Juan gripped the handgun in his right hand behind his head where the shadows would conceal it. In just a moment, he would whip it around and shoot at the underside of the chopper so that the pilot would swerve away, allowing Juan to descend the fire escape in relative darkness.
He picked his chance and swung the gun around.
The spotlight blinded him as the gun came around, and Juan used his other hand to defend against the light. Before he could pull the trigger, his shoulder went numb, and the gun slipped from his hand, falling two stories where it discharged upon the alleyway floor. He thought he might have heard a cat yowl.
“Well, shit,” Juan muttered as he prepared to make a dash for the fire escape around the corner anyway.
The searchlight hiked as the helicopter spun around. Juan lowered his left hand from his eyes as sparks ricocheted off the bottom of the chopper. Then he heard the gunshots.
Someone was firing a small gun at the helicopter from the street below.
Seizing the opportunity, Juan made his way along the ledge and to the fire escape around the corner, descending as rapidly as his legs would allow. Once at ground level, he blended effortlessly into the chaos of the people exiting the club, pulling off his facemask and dropping it behind him where it would be trampled underfoot. He now looked like just another confused survivor of the club shooting.
He linked up with Rockwell a few minutes later, and they headed to Rockwell’s car.
“Nice shooting,” Juan said as he got in. “But what would Aguilar say if he knew you were shooting at his police choppers?”
“Hell with that man,” Rockwell said. “I didn’t hurt anybody. What happened to catching up with Paul?”
Juan massaged his shoulder as Rockwell started the car. “Battle injury. That, and Paul shot out the ledge.”
“You ask me, I’d say you’re getting soft.”
“I didn’t ask you,” Juan said, and they drove off into the night.
TUESDAY
10
Switched Identities?
“What the hell, man?” CG asked when he saw Juan the next morning in the break room of the joint ops center.
“Yoga didn’t go well, I take it?” Juan asked.
“Jerk. Cali said you’d be there.” CG brought a Styrofoam cup of coffee to his lips, the steam fogging his chic glasses. The young computer tech’s short hair was styled upward and to the side as it always was, giving him a unique hacker vibe.
“Something came up,” Juan said.
“Oh really? Cause it was pretty embarrassing for me. How could you just let a bro hang like that?”
Juan had already made and drank his coffee at his apartment, so he filled a paraffin-lined paper cone from the water cooler. “Sorry, man. Why was it so embarrassing?”
“Because I was the only guy.”
“That would imply there were plenty of women present,” Juan said.
“Yeah. There were. And it was embarrassing.”
“Why?”
“Cause—” CG said, his voice rising. He looked around and lowered his accusing finger from Juan’s face. “Cause you know how bad I am with girls.”
“Were they older women?”
“No. Well, some. They were mostly around our age. They were so hot.”
“You get any phone numbers?”
“Didn’t even try. It was humiliating. I couldn’t think of what to say, so I just talked to Cali while we waited for the class to begin. I kept waiting for you to come through the doors and be my wingman, but you never showed. My nerves got so bad before the class started that I just got up and left. I couldn’t even sleep last night.”
Juan crumpled his water cone and tossed it in the recycling bin. He looked at his friend. “I didn’t know . . .”
“It’s bad, dude. I got social problems. Luckily Cali covered for me and said I ate something bad for dinner.”
Juan put a hand on CG’s shoulder in a rather Paul-like fashion and turned his head as he caught a whiff of burnt coffee rising from the cup. “It was a personal emergency,” he said. “I was on my way, but . . . I’ll make it up to you. Take you out to a bar or somewhere there’s a lot of girls. Try to get you hooked up with some nice thing.”
Juan felt a sharp slap on his rear and turned, the pain already starting to sting.
It was Cali.
“Ow. That’s the ass cheek that got shot.”
“I know,” Cali said with a wicked grin. “Speaking of ‘nice things’ . . . where was your ass last night?”
