Soft hands catch my stray hair as I go down for round two.
“Yes, I’ve played the game,” I whisper into the bowl. When there was never any chance of winning, and I lost so much more than I ever thought possible. The vicious heaves are subsiding. The same soft hands are gently braiding my blonde hair now. “Why do you ask?”
“Because that’s me today. I’m the dare.” She drops the braid.
“Someone forced you to carry the—?”
“Ah, it’s way more complicated than that.” I meet her steady gaze in the mirror. “What’s your name, parcera?”
“Anna,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Yours?”
“Viviana. It means ‘life’, which is kinda funny. If I don't finish this dare, I won’t have much of one left.” I see the ghost behind her smile then. The one she thinks she’s hiding. This woman is smart and beautiful, but underneath the Tank Girl attitude she’s scared as hell. “Friends call me Vi.”
“Thanks for holding my hair back.”
“No problem. You feeling better?” Not by a long shot. “He really fucked you over, huh?” Her dark gaze flickers over my face for the truth.
They.
They fucked me over.
He perpetuates the ache.
I nod, forcing a smile. “So, what do you need to do with the—?” I gesture to the coke in her purse, conscious again of the security camera.
“Return it at my earliest convenience,” she finishes up with a scowl. “He thought it would be funny to fly me to Miami and back with his merchandise sewn inside my dress. He and his business associates took bets to see which country I’d get busted in first.”
“Are you serious?”
“Luckily, I made it home without the DEA or the airport cops taking an interest.”
“Why would whoever do that to you?” What does he have over you?
“He said I owed him. Which I don’t.” She reaches around and tries to zip up her dress herself.
“Are they at the airport now?” I lean over to help her.
“They’re in a car outside.” She checks her watch. “Hijueputa! Fuck! Because of this stupid dress, I only have five minutes to make the drop!”
“What happens if you don't make it in time?”
“I lose everything!” She reels away from me, her long black hair flying. “We’ve gotta go.” I stare at her stupidly. “You want my help, right? It’s what I owe you. I can't do shit if I’m dead. Come on!”
She grabs my hand, and I don't flinch this time. Her mess is fusing with mine and forcing us into this weird camaraderie together.
It’s impulsive and crazy. It’s everything I didn't want or need in my life, but I find myself trailing her out of the restroom, and then we’re breaking into a run.
10
Anna
The humidity outside is breath stealing. It’s filling my lungs with a hot, wet heat instead as I hustle to keep pace with her. She’s weaving in and out of the packed sidewalks, ignoring the shouts and catcalls, and kicking up dust from her cowboy boots.
“Slow down!” I yell, colliding with a couple of kids and their electric blue suitcases, firing apologies in my shitty Spanish at two angry-looking parents.
“Can’t!” she puffs out, over her shoulder. “I have less than sixty seconds!”
We reach a long queue of people by the curbside, all idling away time next to their metal trollies piled high with multi-colored belongings. She yanks me to a stop, and then drags me in between two parked-up red and yellow tour buses.
“Stay here,” she says, leaning over to catch her breath. “Don’t let them see you.”
“Who?”
“Blacked-out SUV over there.” She points to a car parked twenty yards away on the opposite side of the road. Two men are hovering by the open driver’s door, dressed in identical blue suits and white dress shirts, smoking cigarettes and chatting shit like most of the other businessmen in the vicinity. As we watch, a passing car beeps its horn unexpectedly and their hands dive into their jackets. I don’t need to see the glinting metal there to have further confirmation of which side of the law they fall on.
“Who are they?” I whisper, my heart sinking.
“Alberto Fernandez’s men. Cartagena Costavo,” she says, flicking her black hair away from her face. “His father, Alejandro Fernandez, controls this place and all the nearby townships … He runs this territory all the way up to the northern ports.”
My blood turns cold. “You mean he’s a drug lord?”
She nods. “Alejandro Fernandez is one of the big five in Colombia. Los Cinco Grandes.”
