyguard said to me as we approached Sandoval. However, I wanted to surprise them from behind.

  ‘No, I insist,’ I said, stepping aside so I could put two metres between us – close enough to aim, but too far for them to grab at the Taurus. ‘You go first.’

  When Sandoval frowned in confusion, I got ready to drop my box and point the Taurus at Ratón. Suddenly, the upstairs door clicked open and Sandoval’s daughter padded down the stairs carrying two plates of food. For some reason, although it was Friday, she wasn’t at school. Immediately, I began to panic. I couldn’t shoot anyone in front of a little girl. I edged towards the door, preparing to abort the mission.

  ‘You won’t need that box, compa,’ Sandoval said, using the Guerrilla’s term for friend. ‘I packaged the batteries for both your orders together.’

  Ratón stared at my face, finally recognising who I was. He looked stunned and horrified.

  I dropped my box. The bodyguard looked at me in astonishment as Styrofoam spilled onto the floor. When I advanced, crunching it beneath my feet, he must have realised the box was a prop. I raised the Taurus and aimed at Ratón’s chest.

  The little girl gasped as the bodyguard went to draw his weapon.

  ‘Leave it!’ I shouted at him. ‘Put your hands on the counter or I put a bullet in your boss.’

  Reluctantly, the bodyguard obeyed. Ratón held up both palms towards me and started retreating, trying to placate me.

  ‘Easy, muchacho. Put that thing away. We can work this out together.’

  The little girl began crying.

  ‘Close your eyes, cariño,’ Sandoval said.

  ‘Stand still,’ I yelled at Ratón. ‘Throw your pistol on the floor.’

  He glanced at his bodyguard, clearly stalling for time while trying to coordinate a response, but then reluctantly complied.

  However, he’d created a critical distance between himself and his bodyguard so that it was impossible for me to keep my pistol trained on both.

  ‘Sandoval,’ I ordered. ‘Lock the shutter and cut me some electrical cable.’

  When Sandoval went to move, his daughter latched onto his thigh, screaming, ‘No! No! No!’

  ‘It’s okay, cariño,’ he said, bending down to comfort her. But then, rather than fetching the cable, Sandoval bundled her into a hug and pulled her down behind the counter.

  With my attention momentarily distracted, the bodyguard reached for his weapon. I aimed for his chest and fired. In the confined space of the electrical store, the shot sounded like a thunderclap. The pistol recoiled, jerking my hands upwards.

  I’d missed, striking his arm. The bodyguard dived towards the shelves, firing back at me. I fired two more rounds – one missed but the other hit him in the stomach as he disappeared behind the metal racks of electrical goods.

  Almost at the same time, Ratón lunged forward to retrieve his pistol, but before he could get his hands on it I fired at him and missed. He scrambled out of sight as his injured bodyguard let loose from between the stacked boxes with a volley of shots that forced me to drop flat onto the floor and scramble behind the glass counter. We exchanged fire, but neither of us had a clear view of the other. Bullets ricocheted off the wall behind me and the glass cabinet exploded into flying shards.

  Next to me, the little girl was crying while Sandoval hugged her, repeating over and over, ‘Don’t hurt my daughter, please don’t hurt my daughter.’ Then he yelped in pain and blood spurted from his thigh.

  I was now trapped behind the counter with no safe way out of the store or even up the stairs. I heard whispering and then the bodyguard fired again. I fired back repeatedly until his pistol clinked against the tiled floor and he fell silent.

  I heard footsteps sprinting towards the door. I got one shot away at Ratón as he fumbled with the door handle, but it, too, went off-target, striking him in the lower back and causing him to trip and stumble as he rushed onto the street.

  I raced out and found him on the pavement, crawling towards the taxi.

  The taxi driver leaned across the passenger’s seat to open the door for Ratón. He reached into the glove box and raised a pistol. But before Ratón could climb in, I fired three shots, splintering the rear windscreen. Ratón changed direction, scrambling instead under a truck where I could no longer see him. Tyres squealed as the taxi sped away, its open door swiping two parked cars. The gunshots, screeching tyres and scraping metal had brought shoppers to doorways. Pedestrians hid behind cars. All of them were watching me. But I had to finish the job.

  Gripping Ratón by the ankles, I dragged him out from beneath his truck. Bleeding, he clutched at my trousers.

  ‘No. Please. No. Please, no.’

  I placed the pistol against his temple. ‘You killed my father. Why, when I was the one who spoke to the recruiters?’

  ‘That was Caraquemada, not me.’

  ‘Not true and not good enough.’

  ‘I’m a radio operator. I have nothing to do with making the orders or carrying them out.’

  That wasn’t true either – he’d been more than happy to extort money, oversee drug transactions and write a threatening letter to Padre Rojas. If I’d had more time, I could have argued. But dragging Ratón to the Blazer was now out of the question. I pressed the muzzle of the Taurus against his head.

  ‘Why?’ I demanded angrily.

  ‘I don’t know. It wasn’t up to me. I liked your father. We were friends.’

  Ratón’s claim of friendship with Papá infuriated me. It was the last lie he’d ever tell.

