The Colombian Rogue

by Matt Herrmann

  “But tomorrow’s the weekend,” CG said. “We’ll have to go through this all again on Monday?”

  Cali gave him a hard look. “What’s it matter to you? You’re not on the witness protection schedule.”

  “Well, I mean, I want to see this trial wrapped up as quickly as you guys do. Justice and all that.”

  Sam turned around. “I’d stop talking. You’re only going to dig yourself a deeper hole.”

  CG gave him a funny look.

  “I was once a married man,” Sam said. “What’s our orders, Paul?”

  Juan already had his cell phone out and was trying to get through to Aguilar. The man wasn’t picking up.

  “You think the convoy’s going to get hit?” Sam asked. “Like this is a trap?”

  Juan thought about it and shook his head. “Could be. But no, I don’t think so. Aguilar’s smart. He’s got too many police on the ground and choppers in the sky searching for ambushes. Of course, he’ll have to transfer the witness to a new safehouse. If I were Vaquero, I’d wait to strike the new safehouse over the weekend. Either Saturday night or Sunday morning. That’s when the security detail would be less alert.”

  Sam looked unconvinced. “Vaquero’s already inside the courthouse. Wouldn’t it be better for him to strike the witness now so that he seems innocent? It’d be on live TV, too.”

  “You have to see this from Vaquero’s point of view. If he wants people all over the world to think he’s innocent, it would definitely implicate him if the key witness was killed while the media was filming. It’ll still make world news when he’s killed at some undisclosed location over the weekend, but how is Vaquero supposed to know where the new safehouse is? He’s under house arrest when he’s not in the courtroom. Even if everyone knows he was behind it. He has more to gain if the hit is done quietly over the weekend.”

  “Man, you’ve really thought this through,” CG said with a chuckle. “You’ve got the brain of a criminal mastermind.”

  “Makes sense what you’re saying,” Cali said. She glared when Sam turned and flashed her a look.

  “Well, if that’s the ‘group consensus,’” Sam said.

  “It’s not,” Cali said. “It’s just what two of us think.”

  Juan stepped between them as the ringtone in his ear suddenly changed to Aguilar’s voice. “It’s Paul . . . Yeah, we heard . . . I think Sam wants to tag along with the convoy. You got guns in the cars? . . . Okay, I’ll have him catch up to you, then. Alright, the rest of us will go back to the joint ops center. Good luck.”

  Juan turned to Sam and pulled a city map from his back pocket. He pointed to a nearby intersection. “If you want to go with the convoy, you can meet them here. They’ve got guns. Is that what you want to do?”

  “Yeah. This isn’t about which one of us is right. I’d feel better if one of us was with them.” Sam turned to start down the flight of steps.

  “That’s not how it is,” Juan said. “We’re all on the same side. One team. One family.”

  Sam snorted.

  “I don’t think your idea is a bad one,” Juan said. “But if I’m wrong and the convoy is targeted, there’s plenty of men on protective detail. It’d take a lucky break or a miracle for someone to hit the witness in that convoy.”

  TV shows made it look too easy.

  For a moment, Juan thought back to when he and Zeke had pulled their heist on an armored truck carrying military-grade weapons and equipment. There had been only one vehicle instead of a convoy, and only two men in the back of the truck guarding the payload. Juan had incapacitated both of them with a teargas canister. That job was a far cry from what Vaquero had facing him.

  “It’s that one percent chance I’m hoping doesn’t happen. And it’s why I’m going.”

  “I already said you could go. Go.”

  “I don’t need your permission.” Sam took off at a trot down the steps.

  Some policemen standing nearby whistled.

  “Don’t listen to them,” Cali said.

  “What is it with that man?” Juan said. “I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. He wanted to go. I let him go.”

  “It’s his personality,” CG said. “He has to be in on the action—on the front lines. He’s not good at delegating or watching others do a job he could. You didn’t say anything wrong.”

  “He just needs someone to take his frustration out on. Don’t take it personally,” Cali said.

  How can I not? Juan asked himself. He’s my best friend.

  Juan shook his head and chuckled to himself. He’d manage to trick even his psyche that he was Paul. So how come he couldn’t convince Sam?

  He walked around the side of the building and looked up at the second floor of the courthouse. Yellow caution tape fluttered against the black spiked iron fencing where the stone ledge had broken off and fallen down onto the alley below. Sometimes it still felt like he was suspended over sharp spikes of death and his grip was starting to give out.

  They went back to the joint ops center and awaited any reports of anything happening to the convoy. All was quiet, and most local TV stations were airing their normal daytime programs instead of Vaquero trial coverage.

  While they waited, Juan stopped by an empty cubicle desk and picked up the phone. He dialed the extension of the front desk of the Cartagena police headquarters next door. An amiable but stern-sounding woman answered the phone.

  “Yes, this is . . .”—Juan looked for the gold placard in the jumbled office space—“ . . . Detective Julio Cortez from the joint ops center.”

  “Uh-huh, yes I can see that from the Caller ID.”

  “Look, I wondered if you guys had any further information on a motorcycle vic found last night.”