Holy shit.
I’m scared suddenly.
I ran a thousand miles to escape from men exactly like them.
“This won’t take long.”
“Vi, wait!” But she’s already crossing the road.
The men glance up as she approaches. Words are exchanged; one even has the temerity to tap his watch at her with a smirk. I watch their eyeline dip to her ass as she moves toward the back door. It opens up wide, and she slides inside.
I wait and I wait, my eyes never leaving the black SUV, even when a bus driver shoos me away from his vehicle, forcing me to blend in with the growing line on the sidewalk. Uneasiness is blasting my skin and wicking away the worst of the heat. I’m torn with indecision… Do I wait here on a wing and prayer, or do I blow my fragile cover to help her out? What price do I put on a woman I only met ten minutes ago in an airport restroom?
A couple of Colombian law enforcement officers stroll past, looking me up and down with interest, until finally, finally, the back door to the SUV opens up again.
Vi doesn't know I’m watching her blasé mask slip. She doesn't know I’m seeing her tug at the hemline of her little white dress with a bitter familiarity that cuts me to the core, and when her hand darts out I know it’s to catch a stray tear that’s equal parts anger and shame. I’ve conditioned myself to never ever drop my guard like this, but she wears it so freely in her moment of privacy.
Her feisty spirit returns the moment she reaches my side of the road. She taps on my arm, and gestures for me to follow.
“Let's get out of here.”
“What happened?”
“Usual shit,” she sniffs.
“Did they hurt you?”
“Can we just walk, please?” She folds her arms tight across her chest, keeping her head low like a disgraced animal. “The dare’s over. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”
“Okay.”
We walk in silence, all the way to the CTG parking lot. She takes out a key from her purse and leads me toward a Red Renault with a cracked windscreen and a dented front bumper.
“My other’s car’s a Ferrari,” she jokes, attempting to shake the tension from us.
“Listen, Vi, you don't have to do this. Just drop me off at the nearest hotel—”
“No.” Two dark circles flash in my direction. “We made a deal, remember? I may be shit with money, men, my business and everything else in my personal life, but I always keep my promises.” We catch each other’s eye again across the top of the Renault before she’s opening the door. “I’m done with airports for today,” she declares, sliding into the driver’s seat.
I slide in after her in full agreement.
She exits the parking lot and joins the airport highway road. I don't bother to ask her where we’re going. Our tentative friendship is based on survivorship, which comes with an element of trust. I get the sense we’re both dealing with the kind of crap we may never be able to share, but there’s no expectation to talk about it. Vi’s wild, impulsive energy is filling up my empty spaces far more than a team of therapists ever could.
It’s mid-morning, and the yellow sun is burning a path across a crystal-blue sky. The windows are down and the wind is blasting hot air in our faces. We’re cruising toward the outskirts of town, stuck behind a kitschy old bus. It’s traveling under the speed limit, but it’s pumping out a str
ing of heavy beats as a form of apology.
“It’s a chiva,” says Vi, catching me staring. “A Cartagena party bus. They travel around the best bars… It’s a tourist thing.” She leans over and switches the stereo on. “What’s your poison? I’m taking a wild guess, but I don't think it’s metal.”
“Rock, pop, whatever,” I say listlessly. “My soul’s been dead to music for so long I can't remember what I used to listen to anymore.”
“Well, let’s see if this jogs your memory.” She chucks her cell phone into my lap, choosing not to comment on my bleak assertion. “The music app is right next to the Facebook one.”
“Got it.”
I scroll through her playlists; my fingers finding a track called Stop This Flame by Celeste. I’ve never heard it before, but I give in to another of those crazy impulses. The song starts up-tempo. I stare out of the window as the singer’s voice pours melted chocolate over my senses, her lyrics telling of an obsession that will never die.
It makes me think of him.
Everything makes me think of him.
The shadow I’m trying so hard to sever; the man who moves in sync with my life like a Bolshoi dancer—the black swan to my white. The one whose every chess move darkens my boards.
