Colombiano

  I raced to Camila and pulled the bike off her, firing my pistol at the two guerrilleros as I dragged her to safety behind a tree. I pushed her into the woodlands behind me. ‘Run to the river,’ I yelled. ‘Don’t stop! And don’t turn around.’

  I sprinted towards Ñoño, intending to drag him to safety and hold off the Guerrilla while praying for the army to arrive. But I’d barely made it five paces when a hail of gunfire forced me to dive behind another tree. Peering around it, I saw Buitre’s men swarm around Ñoño. He must have regained consciousness because I heard a panicked shout of ‘Pedro!’ as they lifted him and spirited him away.

  Within seconds, figures were scurrying through the thick forest to my left and right. I fired at them but couldn’t get a clear shot. They were rapidly closing off my avenues of retreat.

  This is it, I thought to myself as they edged closer. I fired sporadically, preferring to die fighting than be captured, but with only two magazines I had to conserve ammunition. Finally, with absolute dread, I realised the reason they weren’t shooting back: Buitre wanted me alive.

  He shouted through his megaphone, ‘I tried to do this the friendly way, Pedro. You asked me to surrender. Now it’s your turn.’

  Meanwhile, his men moved nearer and nearer. One would scurry closer in front of me; I’d fire. Then another moved behind me; I’d turn and fire again. They were well trained and gradually formed a circle around me, which grew tighter and tighter.

  My panic continued to mount. If captured, ordinary commanders could expect a protracted, agonising death. But I wasn’t an ordinary commander – I’d killed two of their leaders, held Buitre’s brother hostage and sworn death to Caraquemada.

  My second magazine was almost empty. I’d been counting the shots, just as Culebra taught me. Evidently, so had Buitre.

  ‘Don’t move, Pedro!’ he yelled. His voice was closer and he was no longer using the megaphone. I caught sight of him behind a tree. ‘You have one round left. Hands behind your head!’

  I raised the pistol to my temple, my finger resting on the trigger. I was breathing in short gasps, my heart racing. Sweat poured down my neck. I was terrified by what I now had to do. I didn’t want to die, but the alternative was unthinkable.

  Fifteen of Buitre’s men closed the circle, their rifles trained on me.

  ‘You threaten to shoot my innocent brother,’ Buitre called out. ‘Yet you’re too scared to pull the trigger yourself?’

  ‘I’m not the one hiding behind a tree,’ I yelled back. ‘Yes, I have one bullet left. Come out and let’s see who I use it on.’

  In the distance, I heard the faint howl of engines. Buitrago’s trucks! I couldn’t be sure but I took a gamble.

  I aimed the pistol at my left boot, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. A dull pain exploded in my foot, like a blow from a hammer, and lightning shot up my spine. My vision blurred as I fell backwards, throwing my pistol towards Buitre.

  ‘Stupid move,’ he said, kicking it aside and walking smugly towards me.

  My aim now was simply to stall for time. ‘I can’t walk,’ I taunted him from the ground. ‘So you can’t march me anywhere. Go ahead and finish me.’

  ‘You idiot.’ Buitre laughed. ‘We can carry you. I know many people who will be extremely interested to meet you back at camp.’

  ‘You won’t get far carrying me,’ I said. ‘Not with only three minutes’ head-start on the army.’

  Buitre now heard the trucks too. ‘¡Chulos! ¡Hijos de putas!’ he said bitterly. ‘Saved by the chulos from the slow death you deserve.’

  Buitre took a running kick at my ribs, and his men piled in behind, landing brutal kicks and punches.

  ‘Go ahead and kill me!’ I spat. ‘It will be much less painful than what Beta will do to your brother in response.’

  This stopped Buitre in his tracks, and his men stopped too. I had his attention.

  ‘The limpieza took three days. I’m sure with the right razorblades Beta could make Ernesto’s pain last much longer …’ Buitre said nothing, so I drove home my advantage. ‘He might even let you listen via radio before he sends Ernesto’s fingers to your mother, assuming Beta’s men don’t pick her up too … in Barrancabermeja.’

  ‘You son of a bitch!’ Buitre kicked me again. I heard my ribs crack.

