by K. Walker
“There has been a change in plan,” he replied. Suddenly he did not look as friendly. In fact, there was something nasty about his face, a smirk rather than a smile. “It will all become clear in time. Relax.” I recalled stories about taxis in Latin America, how they sometimes take tourists the wrong way, especially girls, and make them pay a lot, and even rape them. But he had known my name!
“I insist,” I said as firmly as I could manage. “Turn this taxi around and take us to Merida.” The guide ignored me, so I directed myself at the back of the driver’s head.
“You heard me, take me north to Merida.” He gave no sign of hearing. We were coming up on another small settlement, there were people around, adults and children. Surely if I jumped out, someone would help me? I put my hand on the door handle. Suddenly, a large automatic pistol appeared from the guide’s waistband under the shirt. Its muzzle pointed at me like a startled round mouth.
“Shut up. Take your hand off the door.” I did so. We passed through the little town into lonely countryside, no one to help. The gun went back into hiding.
“I will tell you how it is going to be,” he said. “You will be quiet. You will not touch the door. No one knows you here. No one will help you, gringa. Me, they know and fear. I am taking you to see a friend of mine. If you behave well, you will eventually go home. If not, I will kill you and dump you on this road, and no one will say a word. Understand?” I nodded. My hand trembled a little. I clenched my jeans to hide the fear. This was bad, this was very very bad, the worst thing I had ever known, bad like the newspaper stories about girls found dead in the desert near Juarez. But he had said that if I behaved I would get home.
Time passed, we wound higher into the mountains. We turned off the main road onto a smaller one. The air was cooler and tasted fresh through the open windows. The sun was getting lower in the sky, throwing dramatic shadows against the eastern hills.
Since I had not seen the gun in a while, I began to get my nerve back. A thing about me that this creep did not know was, I have a black belt in martial arts. I can break boards with my hands or my feet. Of course, I hadn’t been to a dojo in more than a year, and sport judo doesn’t let you kick much, too dangerous. Could I kick this guy hard enough to knock him out of action before he could get his gun out? For a Jodan kick, I need to plant a foot solidly. Plus, I almost never practiced that move. I decided this was something to try only in desperation.
We were alone on the narrow road, hills and forest close on both sides. We rounded a curve, to find the way ahead blocked by a barrier of branches. Standing by the side were several guys in a police or military uniform of dark camouflage. One of them waved us over. I perked up instantly. Cops! I was saved!
“Should I try to turn around?” the driver asked hurriedly.
“Don’t be stupid,” the guide replied. Glaring at me, he added, “These cops don’t care about you. Keep you mouth shut or you’ll regret it.”
A cop strolled over to the left side, a young-looking guy about six feet, pudgy but not soft-looking. It was all very casual and relaxed. And then suddenly, there was a big pistol in his hand covering both the driver and the guide. He had the drop on them, and he looked very determined.
“Get out of the car. Keep your hands where I can see them.” He spoke in Spanish of course. From now on, unless I say otherwise, you can assume that everything was Spanish.
“Officer,” the guide tried to bluster, “I am a friend of…”
“I don’t care a shit if Chavez is your father. Get out of the car and keep your hands in the open.” Slowly and carefully they both got out. Without appearing to hurry, three more cops had gotten close. The two diliquentes were thrown without ceremony against the side of the taxi and briskly frisked. The guide’s gun was found.
“What do you know, a nice .45! Worth good money. I bet you have a permit for this?” said the first cop and slipped it into his belt. The others laughed. The guide looked almost maniacal with fury.
“Please, sir, this man kidnapped me,“ I interrupted. Rattled by all the guns, I said it in English.
Imagine my surprise when a second cop replied in the same.
“A blonde gringa. I’ll be damned,” and he laughed good-humoredly. “How the hell did you get here?”
