by Rusty Young
Trigeño patted me on the back and looked at his watch. It was 4 pm and there was just enough light left to get into position. ‘Good luck!’
Although we’d performed dozens of mock insertions and ambush operations, I had butterflies in my stomach. Trigeño assured me this was normal: I was like a groom on his wedding day. Provided the bride showed up, nothing could go wrong.
110
OUR OPERATIVES WERE divided into three sniper teams: Fredys and Piraña, Coyote and Indio, Palillo and me. Once embedded on Hacienda Díaz, we’d be camouflaged in our hides. However, reaching our destination – fifteen kilometres inside enemy territory – was the risky part.
Since Buitre had a semi-permanent checkpoint outside Garbanzos, highway travel wasn’t an option. Neither was a helicopter insertion, which would be noisy and visible. We couldn’t travel by boat because of enemy controls on river traffic. The simplest way to infiltrate Guerrilla territory was also the most dangerous – trekking through the fields that I’d known since childhood.
We exited Javier’s hacienda at irregular intervals with plans to rendezvous at my own family’s finca. In order to pass for a campesino boy, I carried chickens in a wicker basket, while Palillo hauled plastic bags filled with groceries. The others lugged sacks of corncobs in which our rifles were concealed. Meanwhile, Colonel Buitrago sent out multiple helicopter sorties over the Santo Paraíso side of the river so it would appear as though the army were conducting an operation in a different location.
We made it safely to our rendezvous point, and when I passed Papá’s unmarked grave and entered my house for the first time in fifteen months, I needed no further reminders of Zorrillo’s crimes. The exterior walls were now whitewashed, but inside the house, the sight of the shredded and smashed fragments of our precious possessions filled me with pain and anger. This time, though, I’d finally make Zorrillo pay.
We freed the chickens, buried the corncobs and removed our rifles and suits from the sacks. Then we walked the short distance to Hacienda Díaz, stopping in a cluster of trees on the property’s edge. It was just before sunset, allowing us an hour of fading light for observation.
The old ranch contrasted starkly with Javier’s luxury mansion. The main house, which I’d visited several times during my childhood, was a sturdy two-storey building of stone, adobe and wood built in Spanish colonial style with fourteen high-ceilinged rooms arranged around a tiled central patio. Since Humberto’s death, the dwelling had fallen into disrepair. The faded paint had peeled off completely. The large wooden entrance door now hung at an odd angle, and the surrounding grass had grown thick and tall.
Seventy metres to the west stood a milking shed. A little further away to the northwest was a large barn. On the other side of the main house was a tin-roofed caretaker’s cottage with cracked windows and a large verandah bordered by rotting wooden railings. With some defences added, I thought, all four buildings could serve nicely as our new headquarters.
Suddenly, Palillo stiffened. He’d heard a noise. We turned our scopes back towards the main house just in time to witness a sow emerging through the servants’ door with six piglets trailing behind and a gaggle of twenty hens in angry pursuit.
These animals might belong to squatters living inside, or they may simply have turned wild after Eleonora abandoned the ranch. Either way, we had no plans to sweep the place. Even if Zorrillo had already embedded observers, confronting them would ruin the mission. Our priority was to remain concealed and wait for our target to arrive.
Once darkness fell, we crawled towards the farmhouse to take up position in the hides we’d identified. We rejected the optimal firing locations as they’d be the first checked by enemy scouts. Instead, we selected three sub-optimal positions that formed a triangle around the farmhouse, camouflaging ourselves in slightly indented gullies in the rocky fields, only one hundred and twenty metres from the main building. Because we were so exposed, we’d be relying on surprise and fast, accurate shooting.
If the Guerrilla came at night with infra-red goggles, the surrounding rocks would hopefully retain enough of the sun’s heat to throw up confusing temperature patterns. We could also use water from our water bottles to streak our faces with mud and dampen our ghillie suits, temporarily lowering our body heat emissions.
‘No police on the highway,’ Palillo said over the headset, our code for having embedded safely.
The response came through: ‘Stand by for delivery of the gallinita.’
