The Green Cathedral

by Kerry Mcdonald

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Abel replied. “You all enjoy. I’m sure you’ll have a blast.”

  Victor laughed as the two shook hands, then he took to the stairs and boarded the trawler. He waved goodbye to Abel, who returned the gesture. The boat pulled away, its bright light cutting through the growing gloom.

  Abel watched it for a while, inwardly heaving a sigh of relief. Though the evening had had its uncomfortable moments, it didn’t look like Victor knew of his duplicity. Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t put all the things that Victor had mentioned out of his mind. Words like “once you’re in, you’re either in or you’re dead” and “the lucky ones are dead” and “serving multiple life sentences in the ADX Florence” clung to his mind despite his attempts to dismiss them. As the boat finally faded from view, Abel grabbed his backpack, scuttled down the other side of the wall, found his e-bike, and left.

  3

  —

  Once Victor’s trawler had reached a point where they could no longer see the lights of Cartagena, he checked with his radar and navigation men to make sure that they had the larger boat on radar. They did. Then he had his crew kill all the lights as they approached it. Victor had, of course, lied to Abel about the kind of “fishing” he and his other agents would be doing that night because he knew Abel wouldn’t want to go. Had Abel come, it would have put him in a highly tricky situation with the DEA that would undoubtedly have landed him in prison. On land, he’d at least be safe from that, though he’d face a whole different set of dangers there. Victor shook his head. Abel was on his own now, set free, even though Victor knew he was most likely as treacherous as Benedict Arnold, and probably could have proved it by merely opening the guy’s backpack. But Victor hadn’t done that. He knew that, behind Abel’s roguish bluster, the former Navy SEAL was really just a lost, lonely man looking for some direction, and Victor had decided that, because of that, the guy deserved another chance. Perhaps someday he’d get his act together, find the “trigger” he so desperately needed to keep himself out of trouble, and make a new start. One could only hope. But there was no time to contemplate that now. The real “fishing” was just about to begin.

  The big trawler had all its lights killed as well, but Victor knew it was tricked out to be an oceangoing fishing boat, the kind often used by drug smugglers to cross the Caribbean or go up the Pacific coast before unloading their tons of cargo onto smaller boats out in international waters to take the haul to shore.

  The opposite was true as well. These modern mega-cartel wannabes didn’t have the money or sophistication yet to develop a vast fleet of oceangoing semisubmersible vessels or “narco submarines” like the cartels of the ‘80s had. They still had to rely on the older “go-fast” boats—boats similar to speedboats, but beefed up with bullet-resistant hulls and other enhancements—to get their kilos of cocaine from tiny shore outposts to their larger oceangoing vessels out in international waters without attracting the attention of land-based police or Coast Guard units.

  Only, the oceangoing trawler that Victor’s boat was now approaching was not manned by drug smugglers of Don Vicente Galvan’s Clan de Cartagena like the incoming go-fast boat crews were expecting. It had been quietly overtaken by Victor’s DEA agents who had infiltrated the crew before the ship’s departure from port. Just a few of the original crew members were still with the ship; the rest of the individuals on the boat were now DEA agents. The ship’s decks were filled with three rigid-hulled inflatable boats (RHIBs) that were quietly being assembled, armed with M240 pedestal-mounted machine guns, and lowered into the water.

  Victor’s boat pulled up next to the bigger trawler, and he was hoisted on board. Two more DEA agents, one bearing a helmet and body armor for Victor, met him. Victor listened as he was brought up to speed.

  “Welcome aboard, sir. Everything’s ready. The RHIBs are assembled, launched, crewed, and in position on the other side of the ship. All the spotlights are in place and manned.”

  “Good, Agent Dolan, very good,” replied Victor as he donned his body armor. “How about the fish?”

  “Everyone’s left their dock according to our ground reports. Should be in the area in five minutes or so.”

  “And the Colombian police?”

  “They’ll be coming right behind them.”