  “You mean the gal missing her head?”

  “Yeah. Did we get a hit on her identity yet? I still don’t see her in the system.”

  The sound of fingers over a keyboard came through the phone speaker. “Let me see. We’re running fingerprints right now, but haven’t gotten a hit yet. And she didn’t have a head, so we don’t have facials or dental records to check. Must have been one sick bastard that did her in like that. Probably a rival gang member.”

  Juan cleared his throat. “Was there anything else?”

  “Uh yes, actually. There was a gun found at the scene. They already ran ballistics on it since it’s been a slow day. Well, I mean, aside from the big trial. But the lab techs have to stay at the office . . . It looks like ballistics match a couple other hits taking place over the past two years. They never found the shooter.”

  “Gotcha. Would you be able to fax me the details on those other killings?”

  “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Can you have someone else then, please?”

  “I’m sorry, you said this is Detective Cortez, right? You’re not assigned to the case.”

  “I’ve got family out in that area. Just wanted to put them at ease. You know what I mean?”

  “Well, give me a few minutes. I’ll fax them to the central fax machine in your building. You know where that is?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  He hung up and asked an intern where the central fax machine was. Juan followed the directions to a printer against a wall and waited against a nearby cubicle, tapping on the top of the cubicle wall.

  About ten minutes later, two pages printed out.

  They weren’t for Juan.

  He waited five more minutes and his pages printed out. One of them had a license photo of a woman and a handwritten line that read: Fingerprints came in—Gabella Fonseca.

  Juan looked up at the ceiling, remembering his younger days in Getsemaní. Gabby Fonseca had been a wiry girl with a lot of spunk and a bad attitude. She’d also been part of the gang he and Zeke were in, so she knew about their heist. That meant it was possible she was the one stalking and trying to kill him. In fact, she could have been who killed Zeke back in the day. But why?

  He stared at Gabby’s photo for a bit l
onger and then took the other pages back to CG, who was looking at his phone. “Hey, can you pull up all you can on these three targets?”

  “Whoa. Come on, Paul. How about a trigger warning next time you throw some dead body pictures in front of me?”

  “They’re black and white. Besides, don’t you kill people all the time in your video games?”

  “Video games and real life are not the same thing. I learned that when I almost got gunned down by that guerilla group in the middle of the jungle.”

  “Good times, right?” Juan said.

  “Bad times. I still have recurring nightmares about that night. Or morning. It was morning, wasn’t it?”

  “Can you just look them up, please?”

  “Sure thing, Paul.”

  CG was still looking at his phone, so Juan leaned over the cubicle wall and peeked at the screen. “Oh, she’s cute. Who’s that?”

  On CG’s phone screen was a picture of a young woman in yoga pants and a sports bra that really showed off her rather athletic form. She had dirty blond hair with dark streaks in it. By the way she was looking offscreen, Juan didn’t think she knew she was having her picture taken.

  “Who? Her?”

  “Yeah. New girlfriend?”

  “Psh. I wish. She’s just some girl I saw at that yoga class I went to with Cali.”

  “The one you left before it began?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to talk to her, but I couldn’t. It was nerves, man. I feel like sometimes I’m the only one who has them.”

  Juan went around the side of the cubicle and put a hand on CG’s shoulder. “Everyone’s got something that makes them uncomfortable. Just makes things mean so much more when you learn to overcome your fears. Keep at it, and you’ll make progress.”

  “You mean like you and Cali?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  CG gave him a sly grin. “I overheard you two at the courthouse. You hooked up last night after you bailed on Sam and me, right?”

  “Far from it, you nosy perv,” Juan said with a laugh. “We had a big fight. Bigger than that little display between Sam and me today.”

  “Ouch. I guess the great and powerful Paul has met his match?”

  “We’re just friends,” Juan said.

  “But you want more, right? She does.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Just stuff I’ve heard. When Sam and Cali were arguing over if you were really you or not, she took your side. I’m not completely stupid, you know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Sam’s got something against you. Shame. You both used to be such good friends—at least, that’s the impression I had before you went undercover. I didn’t get to know you guys that well since I was fresh out of college.”

  “You’re a good pal,” Juan said, squatting next to CG so they were about the same height. “Just a friend-to-friend suggestion: maybe don’t take secret pictures of women like this in the future. Kind of makes you look like a stalker.”

  CG’s face went red. “I just wanted to have a goal in mind as I’m trying to boost my confidence. Last night I almost felt like I could find the right words to say to her if she had been at the restaurant.”

  Juan shook his head. “That was just the alcohol. False confidence. You’ve got to train yourself to be confident when you’re sober—when you’re in complete control of your actions. Alcohol is a crutch.”

  “Says the guy who used to pound Natty Lights before missions, as I’ve heard it told.”

  “Those days are behind me,” Juan said seriously.

  “Sam’s not wrong. You are almost like a different person. But look at you. You’re Paul—even got the scar on your hand. I still think you’re cool.”

  “Thanks?”

  “I’ll start researching. Give me an hour, okay?”