  I pulled the trigger. The pistol clicked. I was out of bullets. Seeing his opportunity, Ratón tried to wrestle me down. I fought to stay on my feet, reaching into my pocket for the extra bullets, but Ratón punched my wrist, spilling them across the pavement. Although bleeding heavily, he was strong. He grappled me to the ground, climbed on top of me and strangled me as my left arm flailed about the pavement, grasping for the bullets that remained just out of reach. Using my right hand, I struck at him with the Taurus butt.

  Ratón choked me harder and harder with one hand while the other struggled to prise the pistol from my grasp. My left hand alternated between unhooking his grip from my neck and groping for bullets. Each time I saw one and reached for it, Ratón kicked or slapped it away. Just as I was about to pass out, I thought of his bored expression as he repeated the order, ‘Execute him!’ With a sudden burst of anger my fingertips stretched out and lit on a bullet. Inserting it in the chamber, I held Ratón in a fierce hug and fired into his side. His chokehold went limp. I rolled him off me. He was dead.

  Panicked, I sprinted down the block towards the Blazer. Then I had second thoughts: the numberplate could be noted down by witnesses. Instead, I ran around the corner, planning to blend in with lunchtime shoppers. But I wasn’t thinking straight. How could I blend in, covered in blood and holding a
pistol? I hailed a taxi. The driver slowed down but then sped past me. I heard sirens. On foot I wouldn’t get far so I ran back to the Blazer. Pulling out, I scraped the rear bumper of the white sedan in front.

  My hands were shaking uncontrollably and I breathed in deep gulps of air. Since I hadn’t arranged a safe house in case things went wrong, at first I didn’t know what to do or where to go. Then I reverted to my original plan, taking the quiet back streets out of the city and driving towards the Ni Pío sign in Monterrey. I didn’t stop until I reached the saman tree.

  I sat there, forehead against the steering wheel, heart still racing, breathing hard. I’d killed Ratón. Everything had gone wrong. But at least I’d killed Ratón.

  Five minutes later, through the shock, the gravity of my new predicament dawned on me. Although safely out of sight, I was covered in blood with no change of clothes, sitting in a vehicle whose numberplates might have been noted. I’d been seen by Sandoval, his daughter, the taxi driver and scores of passers-by. The binoculars with my fingerprints on them were still in the residencia, but I couldn’t return.

  Police would be searching for me and the Blazer. Maybe they’d already identified me through the residencia manager. I had no doubt they’d catch me shortly. But if I drove back onto the highway, they’d catch me immediately.

  My phone rang. I flinched. Had they tracked me already? I scrambled to remove the battery, intending to throw away the SIM card. But then I saw the caller ID: PALILLO.

  59

  ‘WHERE ARE YOU?’ I asked urgently.

  ‘On a bus heading to Villavicencio. Camila told me what happened. I’ve been calling you since yesterday. Don’t do it, Pedro!’

  I paused. ‘Too late.’

  ‘¡Mierda! Where are you now?’

  ‘At the tree.’

  ‘Bury him then come back and collect me at the residencia. It will be less suspicious.’

  ‘I can’t. Things went wrong. There were witnesses.’

  ‘Then I’ll come to you. Don’t move!’

  When Palillo arrived on foot from the highway two hours later with our bags, he saw me sitting with my back against the wheel of the Blazer, head on my knees, and he sprinted the last fifty metres.

  ‘Fuck!’ he exclaimed. ‘We need to get you to hospital. Where are you shot?’

  Still in shock, I was shivering so much I could barely shake my head.

  ‘Not my blood,’ I stammered.

  Now that Palillo knew I wasn’t injured, I braced myself for another lecture about my mother, my father, Camila and not letting go of the past, but Palillo had said everything he’d wanted to a week earlier. We both knew what I’d done – I’d fucked up badly.

  ‘We had a deal, Pedro,’ was all he said.

  After that, Palillo was coolly detached and practical. He retrieved the shovel from the saman tree and handed it to me.

  ‘Strip down and make yourself useful,’ he ordered.

  While he looked through my bag and found jeans and a clean T-shirt for me, I dug a hole and buried my bloodied clothes, the blindfold, gag, rope, maps and cell phone.

  ‘Everything!’ he demanded.

  I threw in the Taurus then filled the hole.

  Afterwards, my hands were trembling so much that I couldn’t drive.

  ‘Give me the keys,’ said Palillo, even though he didn’t have a licence. The Blazer stalled several times before he got it moving. We sped towards the highway in first gear.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ he asked, crinkling his nose.

  Not wanting to mention the crate of weapons, I pointed to the five-gallon gasoline container I’d taken from the finca. With Palillo now in control my mind began to clear.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  ‘To the only place in this country you’ll be safe from the police and the Guerrilla – La 50.’

  Of course Palillo was right. But it struck me as ironic that only the day before I’d dreamed of leaving the Autodefensas, whereas now I was officially a criminal, fleeing to them for protection.

  ‘What happened to your lip?’ I asked, noticing that a scab was forming.

  ‘Stepfather came home.’