“I was just telling CG here that I had a bit of an emergency—”
“Did you now? I hope it involved a toilet,” she said as she filled her cup with the dregs of the coffee remaining in the carafe.
“Actually . . .” Juan started to say, but Agostino walked in and pretend-punched him in the chest. Then he slipped by and lifted the coffee carafe.
“Damnit,” Agostino said.
“You just missed the last of it,” Cali said, raising her cup.
“Just got to taunt me, don’t you?” Agostino said as he poured a carafe of fresh water over the used grounds. He looked back at Juan, who grimaced. “How’d the yoga session go, guys?”
“It didn’t,” CG said.
“You reneged?” Agostino asked with a surprised look at Juan.
“Something came up,” Juan said.
Agostino looked at Cali as if glancing over a pair of sunglasses. “Something always does, amiright? Guess there would have been room for me to come, then. I’ve got my own mat, you know.”
“Really?” Cali asked.
Juan rolled his eyes and walked to the command room. He passed Captain Aguilar on the way, who furrowed his eyes at him but said nothing, which suited Juan just fine since he’d had enough of people shitting on his morning. It wasn’t like he had intentionally missed yoga.
When he got there, Rockwell and a young female computer tech were the only ones in the room. Rockwell broke his conversation with her and started rifling through the stack of papers in his hands when he heard someone enter.
“Paul. First one here this morning.”
Juan shrugged. If there was a man who could really knock him down a few pegs, it’d be old man Rockwell.
“Can you help me with something in the storeroom?” Rockwell asked, nodding toward the door at the back of the room.
“Sure,” Juan said. As they walked, Juan looked over at Rockwell’s arm. “How’s the hand?”
“I’ll live. You sore?”
“A bit.”
Once in the room, Rockwell’s eyes focused on Juan’s like twin lasers. “Where would Paul go next?”
“How should I know?” Juan asked. “You got any more informants who might know when the next bad guy meeting is going down?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’m telling you, he’s involved with these snake people. If you let me go to Barranquilla today, maybe then I’ll have a lead.”
“And I said I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
“Then what am I supposed to do? I don’t have a telepathic link to my brother. And I don’t know where Paul’s home base is. But here’s something. Just tell me what you know about this snake gang. You’re hiding something. If I bought you some whiskey, would that help loosen your tongue—”
A head peeked into the room, searching the small confines around the stacked chairs and tables until he found Juan and Rockwell. “Am I missing some recurring secret meeting?” CG asked.
“No,” Juan and Rockwell answered in unison.
“Um. Okay. Aguilar’s ready,” CG said.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Rockwell said.
Captain Aguilar cleared his throat as he looked out at both Rockwell’s team and his own three-man Colombian unit seated around the table. “Again, I can’t stress how important it is for us to keep the witness safe before his testimony Friday morning. While we have a protection detail in the house, I want full-clock coverage on the exterior. That me
ans two people out front in a car at all times.
“Commander Rockwell has graciously agreed to lend his team’s support on this assignment, and one of Bogota’s strike force teams is flying over to assist. As long as the witness is able to testify on Friday, a significant blow will be dealt against crime in this city. Vaquero must answer for his crimes. He must pay. Now take a look at the pictures in front of you all, and let me know if there are any questions.”
Juan looked down at the papers in front of him. Each of them seated at the table had received four identical pages. The first contained a color photo of the supposed drug lord Teodoro Vaquero. He was a somewhat plump man of average height and had green eyes, neat brown hair, and a warm smile. His plain red polo shirt lent him a casual appearance. He didn’t look like a drug boss—more like a volunteer at a soup kitchen.
The next page had multiple images of the Vaqueros’ house. Juan was surprised to find it was a modest one-story house with yellow shutters on the front. It was located in a decent enough suburb. A kindly looking woman with dark hair was cutting the bushes in the front of the house in one of the pictures. Vaquero’s wife. There was a one-car garage connected to the house by a tin roof awning. A boxy car sat in the gravel driveway. It looked old but reasonably cared for.