  Juan took an early lunch and walked to the yoga studio, which was on the way to the hospital. He tried the door, but it was locked. When he started to walk away, he heard the door unlock behind him, and he turned.

  “Can I help you?” an attractive woman in tight shorts and a sports bra asked. The smell of incense wafted through the open door.

  “A friend suggested I give yoga a chance. She said this was the place to go.”

  The woman smiled. “She isn’t wrong. This is one of the best studios in the city.”

  Juan raised his eyes. “One of the best?”

  “Everyone’s got their preferences. I think this is the best studio that caters to both the advanced and the beginner.”

  “I see.”

  “And then there’s our new instructor. Come on in. We can talk inside.”

  Juan followed her into a small foyer with simple wooden cubbyholes lining the far wall. Various framed inspirational quotes hung along another wall. Through a set of glass double doors set in the third wall, Juan could see three rows of people sitting on rectangular mats and reaching their hands toward the front of the room. Most of them were young or middle-aged women, but there were a couple men in there, too.

  “Ever done yoga before?”

  “No,” Juan said.

  “We lock the front door during classes in case someone tries to walk in and steal personal belongings from the cubbyholes. Not that I believe we have personal belongings in this world, but you know what I mean. Car keys. Shoes. Change of clothes.”

  “Of course,” Juan said. “We’re all born into this world naked. Right?”

  She smiled interestedly at him.

  His plan was to call Cali’s phone number to see if he could hear it ringing in here. He could ask the woman who let him inside if there was a phone left behind last night, but as unlikely as it was, it was possible she was in on it.

  Juan absentmindedly scanned the room of yogis until he came to a stop on the man standing at the front of the room. He had long, flowing blonde hair, and his shorts and compression tank top showed off his tan, toned legs and arms. He to be about Juan’s age.

  “That the instructor?”

  “Yes. Quite the dreamy one. Attendance has more than doubled since he started teaching here over a month ago.”

  Juan studied the yoga instructor as he started to walk about the room, weaving between the rows of mats, instructing and straightening up the postures of some of the yogis. The man seemed somehow familiar to Juan, but he couldn’t exactly say why. He had never seen the face—of that he was certain. But there was something about the way the man moved, a sort of liquid grace to his footsteps that reminded him of . . .

  “His name is Enrique Sala. Do you know him?”

  “I don’t think so.” He turned to face her. “However, I feel as though I should know the man, as much as my friend has talked about him.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  Juan was about to answer when the yogis on the other side of the glass rose up as one, moving fluidly into a pose with their rears in the air, forming triangles with straight elbows and knees. Juan had to admit it wasn’t a bad view. Then one of the women turned back and made eye contact with him.

  It was Cali.

  Juan saw her face flush red. He stepped back from the doors. “Her name’s Cali.”

  “Oh yes. I know her. She seems a little standoffish and mostly keeps to herself, but she’s one of the most flexible people Enrique has ever met. He’s already conducted several private sessions with her to help her refine her techniques. I think their last session was yesterday afternoon.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Funny story, when she came in today, she asked if she’d left her cell phone here after her session yesterday. Sure enough, it was in the lost and found box behind the counter.”

  “Well, that’s good.” Juan checked his watch. “Thanks for all the information, but I need to get going.”

  “If you have to,” the woman said, leaning a hip seductively against the counter near the front door. One of her hands was feeling down her compressed pants leg.

  “I have to,” he said. �
�And what was your name?”

  “Gloria.”

  She smiled, and Juan was aware of her eyes on his butt as he stepped out onto the street.

  Juan figured he had just enough time to pick up a food truck lunch and take it back to his cubicle. He didn’t have time to locate Mika to make sure she was still doing okay—he just needed to fill his stomach.

  While he waited in line, he realized that he had basically been stalking Mika ever since her arms had recovered from being carved. He’d lied to himself, saying he was only looking out for her, but if he was really concerned for her, he just needed to call her up and tell her. Having given CG the stalker speech less than an hour earlier, Juan felt stupid as he walked back to the joint ops center.

  Luckily, no one tried to kill him along the way, and he didn’t sense that he was being followed or watched.

  30

  Info

  “Got something for you,” CG said as Juan sat down at his desk. “Although I’m not sure it will help you. The victims all seem unrelated: a lawyer, a social worker, and a teacher.”

  Juan got up and glanced at the news articles CG had pulled up on his computer monitors.

  “The only connection I see is that they all lived in Getsemaní,” CG said. “Best I can come up with is whoever hired the shooter is from there and had a grudge against them.”

  Juan put a hand on CG’s shoulder and handed him a plastic bag filled with wrapped tacos, which weren’t a traditional Colombian food in the strictest sense, but he knew that CG and the rest of the team enjoyed the American-ness of tacos. Even though he now had to watch every cent he spent, he’d decided to pick up enough food for his team while in line. He had figured that it might be the last nice thing he could do for them if he turned up dead in the very near future.

  “You shouldn’t have,” CG said.

  “I did.”

  Juan went back to his desk and sat down in silence. He kicked up his shoes and interlaced his hands behind his neck, thinking back about fifteen years.