Bloodline

by Jeff Buick

  Javier nodded to both fighters, then took his seat at ringside. Someone had taken the time to arrange a couple of hundred chairs on the floor and they were filling up fast. Money was flowing and the excitement level was rising as the clock approached noon. At five minutes before the hour each fighter was escorted to his corner. Pedro grinned at José.

  “This guy any good?” he asked the grizzled old pugilist.

  “I’ve only seen him once before, in one of the barrio gyms. And yeah, he’s good. In fact, he’s really good. But he’s new around the club. I think Senor Rastano just met him a few days ago.”

  “Looks a little heavy for welterweight.”

  “No shit,” José said. “Probably about ten or fifteen pounds.”

  “So no walk in the park this afternoon.”

  “Nope.”

  “Got any words of advice?”

  José didn’t waste a second replying. “Hit him more than he hits you.”

  Pedro shook his head. “Thanks a lot.”

  The bell rang and the fighters moved to the center of the ring, listened to the rules, banged gloves and returned to their corners. A second later the bell rang and the fight was on. Both Pedro and Luis had a degree of mutual respect, and they spent the first two rounds bouncing about the ring, throwing jabs and taking an occasional punch to see what kind of power the other man had to offer. In the third round they both got serious. Pedro could see few flaws in Luis’s style and he tried to collect. Pedro waited until Luis threw a left jab and pulled his right foot a bit too close to his left. That left Luis slightly off balance and Pedro drove in with a vicious right-left-right combination. All three punches landed, but the following uppercut missed. The flurry stunned Luis, and brought an appreciative cheer from the onlookers with money on Pedro. The referee waded in and backed Pedro off for a few seconds. When the fight resumed, Luis came straight back at Pedro and nailed him with straight right and a left hook. Pedro bounced off the ropes and right into another straight right. He almost went down, his legs like jelly for a few seconds, his hands up around his face fending off a solid rain of punches. Nothing else was getting through and Pedro had a few seconds to recover. He took a risk, dropped his right and fired a stunning blow into Luis’s solar plexus. The boxer doubled over and backed off, hurting big-time from the body blow. Pedro let him go and took the time to shake off the thrashing. The bell rang, and he returned to his corner.

  “You asked me for advice before the fight started,” José said, pouring water over Pedro’s head and shooting a stream into his mouth. “What part of hit him more than he hits you didn’t you understand?”

  “Sorry, chief. I’ll try to do better this round.”

  “You do that, boy. Because if you don’t, you’re going down.”

  Pedro just grinned. “You like that shot to the solar plexus?”

  “Yeah, that was real nice. Now hit the fucking guy in the head.”

  “Okay, boss,” Pedro said, opening his mouth for his mouth guard as the bell rang. Round four.

  Pedro took a beating through most of the fourth round, unable to counter-attack the series of combinations Luis threw at him. He still had strength and his legs were okay, but he couldn’t react fast enough to the speed of his opponent’s punches. After the round he plunked down on the chair in his corner and spit out his mouth guard.

  “Okay, José, I’m all ears. What can I do to get at this guy?”

  “I’ve got an idea. I want you to jab, jab, jab at him and keep them coming. When you’ve got the jab working he doesn’t like to open himself to your right so he backs off on the offense. No offense, no combinations. Keep jabbing at him. Jab, jab, jab. Got it?”

  “I’m getting smacked around out there, but I’m not deaf. You want me to jab. Right?”

  “Right. And then when you get him off balance, wade in. You’ve still got lots of power left.”

  The bell went for the fifth and final round. Pedro came out jabbing. His left arm shot out with clockwork regularity, tagging Luis’s gloves and occasionally making it through to his head. By a minute into the round, Pedro saw another benefit to José’s strategy. Luis wanted to come at him, but kept holding back because of the steady barrage of jabs. And the longer he waited, the more his frustration showed in his footwork. He was cheating, bringing his right foot forward, ready to unleash with a left-right-left combination. But Pedro kept coming at him, snapping hard jabs that hurt when they hit, and even when they failed to penetrate Luis’s gloves, they threw him off balance. Then, at the two-minute mark, Pedro saw his opening.