“Tell me about the Cartagena Costavo,” I ask as the track finishes. “Who’s Alberto Fernandez, and why is he playing messed up games with you?”
“Because he’s a pinche puto, a motherfucker,” she says, turning off onto a quieter stretch of road. The lush mountains fall away to a gorgeous Caribbean coastline that’s like Valhalla. “He’s ex government, and even more corrupt now than he was when he was in office. He and his men are a product of the Santiago cartel implosion, like all of Los Cinco Grandes—”
“Santiago?”
Her eyes bounce from the road to my face, and then back again. “You’ve heard of him? It figures… That particular pinche puto escaped from US custody six months ago. Before then, he and his brother lived like kings off the people of Colombia. They crushed us. They pushed our faces into the dirt and held them there with their boots. I don't give a damn if he was some big-shot US war hero. Nothing makes up for the damage he’s done. He owned the government, the law… You paid your dues, or you paid the price.”
I turn away, feeling sick again. It wasn’t just Santiago who did this to her. It was him, as well.
“Hey, can you reach into that glove compartment for me, parcera?” She points at it impatiently. “I try not to smoke, but it’s been a really shit day.”
“No problem.” I dig out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and watch her slot one between her lips, sparking up a light and managing to look screen siren cool as she does it. “You mind?”
“Nope.”
“Fuck, I’ve missed this.” She blows out a stream of relief. “Wanna join me?”
“Sure, why not.” I take one and follow her lead, savoring the heady rush.
“It’s good to be bad sometimes, right?” We catch each other’s eye again and share a grin.
“What happened to the Santiago cartel?” I ask her, taking another drag. I can't help myself. It’s like I need to know how dark my shadow really is.
She tips her head from side to side, as if she isn’t sure how to answer. “No one knows. One day they just turned the war on each other. There were rumors about a woman, but that would require them to have hearts in the first place. Dante murdered his brother and the cartel disbanded, but he kept a stake in the Gomez Family processing plants. They’re another of the Big Five,” she explains.
“So, Santiago still operates?” Eve swore that this side of his life was done.
“He doesn’t sell, but he keeps the distribution channels to North America wide open for his criminal friends.”
I know whom she’s talking about right away. Rick Sanders. Total sleaze, master criminal, dangerously charismatic. My ex-boss.
I flick my ash out of the window and consider her words.
“You okay?” Vi shoots me a side-eye as we take a left onto a road that’s surrounded with green fields and grazing cattle.
“Just taking it all in,” I murmur. We’re heading up into the hills now, the Renault’s engine screaming in anger at the sudden, sharp incline.
“Santiago washed his hands of Colombia,” she says, after a beat. “He made this huge mess, and then he walked away. The place has been locked in civil war ever since.”
“Civil war?” I turn to her in surprise.
“Of the narcotics kind,” she clarifies, taking a deep drag and blowing a trail over her shoulder. “Cocaine production never goes away, and neither does the fight to control it. But there’s no unity anymore. Not like when the Santiagos controlled everything.” There’s a pause. “They were mad, bad and dangerous, Anna,” she confides, and I hear a history of bloodshed in her voice. “Especially Dante. I saw him once. His eyes were completely sin vida, dead. Like, scarily so.”
I know those eyes. They only come alive for one person: Eve.
“Their people were scary as hell, too. Santiago had this American working for him: El Asesino, The Killer. I remember my cousin telling me how El Asesino cut a man’s hand off once for disrespecting him. While the guy was screaming on the floor, El Asesino walked out of the bar and shot four of his men in the head. You never, ever fucked with them, Anna. They were devils, through and through.”
El Asesino.
The killer.
My savior.
“Tell me about the Big Five,” I say quickly. “Who are the families?”