  Victor nodded, then walked over to the ship’s bridge, where three cartel crewmen sat stoic and expressionless. “You’ve got one job—light the bridge and the fantail running lights on my command, then one of you waves to the first boat that approaches and lights you up. You got it?”

  “Sí, señor.” They all nodded.

  Victor continued. “Once the shooting starts, go belowdecks and stay there. When things are all over, you’ll be driven by DEA agents in unmarked vehicles to your homes, where you’ll have fifteen minutes to pack. Then you and your family will be taken to a secure airport where you’ll be put on a private DEA jet and flown to the country of your choice in the Western Hemisphere. Papers will be made for you in flight. Once you land, you’re on your own, unless you choose the US, where you’ll be met and processed immediately as asylum seekers. That’s the best we can do for you. The governments of the United States and of Colombia thank you for your service.”

  As Victor was about to leave, one of the cartel crewmen spoke in heavily accented English. “Señor, they will still kill us, no matter where we are.”

  “Maybe, but at least they won’t do it tonight.”

  The sound of high-powered motors whined in the distance.

  “Sir, it’s time,” said Agent Dolan.

  Victor grabbed an assault rifle racked on the bridge. “Have these men taken to their positions, and flip on the bridge and fantail lights. Let’s you and I find a place near the spotlight on the bridge, and get me the ship’s mic.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Dolan. As the two found the bridge spotlight and settled in, Dolan asked, “Sir, where’s Agent Nowinski?” The area now was live with the whining buzz of several go-fast boats approaching. The bridge and fantail running lights were lit. Suddenly, a bright spotlight seemed to emanate from nowhere and splash the trawler amidships. The cartel crewman waved and motioned the boats to come in.

  “I sent him on another assignment,” grunted Victor. With that, he called into his headset mic, “Let’s light ’em up, boys!”

  Spotlights instantly blazed from three different locations on the trawler. At least six go-fast boats were instantly illuminated, with others just on the edge of the light. Victor used the ship’s mic and called out in Spanish, “Halt. You’re all under arrest! Kill your engines, throw your weapons in the sea, and you won’t be harmed!”

  A few boats’ crewmen did, but others pulled out, and one charged, firing at the spotlights. Dolan and Victor dove for cover. The RHIBs roared out from behind the ship. Machine-gun fire blew up the offending boat, while all four occupants of another were riddled with bullets as they tried to fire back with assault rifles. A couple escaped, but gunfire and lights could be seen not far away across the water.

  The Colombians, right on time.

  “Yeah!” shouted Agent Dolan. “We got them, sir!”

  Upon hearing no reply, he looked around, then gasped. Victor lay dead beside him, a bullet through his head.

  4

  —

  Abel lived in a small brick apartment building just a block or so from the luxurious Hyatt Regency Hotel Cartagena. The apartments had probably been pretty swanky decades ago when there was still very little development on the long Bocagrande peninsula that stretched for several kilometers to the southeast of the Walled City, forming the seaside of the placid Bahia de Cartagena. Now, though, that strip of sand was lined with thirty- and forty-story modern hotels and condominium buildings, giving it a look not unlike Miami Beach, and Abel’s apartment building looked like a little three-story orphan in comparison.

  Abel didn’t min
d. It certainly wasn’t some filthy flophouse. But still, he didn’t actually spend much time there. Being a loner didn’t mean that he necessarily thrived on solitude. Abel’s restless energy frequently took him to places where lots of people gathered just so he could be around them and feel their vibe. So this night, after returning from his dinner with Victor Garza, he’d returned briefly to his apartment to open the windows, then headed out to one of his favorite people places: the ritzy bar at the Hyatt Regency. It was expensive, but also classy, and a mecca for the English-speaking foreign tourists, businessmen, and local expats who were usually a fun and intriguing lot to hang out around. Tonight, though, will be extra fun, he thought as he carried his backpack with its secret load of cash in and plopped down at the bar in front of one of the English-speaking TV screens that featured twenty-four-hour news. He splurged by ordering an appetizer of hot wings and mozzarella sticks along with the house beer. The crowd tonight was not large or overly loud, so he even considered buying a round for the lot of them, but then, glancing at the TV, he did a double take, and his mouth fell open, a half-chewed hot wing plopping onto his plate.