The new guy was taller than the others, maybe six two. My head barely came up to his shoulders. He appeared tightly muscled, with high cheek bones, smooth deeply tanned skin, a strong jaw, a nose like a hawk’s beak, shining dark eyes that radiated power. His forearms, where he had rolled back his uniform shirt, were stiff with muscles. Normally, I prefer WASPy guys. But he took my breath away. Plus, he was saving me from the bad guys. Before I could say anything more, the guide took his hands off the car and turned toward him, and spoke in a loud voice.
“Don’t mess with the girl. You don’t know who you are dealing with, I am taking this girl to Pablito el Rambo. You hear that name? To Pablito himself. She is a present for him. Touch me and you’re all dead,” he blustered. Mister Hawk Face struck as fast as a snake, backhanding the guide with a blow so quick his hand disappeared, so hard it threw the man to the ground.
“Asshole! I don’t care who you are or what you say.”
Lying on the ground, the guide in his rage did something almost unimaginably stupid. He reached for his left leg and began pulling up the trouser down near his shoe, to get at something.
And Hawk Face shot him. The gun appeared in his hand like magic, and the first bullet hit the top of the man’s right shoulder as he scrabbled for whatever. He screamed and flung the wounded arm out, and the second shot hit him dead center in the chest. A great splash of blood arced from his chest, followed by a massive flow that drenched his shirt in seconds. He groaned once, arched his back, and died.
I was in shock. The driver, suddenly gray with fear, went down on his knees.
“Please, officers, I don’t know what this man was doing, I am only a humble taxi driver, please, please …”
Hawk Face calmly lifted up the dead man’s leg. It was a hideaway gun, a small automatic in an ankle holster. He removed it and dropped it in his pocket.
“Might be worth something in the next town. Make a nice gun for a lady,” he said to his friends in Spanish. He glanced at me.
“Get out of the car and bring your stuff,” in English without any accent. Without waiting to see if I did it, he spoke to the driver.
“Pick up that piece of dirt and put it in the back seat. Then turn around and go away. Remember, you owe me your life. Dump the body in the river a ways back. I am much scarier than even Pablito. I don’t want to hear about this business ever again, not from anybody. Understood?” The driver groveled his agreement. I was meanwhile out of the car.
“Sir,” I said, “My bag is in the trunk.”
“Open it,” he said to the driver. “Worth checking.” But there was nothing besides my carry-on. The driver sweatily hoisted the guide onto the back seat, folding him in half as he did so. Nobody offered to help. In a few moments he had turned the car around and disappeared north. There were a few bloodstains on the road, otherwise no sign. It made me a little sick to see a man die so easily and so fast.
“Sir,” I said. “My name is Katie Sornsen and I am supposed to be a student at the Instituto de Idiomas in Merida. Today was my arrival day, and those men kidnapped me. Thank you very much for rescuing me.” I stopped for a reply. He grinned. It was an attractive grin that showed even white teeth. Somehow, a very American grin.
“Katie Sornsen! A nice little blonde American Sueca, visiting Venezuela. Well, Katie, you are definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I will do my best for you, and we will see if we can get you out of this alive,” and he laughed in a hearty, carefree way, like my situation was the cheeriest thing in the world.
“Where did you park your Jeep or whatever,” I asked. “If you can drive me to Merida, I will be very grateful and I am sure the school will be also.” He grinned again.
“
Open your luggage. Unfortunately, our Jeep broke down so you will have to walk. Let’s see what you really need to bring. Take your pack off,” he ordered. I complied reluctantly. The other three pawed through all my things, throwing my clothes onto the dusty road. They also forced me to turn out my pockets. I asked them to stop, then in Spanish, “Por favor, no.”
“So, you speak Spanish?” asked Hawk Face.
“Some,” I replied. Some instinct told me to not reveal that I was fluent. “My name is Katie, what is yours, sir/”
“You can call Tomas.”
“Your English is wonderful, sir. Did you spend time in the States?” He did not appear pleased by the question, and made no reply. I kept calling him ‘sir’ but he didn’t seem very old to be a boss cop, maybe early twenties. One of the others handed him a little bundle of my passport, credit card, and all my money. Was this police procedure? It seemed wrong.