  ‘Think about it!’ I wheezed, wincing in pain. ‘You’ll never get Ernesto back unless you let me live.’

  ‘Not true,’ said Buitre, drawing a serrated hunting knife and pointing towards the forest. ‘I have your little friend, Ñoño.’

  ‘A skinny fourteen-year-old who’s worth nothing. No way Beta would trade Ernesto for Ñoño. Not when he sees you’ve killed me and the soldiers on the base.’

  I could hear the army trucks drawing closer.

  ‘You get me my brother back,’ Buitre said, crouching and holding his knife to my throat. ‘Or I’ll come for you again. You and your whole family. In case you forget, let this serve as a reminder.’ He slashed his knife down the side of my face, cutting deep.

  Then he stood and booted me in the head.

  When I came to, Camila was leaning over me, looking aghast and sobbing. ‘What have they done to you?’

  Groggily, I turned my head and saw Buitrago’s men fanning out in a protective ring.

  ‘Please don’t say anything about Ernesto,’ I croaked.

  After that, my recollections are hazy; I was bumping along a road – the army soldiers were conveying me somewhere in a truck. I was barely conscious when someone stabbed my thigh with a syringe, and after that I felt nothing.

  135

  I AWOKE, DAZED and disoriented, blinking my eyes to regain focus. I saw Colonel Buitrago standing over me. I looked around. Bright light streamed through a window, a pair of crutches leaned against a bare white wall, and I realised I was in a bed in the army infirmary.

  I tried to sit up, instantly aware of tightness in my cheek and numbness when I tried to move my leg. I lay back against the pillow and closed my eyes, my mind racing back. Buitre had Ñoño!

  And Camila … I remembered Camila leaning over me. She was safe, but had she said anything about Ernesto? I panicked momentarily, convinced Buitrago was here because he’d found out everything. He would free Ernesto, depriving me of my only leverage over Buitre. Then Trigeño would find out. The base would be searched, the cocaine found and my life would be over. But when I opened my eyes again the colonel was peering down at me sympathetically.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.

  I reached for my left check and felt padding.

  Buitrago grabbed my wrist. ‘It’s deep, Pedro. Thirteen stitches. The doctor said not to touch the wound until it’s healed.’

  ‘Did you rescue Ñoño?’

  Buitrago shook his head gravely. ‘They got away. I’m sorry, Pedro. I know how it hurts to lose good men. You have ten down – six on the base, three in Caraquemada’s ambush on the road and one captured. I lost three men myself responding to the ferry explosion.’

  ‘Then you saw what they did to my base?’

  He nodded. ‘If I’d known Caraquemada was coming for you, I’d have sent you a platoon. But we had our hands full all night in Puerto Princesa. Caraquemada blew all the towers and hit everything at once. Santa Paraíso is completely cut off. I’ll give the Guerrilla this: they’re clever.’

  From the way he was talking, it was clear Buitrago didn’t know about Ernesto. And he too had fallen for Buitre’s ruse that Caraquemada had instigated the attacks. I felt relieved, although slightly uncomfortable deceiving the colonel after all the faith he’d invested in me.

  ‘And Camila? Is she okay?’

  ‘She’s in the next room with her parents.’

  I raised myself gingerly onto my elbows, feeling light-headed. Looking down, I noticed my left foot was bandaged tightly, with a round patch of blood soaked through in the centre.

  ‘Then I need to speak to her.’

  ‘Now’s not a good time. She’s hardly said tw
o words. She’s still in shock—’

  Buitrago was interrupted by one of his lieutenants entering with an urgent message: ‘Fabián Diaz’s Mercedes is at the gates, mi coronel. Beta and his soldiers are with him – around thirty of them, mi coronel, in five vehicles. They’re requesting permission to enter.’

  ‘Show Señor Díaz to my office,’ said Buitrago. ‘But tell that hijo de puta, Beta, that if he doesn’t withdraw his men immediately I’ll inform Trigeño and throw him out of this town for good.’ The colonel looked at me and shook his head. ‘Thirty soldiers! Why didn’t Trigeño station those troops where they should have been – on your base? Then none of this would have happened.’