  “Some breaking news just coming in now,” said a news commentator. “Agents of the American Drug Enforcement Agency, in cooperation with the Colombian National Police, have just seized yet another large shipment of Colombian cartel cocaine, this time as it was apparently being loaded onto an oceangoing fishing trawler allegedly bound for the port of Miami in the United States. The seizure took place in international waters off the coast of Cartagena, though government officials are assuring the public that the Colombian National Police forces did not actually operate outside of Colombian waters but caught several so-called go-fast boats as they were trying to escape back to the mainland. With the total amount of drugs seized put at well over one hundred million US dollars, this marks the second time in as many months that the US DEA, in cooperation with the Colombian National Police, has seized a sizable shipment of northern Colombian cartel cocaine before it could hit the streets.” A jubilant CNP spokesperson thanked the Americans for their help in “killing off these nits before they can turn into lice,” referring to new cocaine cartels that have sprung up over the past few years, including the Clan de San Juan de Urabá and the Clan de Cartagena, and the so-called dons that run them. The spokesperson also said that Cartagena city police were now beefing up their visible presence and bracing for cartel reprisals that may follow. The report mentions, “there were casualties on both sides in this operation,” but no specifics were given.

  “Holy shit!” Abel yelled at the TV. He was so loud that others in the bar turned in alarm. “Holy fucking shit!” he yelled again, and he suddenly tore out of the bar, nearly bowling over a cocktail waitress serving a table near the door.

  Abel’s mind was racing a mile a second as he charged out of the Hyatt and dashed down the street for his apartment.

  Shit! Shit-shit-shit! he thought. That was my shipment! My fucking shipment! The one I was supposed to protect—when it got to Miami!

  At the same time, another thought leaped into his mind as he pounded toward the old brick building, which was now in sight. Victor knew! He knew even as he was sitting there chatting with Abel casually eating his dinner. He knew when he invited Abel to go “fishing” with him, for Christ’s sake! The whole damn dinner date with him had just been one big charade! Abel knew that cartel hitmen had followed him into the Walled City. It was a good bet that, at some point, they’d gotten back on his tail after he’d left. Maybe they’d even checked out where he lived and what kind of car he drove before they’d met him. The building might be staked out! The sooner he got out of the city—out of the goddamn country—the better.

  Breathlessly arriving at the apartment building, Abel crashed through the doors, now focused on just what was important enough for him to spend one minute grabbing before he’d head for his car when suddenly, he stopped. My backpack! The money! I left it at the bar!

  Abel dashed through the doorway and charged back down the street. He was less than half a block away when an ear-splitting explosion caused him to leap with surprise, and then the explosion’s blast wave swept over him, knocking him off his feet. Abel turned around just in time to see his entire apartment building collapse as if someone had chopped the poor old structure’s legs out from under it. A choking wave of dust and tiny debris fragments swept over him. Abel coughed and spewed sandy spit but quickly recovered his feet as he dashed back to the Hyatt.

  More thoughts flooded his mind as he ran. Was that blast meant for me? Are Don Vicente’s hitmen that close? Where will I go now? His car was parked down the street. Will it be safe?

  He dashed back into the Hyatt, pushing through crowds pouring from the bar and the lobby to see what the explosion down the street was about. He charged through the bar and found his backpack right where he’d left it, then took off again. By this time, he’d decided that if the cartel dons were willing to blow up the entire building that he lived in just to retaliate, it was a good bet that his car was probably rigged to blow as well. Charging through the main entryway to the hotel, he skidded to a stop and headed for the kiosk where bellhops and valets kept the keys to the vehicles of people checking in. He snatched a key fob from a small rack and began clicking it, listening for chirps or car horns. Upon seeing one car’s lights flash, he ran for a boxy little Kia Soul that was just on the other side of the entry area, threw open the driver’s side door, tossed his backpack inside, and screeched out toward the street.

