by Ross Sidor
“Honestly, there might be little my people can do, but I know someone else who may. It will not be easy. It all depends on how far you are prepared to go.”
Avery didn’t hesitate. “As far as it takes.”
THIRTEEN
One of the most brutal and violent places in Colombia is Bellavista Prison, known as Hell’s Waiting Room, located in the heart of Medellin. One hundred miles north of Bogotá, Bellavista consists of seven housing units, each made of dilapidated red brick painted blue and white, each comprising three floors of four hallways. The average sentence here is thirty years.
Gun violence is common inside the prison, second only to stabbings, with an average of fifteen murders a day. Prisoners kill each other over petty disputes. Rival gangs are perpetually at each other’s throats. There are sporadic prisoner revolts and frequent attacks against the guards, who rely on guns, beatings, and the occasional extrajudicial execution to enforce control over the populace. In the courtyard, it was once common for inmates to play soccer with severed heads.
Originally built to accommodate 1,500 inmates, Bellavista now houses well over 5,000. To accommodate the perpetual inflow of terrorists, murderers, rapists, drug traffickers, and gang members, many of the already small cells are subdivided to accommodate two or three more inmates. Most prisoners simply sleep on the floor in the hallways or stairwells, which they share with hundreds of other prisoners.
Prisoners with money are able to “rent” private cells. This was an enormous luxury for Cesar Rivero, even if he did have to share three toilets with over two hundred other men. Most days, Rivero pissed in the corner of his cell. When he wanted to shit, he used cigarettes to buy access to a toilet from whatever gang was in power.
He left the safety of his cell only when absolutely necessary. He had no shortage of enemies within the prison, and there had already been two attempts on his life since his incarceration began. Even inside prison walls, members of the right wing vigilante groups and death squads preyed on members of FARC and the cartels.
Cesar Rivero started out as a gunman for the Medellin drug cartel, doing security at the cartel’s cocaine processing plants in the jungle and eliminating the cartel’s enemies. Later, he was assigned to help FARC establish urban terrorist cells in the city.
The cartel wanted a courthouse taken out, and FARC assigned its best operative. Knowing he was a trusted contact of her brother, Arianna Moreno sought Rivero out personally for the operation. Rivero provided the logistical support and helped gather the necessary materials for the construction of a truck bomb.
The Viper could penetrate the highest levels of security and deliver and place the bomb, but she lacked the scientific and technical skills necessary to engineer the weapon. Fortunately, bomb making was something at which Rivero’s cousin was quite proficiently skilled. He’d assembled dozens of sophisticated car bombs for the cartel and the M-19 terrorist group.
The bomb demolished the courthouse, killing over a hundred people, and wounding over twice that number, one of the deadliest terrorist attacks in Colombia’s history.
Unlike previous Viper hits, mistakes were made, the result of carelessness.
Rivero’s cousin accidently cut his finger preparing the bomb. He’d cleaned up the blood, but microscopic bits of DNA remained and were later recovered and analyzed by the FBI forensics team sent to Medellin to assist the Colombians in their investigation in the aftermath of the explosion. Rivero’s cousin was a man already known to the National Police and ANIC, and the Colombians quickly identified, arrested, and tortured him, and were subsequently led to Cesar Rivero.
Rivero was sentenced three weeks later and hadn’t stepped foot outside of Bellavista’s high walls since. He was the only member of the cell to have seen or spoken with Arianna Moreno. The other two men, Rivero’s cousin included, never even knew of her involvement. But Colombian army SIGINT intercepts from a FARC base camp revealed the Viper’s involvement.
So ANIC tortured the three cell members.
Rivero successfully held out, to the point where his interrogators wondered if he truly knew nothing of the Viper’s involvement. He held out because he knew that whatever pain ANIC inflicted on him was nothing compared to what the cartel or the Viper would do to him, even here.
The working of the lock, followed by the sound of rusted, degraded hinges, intruded upon Rivero’s dreams, jarring him from his sleep. He’d become acclimated to the regular nightly sounds of the prison, but his senses reacted at once to this unusual disturbance in his external environment, a vital survival mechanism here.