  I sat up and swivelled my legs from the mattress, then paused to let a dizzy spell pass. Through the window I now saw that the ward was on the second floor with a view over the car park and main gate. Fabián’s Mercedes rolled through the entrance while several vehicles behind turned and departed. What the hell was he doing here anyway?

  ‘Pedro,’ Buitrago said gently, ‘I’ve informed your mother that you’re here. I told her to wait until this afternoon to visit. She wants you to leave Llorona.’

  ‘Never,’ I said, turning to face him. ‘I’m staying.’

  ‘Just think: first those wanted posters, now this. You’re a target.’

  ‘You haven’t left,’ I retorted. Through the window I saw the smarmy Fabián exit his Mercedes and then saunter towards the building, carrying a bunch of orange flowers. Suddenly I realised the real reason for his visit – he was here to see Camila! He’d wanted her ever since his fiesta two years earlier. She’d been fifteen then – too young for him – although that hadn’t stopped him from asking for her number. Now that she was seventeen he was trying again, using this accident as a way in.

  I stood giddily from my bed, grasping the metal antibiotics stand as support before hopping on my good foot to reach the crutches.

  ‘Pedro, wait,’ the colonel called out. ‘The surgeon said—’

  The crutches squeaked on the linoleum floor as I launched myself through the doorway into a bare white corridor. I paused to gain my balance. Luckily, I didn’t have far to go. Camila was sitting up in bed with a blanket around her shoulders. Her father was standing beside her, one hand placed comfortingly on her shoulder while her mother sat on the edge of the bed holding her hand.

  ‘Pedro!’ Camila turned to me, taking in my patched cheek and bandaged foot. ‘I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you.’

  Her mother stood and hugged me. ‘We owe you our thanks.’

  Mr Muñoz shook my hand. ‘Camila told me you saved her life,’ he said, although his look implied something different: if not for you, she wouldn’t have been in danger in the first place.

  There was a knock at the door. I turned to see Fabián Díaz. It had been over eighteen months since the party at the Díaz hacienda, but Camila’s parents welcomed him as though they’d spoken yesterday. Fabián bowed respectfully then beamed at Camila and held out the flowers. ‘A small present for the patient.’

  Fabián now addressed Señor Muñoz. ‘I’m sorry to arrive like this unannounced, but I heard what happened and would like to offer whatever assistance I can. My friend Andrea told me Camila commences university in two weeks. However, if she’s now a target it might be best if she leaves immediately.’ He outlined his plan, offering to transport Camila to the airport in his bulletproof Mercedes with armed escorts and then fly her directly to Bogotá in his Cessna. Meanwhile, her mother could pack her bags, which he’d forward the following day on a Transportadores Díaz bus.

  My blood boiled. Fabián was using his wealth and power to get closer to Camila. Surely Camila and her parents would see through him. However, they seemed grateful.

  ‘The rental contract on her student room starts in ten days,’ said her mother tentatively. ‘Where would she stay until then?’

  ‘That won’t be a problem, señora,’ Fabián said smoothly. ‘We own a building in the best part of town. Camila could take one of the empty duplexes.’

  I could say nothing against this without looking foolish. I could only watch in horror as Camila’s mother raised her eyebrows at her husband. Both parents exchanged looks with Camila, who nodded.

  ‘That’s extremely generous of you, Don Fabián,’ Señor Muñoz said.

  ‘Then it’s settled. I’ll wait with your parents in the Mercedes,’ Fabián said to Camila. ‘I imagine you two need a moment of privacy …’ He turned to me. ‘To say goodbye.’

  After Fabián left with Camila’s parents, she stood, still holding her flowers, and I rushed to her side.

  ‘Don’t go with him! Please!’ I whispered.

  ‘I need to leave. I need to feel protected. I told you we’re through. Not just because of what you’ve done, but because with you I’ll never feel safe.’

  ‘Fabián and his brother are drug traffickers. I can prove it!’

  ‘And you’re a kidnapper!’ she snapped. ‘Don’t worry, I kept your dirty little secret. Just promise me you’ll get Ñoño back.’ She squeezed my hand and tears welled in her eyes. ‘It was my fault he was taken. Just promise me!’

  ‘I promise.’

  And with that, Camila left, still clutching the blanket around her shoulders.

