“Of course, I didn’t order them to hit him there, in a crowded public place. I would have done it when he was on his way, or after, when he was leaving, with a full stomach and maybe a little drunk on wine.”
That, Aguilar would soon learn, was a habit of Escobar’s—just when it seemed he would accept the blame for some outrage, he would subtly shift it into someone else’s hands.
He wasn’t the only one who dodged responsibility, though. When they were drinking together late one night, Montoya had said, “She shouldn’t have been working in a place where criminals eat.” The fact that he was a criminal himself—or that every time Luisa went into her own home, she was someplace where criminals were—didn’t seem to occur to him. Aguilar didn’t think Montoya was even aware that he was at fault.
But he was—Aguilar had watched it happen. There was no doubt in his mind.
“You’re not responsible, Don Pablo,” he said. “But Alberto Montoya is.”
Escobar arched an eyebrow. “You’re sure?”
“I saw it. I had just arrived—I was trying to get past him, to stop the shooting. He was trying to shoot someone behind her, but his aim wandered and he hit her twice in the head. I was too late.” He dropped his chin to his chest. “I guess it’s as much my fault as anyone else’s.”
“You didn’t pull the trigger.”
“No. But I was too late to stop it from being pulled. Same thing.”
“It’s not,” Escobar said. “We know the risks. We understand the dangers. But family? Family is everything. If anything like that happened to Tata, I would want to burn down the world.”
“That’s how I feel,” Aguilar said.
“How can I help?”
“You’ve done so much already.”
“But there’s something else you want. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“Your blessing,” Aguilar answered.
“My blessing? For what?”
“I want to kill Montoya.”
Escobar considered for several long moments. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. He killed Luisa. He needs to die.”
“Believe me, I understand the impulse. But he’s your friend. Your partner. I’m sure he didn’t intend to do it.”
“He didn’t, I know that. It doesn’t matter. He still did it. I can’t live knowing she’s under the ground, and he’s still walking around above it.”
Escobar nodded. “I understand that. I do. But I have a problem. He’s one of mine. He’s worked for me longer than you have, in fact. Done me many favors. And he was doing what I’d ordered him to. Do you also want to kill me?”
“It’s crossed my mind,” Aguilar said. The words almost caught in his throat, but he got them out. “But no. You didn’t know she was there. He did, because I told him. You couldn’t have known that he might shoot her. He knew, and fired anyway. He didn’t control his weapon. He’s a danger—not just to her, but to you. A man who can’t control his fire…”
He knew he was reaching, trying to make Escobar think it was a sound idea.
Escobar narrowed his eyes, and Aguilar thought he’d made a mistake. He could kill me right here, he thought. Bury me on the grounds somewhere, or feed me to the zoo animals.
Instead, Escobar said, “I would. I would want to kill me and everyone else involved in the operation. You’re a kinder man than I am, Jose Aguilar Gonzales. Tell me this… how do you intend to do it? Fast and painless?”
Aguilar eased the knife from its sheath. “With this,” he said. “Not fast. Or painless. I want him to know why. I want him to apologize, and to beg for mercy.”
Escobar nodded again. “At first, I wondered if you were too gentle for this life, Jose. You’re educated. Most of my sicarios are just boys from the streets, with no money and no opportunities in life. I give them a sense of purpose, and they can make a good living. You could have remained a police officer, done your duty, arrested criminals, and made a decent living. But you chose to throw in with me. I’m glad you did, but I’ve sometimes wondered whether you made the right choice.
“I see now that you did. What I took at first for softness was a disguise—maybe one you didn’t even know about. But now I see the fire in your eyes, the steel in your spine.” He smiled, and added, “Yes, Jose, you have my blessing. You’ve always been more interesting to me than Montoya. Now I see why.”
“Thank you, Don Pablo,” Aguilar said.
“No need to thank me. Once again, you have my deepest sympathies. Go, Jose.” He rose, but before he left, Escobar added, “And make it hurt.”
* * *
Montoya lived in a small, stucco-sided house in the Francisco Antonio Zea neighborhood. It sat back from the road, with a small yard and a few trees screening it from view. He could afford something better, but he liked what he had. It was comfortable, he said, and he didn’t need a lot of space.
Aguilar went in the early hours of morning, parked three houses down, and watched the street for a while. Nothing moved except a gray cat and some leaves blown by a passing breeze.