  At the same time, he noticed several men in suits who had been scanning the crowd. They suddenly turned, pulled handguns, and opened fire on him. The other people ducked, covered, and ran in all directions, helping Abel escape the volley as he burned rubber out onto the wide Carrera 1, one of the main drags along the Bocagrande, heading back toward the Walled City. He gave the little car the gas, and it surged forward—excellent for a small car, but not near what he might need if he was being followed. Two sedans and a Jeep weaving in and out of traffic behind him in his rearview confirmed that. Increasing his speed, he came to the dizzying intersection with Carrera 2, also known as the Avenida San Martin, where the left turn he had to make around the traffic circle nearly caused him to roll the Kia. Those following him zipped around it with ease and were now closer still.

  The vast, looping maze where the Avenida San Martin intersected with the Avenida Blas de Lezo that diverted inland just south of the Walled City came rushing at Abel and his stolen Kia. In the dark, it looked doubly confusing. He zipped off to the right as if to swing around the Walled City on the Blas, then screeched his vehicle left again and jumped onto a loop that took him back to Carrera 1 and 2, which were now called the Avenida Santander. He smiled as he saw one of the pursuing sedans not make the turn in time and fishtail around on the Blas, then get T-boned by another car as it tried, too late, to make the turn. He still had two vehicles behind him, and now they were racing along the Santander with the city wall off to the right and the Caribbean close up on the left. The margin of error was slim, especially since it was dark and they were all weaving in and out of traffic, going at times over a 100 kph on what was essentially a wide, multilane city street.

  Abel saw the Café de Vista Sol and the triangular fortress that it was a part of coming up rapidly on the right, high on the wall at the city’s farthest protrusion into the Caribbean. It was the one place where the wall actually came within a few feet of the roadway as it curved to the right around the point. Abel’s quick mind snatched at an idea. He weaved to the outside lane and slowed slightly. The pursuing Jeep took the bait, quickly speeding up to come alongside the Kia. Abel saw two men with assault rifles lean out the windows and take aim. But they were now right where Abel wanted them. He suddenly swerved the Kia to the right, causing the driver of the Jeep to do the same to avoid a collision. It skittered off the shoulder, and the men with guns opened fire, but the firing stopped an instant later as the Jeep pl
owed head-on into the solid stone of the city wall. Abel winced as he heard the impact, and seconds later, he saw a fiery explosion in his rearview. The pursuing sedan barely escaped the fireball and flying debris. The chase continued.

  As he sped along, keeping the sedan at a safe distance by both going insanely fast and weaving in and out of traffic, Abel contemplated his next move. He knew that he could ride the Avenida Santander almost all the way to Cartagena’s Rafael Núñez International Airport, where it would once again go through a mazelike intersection where the coexisting Carrera 1 would branch off, then head into a jumble of streets filled with shopping centers, fast-food joints, hotels, private residences, and even the Carrera 3, which actually went to the airport terminal. Abel felt that if he could get to this area unscathed, he could once again lose the hitmen, then park somewhere and enter the airport, a place where it would also be easy to get himself lost while he caught a flight out to just about anywhere that wasn’t in Colombia. The heightened security in the city might also help him, with airport police being on alert for known cartel operatives. But the cartels could have men there as well, figuring that Abel would be looking for the fastest way out of the country.

  Fuck it, thought Abel. Whatever was going to happen, it would all be over in less than fifteen minutes. The airport was that close, and they were going that fast.

  And he was right. Before he knew it, there was the big, messy intersection, all lit up with streetlights that, along with car headlights, made everything look glaring and garish. Abel feinted that he was going to continue on straight, then, at the last minute, swerved right and back onto Carrera 1. The car behind him flew off into some landscaping but quickly swerved back onto the road behind him.

  The sedan’s momentary off-road escapade had caught the eye of a Cartagena police cruiser. It now joined the chase, and before long, two other cruisers as well.