The little chicken was Fabián. We had no way of predicting when Zorrillo would phone back to specify the meeting time. I hoped it would be sooner than later, although we had enough water and energy bars to last up to five days.
Palillo and I spent that night motionless in our hide, one observing while the other slept, alternating every two hours. The cool night passed comfortably with no movement or sound apart from stray animals, and I spent the quiet hours mentally reviewing our plan.
I would take the first shot. Zorrillo, of course, was the main target. But Trigeño and Buitrago hoped the guerrilleros would come in considerable numbers. Buitre might even be among them since he was now in charge of kidnapping. However, even if he wasn’t, I had Zorrillo’s farewell planned in detail.
Army intelligence files listed him as 162 centimetres tall and left-handed – valuable information for a sniper since a target’s split-second movements can make the difference between his life and death. And I wanted Zorrillo alive. Injured, but alive. This time I had authorisation not to kill him immediately. I’d aim at his trigger arm and then we’d finish off his men. Buitrago had two Blackhawks on standby to pursue any who escaped.
My main fear was that Zorrillo would shoot himself before I could force him to surrender. But if he did give himself up, I’d offer him bandages. And then I’d hand him Padre Rojas’s Bible, make him kneel and circle him, just as Caraquemada had circled my father.
The following morning’s sky was blue and cloudless. The frenzied hum of insects portended a wretchedly hot day. Lying in position, I felt safe and composed. Even Trigeño’s precautions against a double-cross by the Díaz brothers filled me with confidence.
Right then, committing wholeheartedly to the Autodefensas seemed like the best decision of my life. But with Trigeño’s trust had come much responsibility. He was counting on me. I couldn’t let him down.
By midday the sun blazed overhead, heating my suit until it felt like a furnace. We endured a further three hours of scorching heat, until 3 pm, when my faith was finally rewarded.
‘I’ve got a flat tyre,’ said Palillo into his headset as he nudged me. My eyes followed the direction in which his binoculars were pointed. Human figures were moving slowly at the edge of the woods.
The enemy was arriving.
111
THE GUERRILLA’S ADVANCE squad of ten men looked rested and relaxed. They walked close together, laughing as though this were a routine visit. Another twenty guerrilleros came shortly afterwards, making a total of thirty. Zorrillo was not among them, although he may have been hanging back among the trees.
The guerrilleros spread out, searching the homestead and surrounding hills. One of them walked briskly towards our hide. He stopped at the rock directly in front of us and looked down.
Since the whites of eyes reflect a very distinctive light pattern, I followed proper procedure, even though it was the opposite of what my survival instincts were screaming – I closed my eyes and trusted my camouflage. Holding my breath while listening to enemy urine splashing onto the dirt only one metre away was absolutely terrifying. The tensest few seconds came after the splashing stopped. Had the guerrillero suddenly seen us, or simply finished? I thought I heard him zipping up his pants. Or was he reaching for his weapon? Then I heard footsteps receding. I opened my eyes and looked at Palillo. Our camouflage had held.
Eventually, the searchers must have given Zorrillo the ‘all clear’ because a transmission came from Trigeño: ‘We’ll save you some beers,’ mea
ning Javier had just received Zorrillo’s phone call and sent Fabián off in the car.
Twenty minutes later, the Mercedes arrived, its wheels crunching slowly up the gravel driveway, a cloud of dust hovering in its wake. Fabián circled and the brakes squealed as the vehicle pulled to a stop in front of the farmhouse, facing downhill with the engine idling.
The platoon surrounded the vehicle immediately. Its leader tapped on the hood, signalling for Fabián to exit. I began fretting. There was still no sign of Zorrillo. Had he sensed our trap and decided not to appear? To Fabián’s credit, he followed our instructions not to drive off. If Zorrillo didn’t show within three minutes, he was to make a hasty exit. They must have been the longest three minutes of Fabián’s life. One minute passed. And then another. With ten seconds to go, he began revving the engine and thirty rifles were raised and pointed at the car windows. I pictured Fabián and his bodyguards trapped inside, cowering in anticipation of the volley of bullets that would surely follow his emergency retreat.