Vi flicks her cigarette butt out of the window and coaxes the car into fourth gear. “Fernandez controls Cartagena and the whole of the north.” She holds up one finger. “Santiago’s US supplier, Gomez, operates out of the south.” Another finger. “The former Escobar western territory of Medellín is now controlled by Alvaro Perez.” A third digit. “Bogota is under the Hurtados.” Number four. “Finally, the eastern parts of Puerto Carreño and Santa Rita near the border with Venezuela are Luis Ossa’s territory.” It’s a finger full house before the Renault loses power again and she’s dropping her hand to nudge it back down to third.
“How do you know this stuff?” I ask her.
She sweeps her black hair to the side and blows out a breath. “The underworld controls the overland here. These men make it our business to know.” She switches off the stereo as we turn onto a dirt track with deep ditches either side. The Renault’s groans drop to a low whine as she swerves to dodge the giant potholes. “They’re all solo traffickers, with the exception of Gomez. The Mexicans cartels used to call it the plaza system. Here they call it La Orden, The Order. Each Family buys permission from the government to run their territory. The deal makes them think they’re demi-gods. They could walk down the street with their dicks swinging in the breeze, and the cops wouldn't stop them. Every business operating within a territory is expected to pay a tax.”
“You mean like racketeering?”
“Yeah, but without all the sexy Italian accents and suits.” Vi laughs. “Los Cinco Grandes enjoy dragging the rest of the country into their blood sports. Now the people of Colombia have five nemeses to deal with, not one.”
“What about the drug enforcements agencies? Does the DEA have any jurisdiction here?” I think about Eve again. Her father was a DEA special agent back in Miami before he betrayed us all. It’s another soul wound that’s still oozing.
“Are you kidding me?” She laughs again, this time in disbelief. “They don't have the power to do anything out here. Hey, d’you see that ocean?” she says suddenly, pointing at the gorgeous vista. “The locals used to say that color blue was Santiago-red in disguise. Everything that cartel touched turned to blood.”
“You hate him,” I say, reading the hostile tone in her voice.
“I do,” she agrees. “For me, it’s about as personal as it gets. But it’s the same for every man, woman and child in Colombia.”
“Are your family still here?”
&
nbsp; “What family?” She gives me that bitter laugh again. “My mother dumped me in a convent when I was a few weeks old. I was adopted by my aunt Gabriela. She brought me up as one of her own. She’s the sweetest, kindest… I’d do anything...” she trails off, lost in a fog of emotions. “I need another cigarette.”
We’re approaching a narrow street bordered by tiny houses. They’re all painted a variation on the theme of dirty red and orange. There’s a charm about the place, though. Strings of green, vine-like leaves and violent bursts of white flowers prettify the fissures in the sidewalls.
“Santa Perdida. My village,” announces Vi, parking up next to a small bar with cracked windows and an old Coca-Cola sign hanging above the door. “It’s not Cartagena, but the owner’s fun and it serves great beer.”
“This is your bar?” I say in surprise.
“Yep.” She yanks the keys out of the ignition. “Well, technically it was my cousin’s, but he’s not around anymore.” She pauses before opening the car door. “Look, I know it’s not much, but you’re welcome to stay for a couple of days while you sort your shit out. Stay for as long as you like. Whichever. It’s cool with me.”
“Thank you,” I say, humbled by her generosity. I’m a stranger to her—a Trojan horse crammed full with secrets about the very men she hates. If I remembered what guilt felt like, I’d be experiencing a ton of it right now. “I don't have much money, but I’d be happy to work something out with you.”
She follows my gaze to the faded cherry-red awning flapping above the chairs and tables, stamped with a Spanish name I can't translate.
“Have you ever worked in a bar before?”
A faint smile tugs at my lips. “It’s kinda funny you should say that.”
“Parcera, if that’s a yes, I’m taking away your passport!” she warns me. “It’s only myself and Samuel running this place, and he’s about twenty years past his expiration date.”
I laugh and a warm sensation filters down through my body, like spring melt after a freezing-cold winter. I was searching so hard for oblivion when I should have been looking for an ally.
Shadow Man: Grayson Duet: Book One Page 6