His eyes snapped open, staring into the darkness, and he blinked several times to acclimate his vision.
The door swung open and light from the hallway spilled over the floor of his cell.
Rivero bolted upright on his cot as human-shaped wraiths poured silently into his cell.
A bright, white beam of light flashed in his face. Behind the light, when he raised a hand to his brow and averted his gaze, he discerned solid black figures, their bulky vests, gloves, and balaclava facemasks rendering them featureless and indistinguishable.
Two of them entered Rivero’s five-by-five foot cell, while a third figure filled the space of the open doorframe, partially blocking the exterior light. They advanced on Rivero, towered over him, and screamed orders and obscenities at him in Spanish, while the flashlight shined in his face.
One of the intruders grabbed onto Rivero by his undershirt and effortlessly hauled him out of his cot, slammed him face first against the cement wall, landed a punch to his kidney, pushed him down onto his knees, and forced him onto his face.
Blood dripped from his nose and from a gash in his forehead. Sweat dripped down his face, soaked his shirt, and his heart pounded against the inside of his chest. Laying face down on the floor, the ammonia stench of urine reached his nostrils.
Rivero rolled over and sat up on the floor. His head hurt, and the room spun around him.
They kicked him again, barraged him with their heavy, steel-capped boots, and didn’t let up. He cried out and tried to cover himself with his arms, but then the kicks came from another direction. He curled into a ball in the corner of the cell, and the boots battered the small of his back and his spine.
Rivero was surprised at the effect the pain had on him.
Before, he’d grown accustomed to the savagery and brutality as a facet of daily life. Once the fuckers from ANIC, or their right-wing proxy agents, tore out your fingernails and put burning cigarettes out on your body, then poured salt into the open wounds, and attached electrodes to your balls, there was no further pain they could possibly inflict on you. You had been through the worst, knew what to expect, and could mentally prepare yourself for the next torture session.
But after a five month reprieve, the body quickly grew complacent and comfortable, and it was like starting over again. Rivero cowered, flinched, and cried out. The cracked ribs and the battered liver and kidney came as an unexpected shock to the system. Stress signals flashed throughout his nervous system.
One of the attackers commented, in Spanish, that they needed to get moving and shouldn’t stand around here too long. The kicking let up, with Rivero taking one last blow hard against his ribs before he was hauled onto his feet, and, barely able to find balance, was pushed out of his cell.
In the dimly lit corridor, there were two more men dressed like the others and cradling submachine guns with pistols holstered at their sides. Their uniforms lacked unit patches, insignia, or any other identifier. Armored prison guards were positioned throughout the corridor to keep the other prisoners at bay. Through the slits in their facemasks, Rivero saw their eyes, dark and penetrating, contemptuous of him, and one of them asked Rivero what he was looking at.
One of them punched Rivero in the gut. As he doubled over and gasped for air, trying not to vomit, a black sack slipped over his head and the drawstring tightened around his neck and was tied. His arms were tugged behind his back, and plas
tic cuff-ties snapped around his wrists.
He felt hands pushing him along down the hallway, and heard the jeers and shouts from other prisoners incited by the presence of Colombian military or police. He felt a plastic bottle strike his head.
Rivero heard guards shout orders and threats to the prisoners to keep them in line.
One prisoner, a man whose family was killed by FARC, charged down the corridor, his eyes set on Rivero with hatred and rage. The man held a piece of sharp, jagged metal low in his hand. Two guards intercepted him and beat him down with the butts of their submachine guns, pummeling his skull, battering him, until he stopped moving. They disarmed him and left him on the floor of the corridor.
They guided Rivero down a narrow stairwell, pushing him along and occasionally striking the butts of their weapons against his head and back. At the bottom of the stairs, they directed him down a long hallway, at the end of which he heard a door open. Hands shoved him inside.
Now he heard water dripping into a dank puddle with a slight echo.