“Boys,’ he said to the others in Spanish as he put these items away into a pocket, “Be careful what you say around her, she speaks some Spanish, maybe more than she admits.” Then he picked up my backpack. It still held a few toilet items, a toothbrush and soap. He sorted through the discarded clothing on the ground, picked up a pair of kaki shorts and two pairs of wool hiking socks, and also (with a curious glance at me) my small black bikini, and put them in my pack, which he handed back to me.
“Put this on. This is all you will need right now.”
“But sir, Mr. Tomas sir, I will need those clothes for my time at the school.”
“Be calm,’ he replied. “You can come back for them later. Now, we have a long way to walk.” Then, in Spanish: “Gordito,” he said to the first big cop, it means Fatty but he wasn’t really fat, just big all over, “Put her stuff back in the bag and leave it beside the road.”
“Sir, all my stuff! Can you at least hide it? Otherwise, it will surely be taken.”
“Sure, sure,” he laughed, and they tossed my bag with all my other clothing, my papers for school, my cell phone, my notebook computer (old but still working) behind some bushes. Then, single file, me in the middle, we set off down the road for about a half mile, then onto a dirt trail that wound upward into the forested hills.
They seemed relaxed, talking quietly among themselves. Within an hour, I had learned all their names. Tomas, of course. Fatty must have had a real name but it was never used, it was always Gordito and he didn’t seem to mind. Carlos looked a few years older than the others, with the heavy shoulders and swollen hands of a peasant. Juan was the youngest, skinny and intense looking, more like a student than a cop. I wondered how he could be in the police, he didn’t look more than maybe seventeen.
I am small but tough, formerly an athlete, but the steady upward climb took a lot out of me. I was determined not to show weakness, and lowered my head to gut it out. Sweat rolled of me and my shirt soaked through. Where were we going? Maybe some sort of mountain base? I knew there were Colombian guerrillas just the other side of the border. Merida itself was considered safe.
We stopped once briefly and Tomas wordlessly handed me his canteen for a drink. They all carried big military-style packs and automatic rifles slung, but they kept up the pace with apparent ease. After two hours, we took a trail that split off to the right and began winding toward the other side of the mountain, descending as we went. The temperature rose as the altitude dropped.
After another hour or so, we broke through the trees into a grassy valley. A clear flowing stream ran down the middle. Ten or twenty houses dotted the grass and potato fields. Cows grazed. People came out to stare, Indians or mestizos with a lot of Indian blood. Tomas went boldly to the largest house, and an old man came to meet him. They seemed to know one another. Smiles on all sides. The cops opened their packs, and gave presents, small bags of something, salt maybe, or coffee? A bundle of hand tools, tied together with twine. Everybody was happy to see them.
Women and children gathered around me. Big black eyes wondering, one or two brave children touching my blonde hair.
“It’s just hair,” I said in Spanish, smiling. “Not gold!” Some understood, others seemingly not. I wondered if perhaps they spoke only an Indian dialect. Tomas came back.
“All set, we have Antonio’s place as before,” he said to his men. We hiked up the valley a little, toward the highest house, a small wooden structure painted red, with a thatched roof. As we approached, a man and his wife and young son were leaving, bags of gear in their hands. The house appeared to be just two rooms, the front was a kitchen and I supposed they must sleep behind the closed door to the rear. Fatty and the others went inside to prepare dinner. Tomas and I sat on chairs on the front porch.
“Where is the police base? I asked him. He looked at me impassively.
“I guess it’s time to tell you. Surely you must have begun to suspect? We are not the government police. Here, they all work for the narco’s and they never catch a criminal except by accident. They steal. They kill. I’m a robber,” and he laughed at himself. “We are the people’s police. We pay ourselves from what we take on the roads. And people help us, because we share,” and his wave encompassed the whole valley. I had figured out that something was wrong, but it still hurt to have confirmed that my rescuer was just a thief, and even a murderer. What did this mean for me?
“What good am I to you? You have my money. Why didn’t you just let me go? “
“I kept you because I wanted to. My men do what I say. That is all the answer you need right now.” His dark eyes sized me up from below his heavy straight brows. He showed a touch of anger.