The third page contained a photo of the witness Christian Mañá. The man was thin and angular with a balding spot on the top of his head so that he resembled a monk. He wore gold-framed glasses and a vest under a gray business coat. The man’s face bore the stretch marks of perpetual frowning. He looked like he was used to being angry much of the time.
The last page contained images of the Mana’s multi-story house. There were closeups of an inground pool out back, and a bluish sports car parked out front of the three-car garage connected to the house. Four massive white pillars out front of the house seemed to support the roof in an elegant display of wealth.
“Are you sure the names on these pages are right?” Sanchez asked with a chuckle. Soft laughter sounded along the table. “I think the good guy and the bad guy might be switched.”
“The names on the pictures are correct,” Aguilar said sternly. “Not all drug lords look like drug lords.”
“Yeah, but wouldn’t it look bad if we arrested a youth leader instead of a crime boss?” Sanchez laughed.
“This is no laughing matter. Vaquero has been linked to numerous violent killings and drug trafficking. The only evidence we have is the witness, a former accountant of his.”
“Was the accountant in on the business?” Agostino asked.
“No. At least, that’s what he claims. He happened to stumble upon the man’s secret off-records ledger by mistake and immediately reported it to the police.”
“How long ago was this?” Juan asked.
“About half a year. He and his family have been in hiding ever since. Now that we pulled him for testimony, he’s vulnerable, but his family is still safe.”
“Are we watching Vaquero’s residence as well?” Sam asked.
Aguilar clasped his hands behind his back. “Yes, there are officers posted out front of his house as well. He hasn’t been moving much. His lawyers come to him. He wouldn’t try to kill the witness himself, so it doesn’t really matter if he does leave his house. During the day he’s in the courtroom, where he still professes his innocence. His lawyers say they are confident the jury will find him innocent of all wrongdoing. Any other questions or flippant remarks?” the captain asked.
No one commented, so he passed another paper around the table for them to see when they were scheduled to work. Some of the eight-hour time slots were filled in with the names of outside officers Aguilar had personally cleared. Since CG was a computer tech and wasn’t cleared to operate in the field, his name did not appear on the sheet.
When the sheet got to Juan, he saw that Rockwell had been correct: he and Boraita had the afternoon shift for the day. Tonight’s midnight shift had Cali and Sanchez’s names marked down.
“Goddamnit,” Cali said when the sheet got to her. “This is going to completely mess up my sleep schedule. And I’m going to miss CrossFit and yoga tonight.”
“Lastly”—Aguilar pointed to a TV monitor along the wall showing a local news program—“anyone have any information on what this was all about last night?” The image on the TV changed from a news anchor to video footage of a spotlight of a man hanging from the side of a courthouse.
When no one said anything, Aguilar said, “I’m just hoping it doesn’t have anything to do with the trial. I’ve had men clear all four stories of the place, but they didn’t find anything.”
“Probably just some crazy guy,” Juan said.
A morning of paperwork ensued, and Juan was surprised when his stomach rumbled. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was almost noon. Since he and Boraita went on shift at 2 p.m., Juan excused himself for lunch, saying he wanted to get some fresh air before confining himself to a car with Boraita for eight hours. Although Juan had never really interacted with Boraita before, rumor around the office was that Boraita was notorious for being gassy.
Juan exited the joint ops center and glanced about to see if anyone might be watching him. He didn’t see any suspicious characters. There were plenty of building windows in sight where someone could be spying on him with binoculars, but that couldn’t be helped. Juan crossed the street and then turned into a couple alleyways, doubling back and staying on the sidewalk to make sure no one was following him. He had perfected the craft of evasion all on his own before he was twenty years old.
The hospital was only a few blocks from the joint ops center, but with the detours and countermeasures, it took Juan over fifteen minutes to reach the expansive empty parking lot out back where the food trucks parked. There were enough people talking and waiting in line, and Juan was dressed so innocuously that he warranted no attention as he meandered through the throng, his eyes scanning the crowd. Searching.