They stripped the clothes and underwear off his body. He felt the cold air against his bare skin, the dirty cement floor beneath his feet. Then he heard water running through the pipes in the wall, and seconds later it streamed onto the floor. He felt the expanding puddle reach his feet.
They blasted him with three high pressure hoses.
Whichever direction he turned, there was more water coming at him in an endless flow.
When he went onto the floor, one hose’s flow was directed over his head.
He’d been water-boarded before. Although his mind understood the process and the physiological effects, his senses still screamed at him that he was drowning, and he fought for air. There was water in his nose, causing his sinuses to burn painfully, and in his throat. His lungs screamed. His body went into a panic. He gagged and choked and thrashed on the dirty squalor of the floor. When he twisted his head to the side, and there was a brief break in the water against his face, he sucked the air into his lungs and screamed, pleaded for them to stop, but they said nothing.
The onslaught continued for several minutes—felt like a lifetime—until long after the fight slowly and finally ebbed from Rivero. He screamed, thrashed, and cried until he was too weak to do anything but curl up on the floor and whimper.
The men took two hoses away, lowered the pressure on the third, and left it showering over Rivero. He lay naked, wet, gasping, freezing and shivering in a ball on the floor, hiding his shriveled genitals behind his hands.
“Here’s the deal, Cesar,” a disembodied Spanish-speaking voice said. Rivero did not recognize the voice from past interrogation sessions. “I possess neither the time nor the patience to fuck about with you, so I’ll lay it out for you in simple terms.”
Not that Rivero knew it, but the voice belonged to Daniel, whom he had never met, and the ANIC officer was accompanied by an American codenamed Carnivore and a squad of four specially selected special ops troops led by a captain named Aguilar.
Like the Colombians, Avery wore a balaclava. He kept his mouth shut the entire time, which wasn’t difficult for him. Daniel had advised him that it be best that neither prison staff nor inmates heard an English-speaking voice or American-accented Spanish in case there was an investigation later.
It was never mentioned aloud, but Avery realized that Daniel did not expect Cesar Rivero to return to his cell after tonight.
“Arianna Moreno,” Daniel continued after several seconds. “The whore they call the Viper, we want to know where and how to find her. We killed her nasty psychopath brother last week, shot him in the back as he fled like a helpless, little girl into the jungle, and now we’re going to end her life and deliver a long overdue measure of justice on behalf of the people they’ve killed and the families they’ve destroyed.”
That caught Cesar Rivero’s attention. He stopped gasping and writhing, fell abruptly silent and still on the floor and seemed to forget about his physical discomfort.
“We tried this once before, didn’t we, Cesar? You managed to hold your silence and protect the whore. But not this time. We’re not National Police, Cesar. We can do whatever we want, and if you do not cooperate, you’re going to an unmarked grave this time, but not before I take you apart one miserable, worthless fucking piece at a time.”
Avery thought Daniel put on a good performance. There was menace in his voice, and Avery didn’t doubt for a second that Daniel meant every word of it. Avery held no sympathy for Rivero. The man was presented a very clear and fair ultimatum, the means to escape a horrendous, excruciating ordeal, and he was free to make his decision. Rivero’s fate was entirely in his own hands. But part of Avery hated to see a weak, defenseless creature suffer. A wounded, starving wolf was still a sight that warranted pity.
They all knew which choice Rivero would make, and Avery pitied the man for the hell he was about to put himself through.
From behind the soaking wet hood over Rivero’s head, there was a strained chuckle that turned into a hacking cough. “So you fuckers are ANIC? ANIC had their try, too. I’m not afraid. I haven’t had a shower in two months, so go ahead, and turn the water back on, you sons of whores.”
Daniel’s voice stayed calm, measured.
“Who I am isn’t important, because I won’t be the one asking the questions, Cesar. If you don’t talk to me right now, we’re all leaving Bellavista together and turning you over to the Black Eagles. No one’s expecting you to do the smart thing, and the Black Eagles are looking forward to your visit. They must have had to draw fucking straws to see who gets their hands on you.”