“Pretty little sueca, little rich gringa, how did you come here?” he asked with a sneer. “It probably doesn’t matter much, but I am curious.”
“I’m not Swedish, my father was from a Danish-American family somewhere in Minnesota I think. And as for why I’m here, I came to study in Merida.”
“How did they grab you? Off the street?” I couldn’t see any harm in telling him the truth about that.
“They knew my name. That man had a board with my name on it, and he claimed to be from the school.” This had been bothering me a lot. Tomas appeared to give it thought.
“So, somebody told him. Maybe the school, but why would they do that? Maybe somebody back in gringolandia. Do you have an enemy?” There was just one possibility, and he wore thousand dollar suits.
“Have you ever heard the name of Pablito el Rambo?” he asked.
“No. That so-called guide person, he said I was a present to Pablito. What could that mean?”
“Gotcha!” he said triumphantly. “He said that about you being a present in rapid Spanish. So, let’s not pretend any more, OK? You speak it just fine.” He was pleased with himself.
“Maybe so, “I replied in Spanish. “So what? Who is this Pablito?
“I don’t think you would have enjoyed being a present to him. In fact, I am sure of it. Somebody set you up. Somebody who wanted to curry favor with Pablito, and also to hurt you. Pablito treats women badly. A year ago, he kidnapped a blonde tourist off the beach. When he was done, he sent her head to the Swedish Embassy. He’s a skinny shit with a scar on his left ear. The Rambo nickname is bull, he made it up himself. His cousin is a much bigger narco. Pablito mainly does the cross-border trade from Colombia.” He said all this calmly, like he was describing how a jackal pulls down an animal on the veldt. I shuddered.
“Are you a narco?”
“When you have been here a while, you will know better than to ask such questions. But no, I am not with the narco’s. Nor are we communists. A few miles away, across the border, some are. We are more informal. We are honest robbers. I belong to the dollar party,” and he grinned.
“So, let’s get down to dollar business. How much do you think your family will pay to get you back?” he asked. I didn’t feel smart enough to fence with this man. If I lied, I would just get caught later and he would be angry. So, I told the truth.
“My father is dead. My mother is poor.
I came here to study so I could get work later. We have scarcely any money.” He was not pleased.
“I don’t believe you. Gringas who come here always have money.”
“Not me. It’s the truth, whatever you believe. We are poor. I’m not worth your time. Let me go, please. I thought you were the good guy.”
“I am the good guy,” he replied. “But these things are relative. Compared to the cops, I am good. Compared to Pablito and types like him, I am very good. Unless you provoke me, I will protect you and you will go home to your big house and your sports car with an exciting story to tell.” That sounded sadly like what the guide had said. I told him that.
“Don’t insult me by comparing us,” he snapped. “I mean it. He didn’t. Never mind, I will find a way to make us some money”, he shrugged. “I will think of something,” Meanwhile, you will have your uses,” he added ominously. Before I could ask anything more, Fatty called from inside that the meal was ready.
Darkness closed around us as we ate on the porch. The sky was utterly black, the way it never is Tucson or Vegas. The Milky Way was a great silver spangle across the sky. The men each had a military style mess plate, like the one I used when I was a Girl Scout. Since there was none for me, they gave me a small skillet for a plate, and a spoon. Dinner was a hearty stew of rice and sausages, and cornmeal arepas freshly fried. It tasted good. I was relaxed, tired, surprisingly cheerful considering what I had been through in a single day. Kidnapped, saw my first killing, held to ransom in a shack in the Andes. Through half closed eyes, I became aware that the other three men were whispering back and forth and looking at me.
“Come with me,” said Tomas, and held out his hand. I scrambled to my feet, and he led me wordlessly into the house, through the open door into the back room. There was no light there, but an oil lamp in the kitchen showed that the room contained a platform bed of heavy wood, topped with a thin cotton mattress, blankets, and on the floor in a corner a second mattress. There were hooks on the wall for clothing, now empty, and a small three drawer dresser.