  No sooner was she gone than Fabián re-entered the room. He’d lied about waiting in the Mercedes; he’d remained in the corridor and overheard everything.

  ‘Think carefully about what you say publicly, muchacho,’ he snarled. ‘Once again, Javier is generously looking after your mother. And now I’ll care tenderly for your girlfriend – or, should I say, your ex-girlfriend – who you almost got killed. We’re doing this for you, Pedro. We’re on your side. But if you’re not on ours, then that might well affect our ability to protect the two people you love most in the world.’

  136

  I RETURNED FOUR days later to my camp, hobbling on crutches. The doctors had told me my foot would require redressing every four days, weeks of antibiotics and regular X-rays.

  My men looked shocked by my injuries although relieved to have me back. Palillo, Indio and Johnnie Walker formed up the troop. They’d done a good job of maintaining order. The debris had been cleared from the burned grass, the tyres replaced and new sacks filled with sand, although the milking shed required structural repairs. We also needed a new generator, and the wooden barn was now a pile of char and ash.

  I stood in front of my men, thinking back to the aftermath of the disastrous battle of Jaguar River. At the time, I’d thought Trigeño a hypocrite for claiming we’d made great strides against the enemy. But now I put on a brave face and tried to make similar claims. Like Trigeño, I’d been responsible for our losses, but a commander’s obligation was also to restore morale.

  I praised Rafael for his quick thinking and bravery. I praised Giraldo for holding the milking shed, and Johnnie Walker’s and Indio’s squads for their fearless charge towards enemy lines. And I singled out Piolín and Palillo’s heroism in reaching the trenches with my message to counter-attack.

  Afterwards, we held a ceremony for our nine fallen soldiers, who were now buried in the Llorona cemetery. We played the national anthem over the PA system, and I had Pantera’s squad fire a volley of shots into the air as a farewell salute while a tearful Iván erected five miniature crosses for the German shepherds.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ I said. ‘I’m getting you five more. And three puppies.’

  ‘They were only dogs,’ he said. ‘Ñoño’s a person. And he’s my brother. I can’t live without him. Please bring him back.’

  As if I needed a reminder. I was already riddled with guilt over Hector, Tarantula, R6 and the others lost on my watch. I was also grieving over Camila. But now was not the time for self-pity. I put my own emotions aside and concentrated on keeping solidarity and focus within my unit. To keep their minds occupied, I immediately set my soldiers to work fitting out the farmhouse as their new barracks.

  Rafael a
pproached me and saluted. Of course, he would have been well within his rights to say, ‘I told you so,’ but he didn’t. Instead, he seemed to intuit what I was feeling.

  ‘Don’t blame yourself, comando,’ he said sincerely. ‘Buitre will stop at nothing. But at least we still have Ernesto.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Shaken. But holding up okay.’

  Ernesto confirmed this when I visited him in his cell.

  ‘I’m glad you’re alive, Pedro,’ he said. ‘But does that mean Kiko is dead?’

  ‘No,’ I said, touching my finger to the patch on my cheek. ‘He almost killed me.’

  ‘I’m truly sorry, but you need to understand. All this, Kiko did for me. Of course he wants to rescue me. He did this out of love.’

  As I watched Pirata’s squad carry furniture to my new temporary office in a downstairs bedroom of the farmhouse, I was once more overwhelmed by the same depressing thought that had plagued me every waking minute since Buitre’s ambush: Ñoño.

  I knew Buitre wanted his brother back and would trade him for Ñoño. But that would mean Buitre escaping my clutches. I might never get another shot at him. He’d send Ernesto and his mother into hiding and never show his face again. And with Buitre’s disappearance, I’d lose the chance at Caraquemada. On the other hand, how could I risk Ñoño’s life? Buitre was vicious. Only that morning I’d faced the mirror and peeked under the gauze on my left cheek and cringed at the sight of the long, seeping gouge held together by thirteen tiny knots of black thread.

  It had been four days since the ambush and still Buitre had not called. The longer he drew this out, the more I fretted about Ñoño and the angrier I became knowing that Buitre was deliberately provoking my desperation.

  Sitting at my wooden desk, I radioed Palillo and Rafael to join me for a strategy meeting.