  Luis was dragging his right foot now, itching to counterattack the endless series of jabs, and that made him vulnerable. Without losing his rhythm, Pedro changed from the quick jab to a straight right, catching Luis on the chin and stunning him. The right was followed by a six-punch combination that ended with a blockbuster uppercut. Luis staggered back, fell against the ropes and hit the canvas. He stood up immediately, but the ref kept Pedro away until he checked Luis to see if he could continue. With thirty-three seconds left in the round he backed off and Pedro waded in. There were no more jabs. Every punch had power behind it, driving Luis back across the ring into the ropes, where Pedro let loose with a flurry of body blows. Then, when the trapped fighter dropped his gloves to protect his abs, Pedro shot out a straight right that ended the fight. The punch caught Luis in the chin and snapped his head back so hard and fast his mouth protector flew into the crowd. He crumpled on the ropes and fell unconscious to the canvas. The half of the crowd that had bet on Pedro was in a frenzy, the other half dug into their pockets for cash. Pedro returned to his corner, where José wiped him down and slipped off his gloves.

  “See. Jab, jab, jab. You bored him to death. Good work.”

  Pedro couldn’t help laughing. The old man had won the fight for him and he cared nothing about taking any credit. “I think he’s going to have a headache. I caught him pretty good with that last punch.”

  “You did, boy. You hit him good.”

  Javier Rastano slipped between the ropes and into the ring. He had a wireless microphone with him and addressed the crowd over the PA system. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for attending our Saturday main event. The winner, by knock out, Pedro Parada.” He waved his arm toward Pedro’s corner. Pedro jumped up and bounced about with his arms above his head, giving the crowd a show. They loved it and even some of the bettors who had gone against him were clapping. Pedro danced to the middle of the ring, where Javier handed him an envelope. “Open it,” he said.

  Pedro ripped open the envelope and pulled out a wad of cash. American hundreds. Even without counting Pedro knew he was holding at least five thousand dollars. He held it up like a trophy, and the yells from the crowd grew even louder. Eventually the din died down and the audience moved toward the exits in small groups, discussing the fight and complimenting Javier Rastano on bringing together two such evenly matched and talented fighters. Pedro and Luis had showered and were getting dressed when Rastano poked his head into the locker room.

  “You two busy this afternoon?” he asked. Both men just shrugged. “Good. I’ll have a driver wait for you. When you’re finished dressing come up to the house. We’ll have a late lunch and I’ll show you around.”

  “Sure, Mr. Rastano,” Luis said.

  “Sounds okay,” Pedro said nonchalantly. But under the calm veneer his heart was pumping.

  He was in.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The air-conditioning unit supplying cold air to the west wing at EPIC went down at two on Sunday afternoon. The team worked in the heat for another hour, then called it quits until the maintenance staff could fix the problem. Eduardo Garcia headed home to spend time with his wife and two young children, while Eugene and the senior members of the team found an air-conditioned Mexican restaurant. They settled into a booth directly beneath a ceiling fan. Sombreros hung on the walls, one per booth, and pictures of Pancho Villa in full Mexican garb, with pistols in each hand, were
plentiful. The tables were rough-hewn oak, and the seats stitched hemp.

  “When do they think the air-conditioning will be working?” Eugene asked Alexander as the waitress, a fifty- something Mexican woman in authentic garb, dropped off their drinks.

  “Around eight this evening,” Landry said. “That’s why I can order a cerveza. The working day is done.”

  Cathy Maxwell had stuck to a tall glass of water and a Coke. She drained half the water, than asked, “You guys come up with a family member you think might be working with Pablo?”