He found her.
He got in line at one of his favorite empanada trucks, glancing down at his phone at the proper intervals to make it look as though he was simply looking at Facebook or email or cat videos. Sometimes when he was in a public place trying to blend in, he’d wear earbuds, but not this time. He didn’t want to sacrifice any of his hearing.
He sat down at one of the many weathered picnic tables and ate slowly as he stole glances over at her. Although Juan could only see her back, she seemed happy. Two other women were sitting across from her at the picnic table. Their faces and hands were animated as they carried on a discussion that Juan could not hear.
One time he thought he heard her laugh, but he could have been imagining it, for it was loud in the parking lot.
Juan wished he had someone else to sit with as he ate so he wouldn’t feel so lonely—which was strange; there were so many other people sitting and standing around him. Also, maybe if someone else was sitting across from him, he wouldn’t feel so dirty. He told himself he was only keeping an eye on her to make sure she was alright, but he really needed to stop this.
What further proof did he need to tell him that she was doing just fine? She didn’t even seem to be bothered by having to wear long sleeves under her nurse scrubs to hide the cuts on her arms. When Juan looked around at some of the other nurses and doctors eating in the parking lot, he noticed plenty of people wearing long sleeves. In his limited experience, hospitals were oftentimes cold as crypts no matter how hot it was outside. What if she could never enjoy herself at a beach again because she was too conscious of the markings on her arms?
Mika suddenly rose, and Juan dropped his head toward the table, raising his food wrapper and stuffing an empanada into his mouth. When Juan looked up a minute and a half later, she was no longer in sight. He figured she had gone back inside the hospital with her coworkers to finish the rest of her shift.
Out of nowhere, Juan became aware that he was being watched. He swallowed and forced his body to relax so he wouldn’t give away what he knew. Emoti
ons were conveyed clearest in the eyes and mouth, so he kept a stoic face even when for just a moment, he had the sensation that someone was right behind him.
He turned; no one was there. Scanning the crowd in front of him again, he finished his meal and got up to go. On his way back to the joint ops center, the unnerving feeling followed him, but each time he stopped abruptly to look in shop windows or in the backward reflection at the sides of his highly polished sunglasses, he could see no sign of anyone following him.
After he turned his last corner to get to the joint ops center, Juan threw himself against the brick wall and waited.
And waited.
“You okay, mister?” a woman said. She was an American by the sound of her southern accent that he recognized from countless American TV shows and movies.
Juan shifted his eyes to her, his palms still pressed flat against the brick wall behind him. Then he dashed around the brick corner that he’d walked past twenty seconds earlier. He saw no one except for a young man walking a dog farther back on the street. Shaking his head, he returned to where the woman was standing. She was now inspecting the brick wall; Juan glance at the graffiti on the wall as well.
Where is Juan Santiago? it read in spray paint. And under it were the hastily scrawled words: GONE, DEAD, TRAITOR.
“Who is Juan Santiago?” the woman asked Juan from under a wide-brimmed straw bonnet.
“Local legend,” Juan said as he pushed past her.
“Sounds like he should have his face on a t-shirt like Bill Murray or that one revolutionary guy. Che Guevara, I think.”
The feeling of being followed passed, and he made it inside the joint ops center without further incident.
11
Watch
They drove an old truck sitting in the back of the police auto pool. It was one of the unmarked vehicles the Cartagena police had at their disposal and was painted a flat brownish color. But while its color was unobtrusive, the way it coughed and rattled as they drove certainly drew attention to it. The backfire that exploded from the tailpipe when Boraita had started it had been enough to shake dust from the roof of the auto pool. Juan figured the truck had either been with the department for a long time, or it had been purchased at a fire sale for the price of dirt. It did, however, manage to get them to the witness’s safehouse in a low-activity neighborhood.
The Colombian Rogue Page 6