  ‘Your mother okay?’

  ‘Shitty town.’ Palillo spat out of the window. ‘We should never have gone back.’

  Since I was still shivering, Palillo reached into the back for the blanket. In doing so he uncovered the wooden crate and discovered the true source of the gasoline smell.

  ‘What’s this?’

  I didn’t answer, so Palillo pulled over and got out to check. Lifting the lid of the crate, he cast me a sharp look then dragged it from the trunk.

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘The Guerrilla had that stored in my bedroom. I want to take it back to Alfa 1.’

  For the first time since rescuing me, Palillo raised his voice.

  ‘Do you know how many police and military checkpoints we passed between La 50 and here? And if by some miracle we’re not stopped and searched because this vehicle stinks of diesel, do you think you can just walk up to Alfa 1 and say, ‘Hey, thanks for the vacation! Do you want this crate-load of weapons and explosives I happened to find whilst driving the truck I stole from you’?’

  Splashing fuel over the crate, Palillo snatched the blanket from me and added it to the pile. He held out newspaper and a cigarette lighter.

  ‘Your one-man job,’ he said, nodding towards the weapons crate. ‘You finish it.’

  When I refused to take them, Palillo tossed me his cell phone.

  ‘Either you blow it, or you phone Buitrago with the location. Your choice.’

  60

  I CALLED COLONEL Buitrago’s secretary with the location of the crate. Although it was out of his operational area, I hoped he’d get credit for the find. If his patrols saw the graffiti I’d left on our finca and bothered to go inside, he’d probably guess where the weapons were from. Maybe then he’d realise who was on the wrong path. And he’d also owe me.

  Reaching La 50 at dusk, we passed through the gate search as if nothing had happened. It was Friday and we were back two days early. The trainers were still on leave. No one asked about the Blazer. We cleaned it, aired it, replaced the door handle, filled the gasoline tank and sandpapered the white paint off the bumper scratch. I was still convinced I’d get caught, but Palillo was relaxed.

  Before arriving at the saman tree, he’d stopped at the residencia to collect my possessions. Police across the street had been taking witness statements, but evidently the killer’s description hadn’t yet reached the manager. Palillo had played it cool when he entered, acting surprised when she told him there’d been a triple shooting out front. Rather than sneaking out or paying her a tip to keep quiet, he’d demanded a refund for the two remaining nights, claiming we were both moving to a safer hotel.

  ‘This never gets mentioned again,’ he declared, handing me the refund. ‘Keep your mouth shut forever and nothing will happen.’

  Despite Palillo’s reassurance, for the next two days I was convinced that any moment police would descend in helicopters with a warrant for my arrest.

  I shivered when I thought about what I’d just done. I’d killed two men. One of them without wanting to. I hadn’t expected killing a man to be so difficult and so messy. Trigeño and Beta had made killing look easy – graceful even. They did it in one simple motion that took a fraction of a second and seemed painless to the victim. But man does not die easily. And no matter how much you tell him he has to die, or even show him he has to, he will never accept it. Man wants to go on living, and he will fight and grasp and plead to his last breath because his life is what is most precious to him.

  Each night I fretted about witnesses and evidence – the taxi driver, the storekeeper, the residencia manager, ballistics tests on the eighteen 9mm shells left behind on the pavement, forensics tests on hair strands in my cap, the skin under Ratón’s fingernails and even the Blazer’s paint scratches on the white sedan.

  Palillo laughed.
‘You’ve been watching too much American TV,’ he said. ‘This is Colombia.’

  I couldn’t have asked for a better friend than Palillo. I’d cut his vacation short, broken our agreement to abduct Ratón together and made him complicit in a double homicide, but he was cracking jokes. And he was probably right.

  I’d read in the newspaper that the previous year over 30,000 homicides had been recorded nationally. During Pablo Escobar’s reign of terror, dead bodies lay unattended for hours, sometimes days, because police didn’t have enough resources to collect them, let alone identify victims, open an investigation file and pursue the killers. After all, what had they done about Papá’s murder? And if three presidential candidates had been assassinated without a single charge brought, why would authorities bother with a simple street killing? If anything, when investigators identified the victims as guerrilleros, they’d realise I’d done them a favour. Or even if they miraculously discovered who I was, they’d never come to a Paramilitary base looking for me. La 50 was the perfect refuge for criminals.

  Palillo’s arguments calmed me. By Sunday, when no police had arrived and no news of the killings reached the base, I began to believe him – maybe I wouldn’t be caught. But that didn’t stop me from being haunted by the memory of Ratón tugging at my trousers, begging for his life. At night, I’d wake suddenly, gasping for breath with the full weight of Ratón’s body on top of me as he bled out. My hammock had become twisted about my body, wrapping around me like a dying man clinging desperately to life.

  On Sunday afternoon, I grew anxious about Alfa 1’s return. He had a way of finding out everything. Paramilitary recruiters in Garbanzos plaza might have seen us in the Blazer. Alfa 1 might notice the scratches on the bumper. I suggested we invent a cover story for where we’d been, but Palillo said to tell him the truth, although only if asked.