  “The best bet so far is a distant cousin, Mario Correa,” Landry said. “He’s living in Miami, has been for almost eight years now. Owns a Renault dealership near Miami Beach. Eduardo is concentrating on his phone logs from the dealership and his house. I’m checking his credit cards, frequent flyer miles and passport to see where Señor Correa has been traveling lately.”

  “This Mario fellow in tight with Pablo at any point?”

  “Sort of. Mario knew Pablo’s first cousin Gustavo Gaviria Rivero really well. And Rivero was one of the cartel leaders. We’re looking for a recent link between Mario and Gustavo first, and if we find one, conversations with Pablo could be next.”

  “Excellent work,” Cathy said. She sipped her Coke and looked thoughtful. “How does the cousin of a scumbag drug dealer get U.S. citizenship? That doesn’t make sense to me.”

  Eugene’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m one of Pablo’s cousins,” he said. “And I think if the U.S. government ever looked closely at my life, they wouldn’t have a problem issuing a green card.”

  Maxwell’s face flushed. “I’m sorry, Eugene,” she said hastily. “I wasn’t thinking. It’s just that some of your relatives were in the gutter with Pablo.”

  “It’s easy to paint us all with the same brush,” Eugene said. “I’ve had to deal with my family tree all my life. My friends know I’m related to Pablo, and they love to talk about it. It’s a great ice-breaker at a party. Hey, that guy over there, he’s Pablo Escobar’s cousin. And people I’ve never met take one look at my last name and ask me if I’m related. There’s no getting away from it. It sucks. But you learn to live with it.”

  The waitress stopped by and asked them in Spanish if they were ready to order. Eugene ordered a quesadilla with refried beans and handed their server the menu. The others ordered the same. Then Cathy Maxwell asked, “Are you two heading for Miami?”

  Alexander shrugged. “That depends on what Eduardo digs up. If there’s a connection, we’ll be on the next flight. If not, we’re back looking at the rest of the family. And that’s no easy feat. There are brothers and cousins and uncles and aunts in more countries than you could ever imagine. Even dealing with only the family is a haystack.”

  Cathy nodded. “I remember, Alexander. It wasn’t much different thirteen years ago.”

  Eugene finished his water and asked, “Why did you guys do it? Why did you leave your families back in the United States and travel to Colombia to track down Pablo? I can’t think of a more dangerous assignment. You put your lives on the line every day to bring him down. What I don’t understand is why.”

  Neither the DEA man nor his CIA counterpart spoke for the better part of a minute. When one of them did, it was Cathy Maxwell, and she spoke distantly. “At first you take the assignment the agency hands you and you don’t ask questions. Green agents, eager to fight crime, leave D.C. with bright eyes and their ethics intact. But once you’re in the jungle, thrown into the insane world of the Colombian drug lords, you change. The metamorphosis is quick; it has to be, or you won’t survive. You begin to think on their level, your vision of humanity and the value of a human life are downgraded. What you would have viewed as atrocities when you first arrived becomes normal. Heads on spikes by the side of the road, gutted children, men with their testicles stuffed in their mouths; it forms a veil over normalcy. You track down one of their labs, burn it to the ground and destroy the equipment, and another one springs up a few miles away. They have too much money; you can’t stop them. And once you realize that, you start to fight a limited war, like the U.S. did in Vietnam. Hit them hard and fast and get out before they get you. Catch them while they’re sleeping and arrest them? Why bother. The Colombian court system is so corrupt that trying to imprison anyone worthwhile is impossible. So you level the gun at them and pull the trigger. You kill them in cold blood, just as they’d kill you, given the chance. And then you head back to Medellín in the choppers, talking excitedly about what a great day you had. A lab, an airstrip, and sixty of Pablo’s thugs and cocaine cooks. You give each other high fives and drink beer. Then you head to bed and sleep well.”