Silence reigned.
The tension in the room was palpable.
Black Eagles was the name for a number of armed groups formed after the dissolution of the AUC, the United Self-Defense Unit of Colombia, a paramilitary death squad that targeted members of FARC, ELN, and the cartels, as well as their families and left wing politicians. They were financed by mining and oil companies whose businesses were threatened by the insurgent groups. AUC, and subsequently the Black Eagles, were added to the US State Department’s list of terrorist organizations for their mass civilian killings and human rights abuses. Over 20,000 killings and disappearances have been linked to the group. While the National Police Search Bloc unit hunted the Black Eagles and former AUC members, ANIC maintained loose ties with certain factions who shared a common enemy in FARC and the cartels.
When Rivero finally spoke, his voice did not sound as resilient as his words. “Go ahead. It’s been a long time since I had a chance to spit on a Black Eagle.”
Daniel was not going to ask again.
As Aguilar’s soldiers approached Rivero and produced a syringe to inject him with Etorphine, Avery couldn’t help but grimace, thinking that Cesar Rivero really should have made a smarter decision. Once the small dose of the diluted horse tranquilizer took effect, Rivero’s limp body went into a sack, was sealed inside, and removed from the prison.
___
By the time his captors woke him up with a shot of synthetic adrenaline, they had already moved Cesar Rivero to an abandoned textile factory in western Medellin.
Medellin was now a heavily industrialized and urbanized city with solid infrastructure, flourishing businesses, and brand new skyscrapers, but in the 1980s, when the powerful cartel named after the city flourished, Medellin was the most violent city in the world. Although many of the city’s neighborhoods are now completely peaceful and safe, in other areas paramilitaries and gangs engage in gun battles on the streets. Here no one would dare interfere with the Black Eagles or report anything they saw or heard to the police. A gunshot or two wouldn’t spark alarm or draw attention here.
Rivero lay naked on the cracked, dusty cement floor, breathing the musty air that smelled of mold. The rows of overhead candescent light bulbs were out, except for those directly over his small floor space. Outside the ten-foot diameter of light cast over the floor, a thick curtain of darkness cloaked assorted shadow
s and shapes created by the old power looms and warping racks.
Rivero’s hands remained cuffed behind his back, his legs trussed. He felt the crusted filth on the insides of his thighs and knew that he’d pissed himself. He understood interrogation techniques, and the power of dehumanizing and degrading the subject. They sought to destroy his dignity and wear him down, destroy his will.
Six hours after the injection, he still experienced the effects of the combination of drugs in his system. He felt nauseous, and his heart and pulse raced. Despite the warm air, he felt chills throughout body. He rested his head back against the floor and shut his eyes, trying to conserve his energy and strength.
He never heard anyone approach, but when he felt something nudge his shoulder, he opened his eyes to see four men standing over him. They wore ski masks and civilian clothes—jeans or shorts and t-shirts—with latex gloves. Each man had a black armband wrapped around their right bicep, denoting their AUC membership.
Avery and Aguilar stood on either side of Daniel in the dark, unseen by the prisoner. They no longer wore their masks. There was no need. They’d crossed the point of no return, and Rivero would never leave this place alive.
The Black Eagles made no introductions and issued no threats to Rivero and asked him no questions. They simply and methodically got down right to business.
Two Black Eagles spread out a large sheet of clear plastic over the floor and taped it down around the edges. Then they dragged Rivero onto the plastic. He was nearly deadweight, his body too weak to resist. They restrained him by his ankles and shoulders, underneath the lights.
Another Black Eagle turned on the electric drill and brought it up to speed.
Rivero watched, silently but horrified, as the Black Eagle crouched near him and calmly pressed the tip of the long, thin spinning drill bit to the center of his kneecap, holding it there for a second before pressing it in. The spinning, threaded metal burrowed through flesh, bone, and cartilage with little resistance. A cloud of red mist and white-gray bone dust filled the air.