‘There,’ whispered Palillo, pointing to the far side of the clearing where another twenty guerrilleros had emerged from the trees.
Although Zorrillo frequently changed his appearance, that day he wasn’t difficult to spot. Among dozens of soldiers, he was the only one wearing brown leather shoes and a gold watch. My heart beat faster as he sauntered towards the Mercedes with a bodyguard either side and tapped his knuckle against the window, signalling for Fabián to get out.
Finally, I thought. This is actually happening.
I took aim and nodded to Palillo, who gave two clicks on the radio – the signal that I was about to fire.
I breathed in deeply, and then released the air slowly. I squeezed the trigger. The Galil barked. Zorrillo clutched his upper left arm and then dropped to the ground. Half a second later, the report from the gunshot reached his companions and they dropped also, rolling towards the nearest cover – the Mercedes. Zorrillo’s two bodyguards curled up on either side of him, beneath the front and rear axles. Nothing happened for a full five seconds. I’d forgotten to give the follow-up order. But I did now, just as the Mercedes sped off around the corner of the farmhouse, crunching over Zorrillo’s ankle and depriving his men of their cover.
‘¡Dale!’
We fired at the guerrilleros and they fired back wildly in all directions, also shooting at the Mercedes until it reached safety behind the homestead. Not knowing our positions, however, they were firing blind. Deprived of cover, they spread out and lay flat, crawling towards the trees.
We were now three highly trained sniper teams with thirty-round Galils against fifty guerrilleros bearing AK47s with similar firepower. But we had two advantages: first, they couldn’t see us; second, they believed that lying flat and being spread out made it difficult for us to see them. We fired calmly and quickly on semi-automatic. Fifteen were down, including Zorrillo’s bodyguards, before the remainder realised they were up against snipers and scampered for the trees. Our three spotters, including Palillo, changed to offensive mode, switching their rifles to automatic to join me and the other two snipers. The noise and muzzle flashes finally gave away our positions, but by then we had them divided and on the run. More than an entire platoon fell, one soldier after the other, while maybe a dozen managed to flee into the trees, leaving their commander writhing and abandoned in the centre of the field.
Palillo and I sprinted towards Zorrillo as quickly as our heavy ghillie suits permitted. Palillo kicked away his rifle and I confiscated his radio.
‘Alias Zorrillo,’ I stated calmly, throwing him a bandage and first-aid kit. ‘Real name Edgar Hurtardo Junín, kidnapper and extortionist.’ I pronounced his name in the same formal tone as Caraquemada had used to read out Papá’s name from his cédula, as though it were proof of a crime.
Like a true coward at the moment of reckoning, Zorrillo tried to hide behind someone else. In this case, a dead person.
‘I’m not Zorrillo.’ After wrapping the bandage tightly around his upper arm, he pointed at a slain comrade. ‘That’s him right there. I’m just an ordinary soldier.’
I glanced at his wrist and raised my eyebrows. ‘Wearing a Rolex?’
Just then, two of Buitrago’s helicopters flew overhead in pursuit of the fleeing guerrilleros, and Zorrillo gave up the pretence, probably assuming I was from the army.
‘I want a doctor and one of those helicopters here right now. I’m an important prisoner. You need to get me to hospital.’
‘Do I? Do you know who I am?’
‘A pathetic campesino boy with a gun licence from the oligarchy. But you’ve kept me alive for a reason. I’m too valuable to the government. Now get me your superior.’
‘I’m the superior.’
‘Then you know that you have to take me in.’ He laughed. ‘We have good magistrates. I’ll be out in a week.’
‘I believe your friend – I mean your former friend – Alias Ratón might disagree. I killed him.’
His eyes widened, although more in confusion than fear. His arrogant countenance remained. I was enjoying this game, so I teased it out some more.
‘How’s Santiago’s left leg?’ I smiled slowly. ‘Yes, that was me too.’
I felt immense satisfaction watching his expression change once more as his arrogance faltered and his confusion turned to fear. ‘But I still have rights,’ he stammered.