  She stopped for a minute, and rotated her empty glass on the table a few times. It left a series of wet rings on the wood. “So why did I do it, Eugene? Because when I first arrived I thought I could make a difference. I had good intentions and high ideals. But all that changed. I think we all left a bit of our humanity on the doorstep when we entered Colombia. And once you’ve seen what we’ve seen you don’t just forget it and get on with life. It stays with you. And after a while you don’t sleep very well. You remember all the times you kicked in a door, and pulled the trigger because you thought you saw a gun. And you get to hate the narcos with such passion that you lose touch with what’s right and what’s wrong; the boundaries get hazy, and sometimes they disappear. So you fight them on their own terms, in the gutter with guns and knives. And in the end, you aren’t much different from those you hunt.”

  No one spoke for a couple of minutes, then Alexander Landry said, “Maybe I should have answered your question, Eugene. I did it because I liked Colombian beer.”

  They all chuckled at that, Cathy Maxwell included. She snapped out of her introspective mood, and grinned. “Alexander’s right. We all liked Colombian beer.”

  Despite the laughter, Eugene sensed that Cathy Maxwell had bared a piece of her soul, and that working with the CIA in Colombia had had a traumatic effect on her life. Yet once Pablo was eliminated, she had moved back to the States, married and started a family. From her ramblings with Alexander Landry, he knew she had three young girls back in a Washington, D.C. suburb with their father. Three little girls she absolutely adored. In contrast, Landry’s kids were grown and out of the house. He talked little of them, other than to complain about the cost of college tuitions. Eugene wasn’t sure, but he thought Landry had four kids, all college age or older.

  But whatever had motivated these two U.S. agents to leave their homes and live in Colombia fifteen years ago, and whatever motivated them now, Eugene believed he owed them a debt of gratitude.

  He watched each of them as they ate their food and washed it down with Coke and beer, and he sensed that a camaraderie between the two narco hunters that had existed during their narco days was making a comeback. He believed they respected and admired each other. But it was more than that. They trusted each other. Maybe it had been born out of necessity, when the world they had known was left behind and the replacement was too crazy to be real. Maybe it was just a natural chemistry.

  He tuned in again as Landry cracked the punch-line to a joke, and he joined in the laughter. But looking at the two experienced narco hunters, Eugene felt empowered. And he could only think of one thing:

  Hang in there, sweetheart, we’re coming to get you.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Javier Rastano’s home in Colonia Escalón was stunning. Never in his life had Pedro seen anything that even came close to the opulence hidden behind the massive front gates. The grounds were impeccable, acres of cut grass beneath mature mango trees, and clusters of towering bamboo. Eucalyptus trees bordered the twisting cobblestone road leading to the main house. Immediately in front of the colonial two-story were twelve evenly spaced Royal palms, their bases painted brilliant white.

  A second-floor balcony stretched across the front façade of the house, its ornately twisted iron railings painted stark white. A massive portico jutted through the
balcony, and dominated the front elevation. Empty wicker furniture sat in groups and overhead fans circled sluggishly, moving the still afternoon air. The driveway curved around an island of grass and flowers with a small duck pond in the center. Rastano’s Ferrari was parked in front of the main doors to the house, and Pedro and Luis’s driver pulled the Mercedes in behind the Italian sports car. He ushered them into the house and toward the back garden.

  The main foyer was forty square feet with eighteen-foot ceilings, flanked on two sides by mirror-image curved staircases and an open hall directly ahead. Pictures by little-known renaissance artists lined the walls. Their heels clicked sharply on the Italian marble floors. They passed a fully stocked library, the books reaching to the ceiling, and a parlor with games tables and a professional roulette wheel. A formal dining room with a teak table and eighteen chairs was located just inside the rear of the house, and the view from the table was acres of perfectly landscaped grounds. Javier Rastano sat at a small glass table on the deck just outside the dining room.

  “Ah, my boxers are here,” he said as Pedro and Luis exited the rear of the house into the harsh afternoon sunshine. The heat was oppressive, but Javier didn’t seem to notice. He waved them over to the table. “Sit down. What would you like to drink?”

  “Beer, please,” Luis said, and Pedro nodded.