‘Not with me you don’t.’ I removed the hood of my suit so he could better see my face. ‘You killed my father, prohibited his burial and banished us from our finca. What about our rights? What about the rights of everyone you’ve extorted, threatened and kidnapped?’
At last, recognition flickered in his eyes.
‘Ah, yes. The liar, Pedro Gutiérrez González. You claimed to be a little sardine of fifteen. But I see you joined the capitalist army after all.’
‘I’m seventeen now, and no, I didn’t join the army.’ I paused to let that sink in. ‘You may recall the graffiti I painted over yours, with the same letters as these.’ I peeled back my ghillie suit to reveal the black armband emblazoned with the white lettering of the Autodefensas’ initials: AUC.
My words had the desired effect. Finally, the full horror of Zorrillo’s predicament flooded in upon him.
Suddenly, he panicked. He scrambled to his feet and hobbled towards the trees, clutching his bandaged upper arm. Palillo took only four long strides to catch up. Clasping the nape of Zorrillo’s neck, Palillo dragged him back to me like a mother cat lifting a helpless kitten. He pushed him flat to the ground and placed his knee on his head. I caressed the muzzle of my rifle along his cheek, and then dug it in hard against his teeth, just as he had once done to me.
Zorrillo began sobbing. Unclipping his watch, he held it up to me.
‘Take this,’ he said with difficulty. ‘And I have cash. Lots of it buried in the jungle. I’m worth millions.’
‘I’m not doing this for money.’
In his face, I finally saw the arrogance and narcissism shatter completely. His usual tricks weren’t working. He was desperate now, begging me, imploring me to spare him. He looked pitiful, with his arms flailing in the dirt, trying to clasp my boot.
‘Wait! Wait! Santiago and Caraquemada. They were the ones who killed your father, not me. I can take you to the base of those communist bastards.’
‘I doubt that very much.’
I held up his radio handset – the one I’d confiscated. Since a dozen or more guerrilleros had escaped, word of our operation would already have reached his commanders anyway. And so I’d permitted myself a minor departure from Trigeño’s script. This whole time, I’d had the TRANSMIT button depressed. The Guerrilla had listened to our every word.
Zorrillo blanched as he realised his commanders had heard his offer to betray them. For him, there was no going back to the Guerrilla now and he knew it.
I spoke into the handset, firmly and dispassionately.
‘Buitre and Caraquemada. You’ve heard how much your
cocaine cash cow loves you. Now hear this: I am Pedro Juan Gutiérrez González. I am an Autodefensa. I killed Ratón. I will now kill Zorrillo. You two are next.’
Then, as I nodded to Palillo, who raised Zorrillo unsteadily to his knees, I forced them to listen, just as they had made me watch my father’s execution. They didn’t see Zorrillo toss away the pocket Bible I offered him, but they did hear his pleas and his final, childish tantrum: ‘Fuck you! Fuck your father. And fuck you all to hell.’
For an instant he looked at me as though I wasn’t man enough to pull the trigger.
But I was.
I stepped behind him, raised my pistol and fired into the tiny spot I’d chosen. The Smith & Wesson cracked. I turned and walked away as Zorrillo swayed on his knees. I had my back to him so I didn’t witness his complete fall. I only heard the thump – the perfect thump – of his body hitting the ground.
It had all gone exactly to plan. He’d even fallen face-forward like Papá. I kept walking without turning back or even looking over my shoulder. It had been a long time coming, but justice had been done. Justice had been perfectly done.
112
PALILLO RACED AFTER me. When he caught up, he patted my back in approval, although he did have one mild reproach.
‘Why didn’t you ask for the location of his cocaine millions? Then I could buy more of these.’ He raised his wrist, displaying Zorrillo’s Rolex, which he’d exchanged for his fake one.
I tried to coax Fabián from the shattered Mercedes, which was dotted with dents and tears from the bullets. At first he was too traumatised to unlock the door.
‘It’s okay,’ I comforted him when he finally emerged, placing my hand on his shoulder and leading him to the porch where he could sit and breathe easily. I’d punished Fabián enough; I now considered us even. ‘You’re safe. You can go home to Bogotá. They won’t touch you there.’