Finally, he got out and pounded on Montoya’s door. It took several minutes for Montoya to unlock and open it. He was unshaven, wearing only boxer shorts. Rubbing his eyes, he scowled at Aguilar.
“What the fuck, brother? What time is it?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“What’s going on?”
“Can I come in?”
“I’m not alone,” Montoya said.
“That’s okay.” Aguilar pushed past him. Montoya was heavily muscled, his chest and arms covered with a mat of fur. But Aguilar was propelled by adrenaline and rage, rage that had been building for weeks. It would have taken three of Montoya to bar his way, and the man was still half-asleep.
“Get dressed and get out!” Aguilar called as he entered. “Alberto’s finished with you for tonight!”
“Hey!” Montoya said.
A high-pitched squeal came from the bedroom. A minute later, a young woman—a girl, really, no more than sixteen—came out, clutching a shirt around her to hold it closed, carrying a purse and her shoes.
“Don’t come back,” Aguilar said. “Don’t you know he’s a police officer? He’ll get in trouble if he’s caught with someone your age.”
She shot him a look that was, in his experience, universal among teenagers, implying, “Of course I know that. Do you think I’m stupid?” In fact, he thought most teenagers were stupid, but he tried not to let it show.
“Don’t listen to him,” Montoya said, but she had already run out and slammed the door. He whirled on Aguilar. “What was that about? What are you doing here?”
“Do you like her?”
“She’s okay. She’s fun.”
Aguilar walked away from him, and went into the kitchen. It was at the back of the house, with a window and a door that opened onto a yard like a small jungle. He’d seen a wild monkey back there once. “Come in the kitchen,” he said.
“Why? What’s going on, Jose?”
“Just do it,” he said. He didn’t turn the light on, and crouched just inside the door. When Montoya entered, he hesitated at the doorway, pawing at the light switch.
Aguilar lashed out with his knife, slicing through Montoya’s right Achilles tendon. Montoya screamed in pain and collapsed on the kitchen tiles, blood spurting from the wound. He tried to clutch his ankle, but the agony was too severe, so he held the leg above it. “What the fuck?” he cried. “What…?”
Aguilar slashed out again, drawing his blade across the back of Montoya’s right wrist. It didn’t bite as deeply this time, because Montoya snatched it away, but it tore through veins and more blood splashed onto the floor.
“Aren’t you glad I brought you in here?” Aguilar asked, finding his feet and moving away from Montoya. “Much easier to clean the floors in here. And nobody can hear your screams.”
He wasn’t sure that was true—the street was quiet, and Montoya was loud. But much of the noise would be muffled by the ba
ckyard jungle. Still, maybe he should quiet the man. He moved closer, and Montoya snatched at him with his left hand. Aguilar easily dodged it. He closed in again. Montoya reached for him, but Aguilar brought up the blade, and Montoya jerked his hand back. When he did, Aguilar reversed the knife and slammed the pommel into Montoya’s throat.
The older man gagged and choked. His eyes watered, and he clawed at his neck. He looked a question at Aguilar.
“Okay,” Aguilar said. “You want to know why? You shot Luisa, you motherfucker. Shot her right in the face, and you didn’t even care. You didn’t even notice.”
“I… no, you’re wrong,” Montoya managed to croak. His face was turning purple.
“I was there. I saw it. You were shooting at the man behind her, and you hit her.”
“That was… Luisa?”
“Yes, you fucker. That was her. You killed her, and then you told me she shouldn’t have been working there anyway.”
“It was… an accident…”
Was it? Aguilar was no longer so certain. After all, Montoya had shot Amparo in the face, too. Maybe he liked to do that to pretty women he knew he could never have. “Doesn’t matter. You have to pay.”
Montoya looked at him with sad eyes. Pathetic. Aguilar lashed out again, drawing the blade across his forehead. Blood beaded at the slash, then started to run down into his eyes, and down his cheeks. Crying tears of blood, along with the saltwater ones springing from him.
He had stopped screaming. Now he was alternately whimpering and begging for his life in a hoarse rasp. Aguilar took no pleasure in his actions. He felt sickened, but powerless to stop. If he let Montoya live, the man would surely recover and kill him. And he would lose face with Escobar. He had to continue. He had chosen this path, now it was time to walk it.
He had wanted it to go slowly, or he’d thought he did. Now, though, he didn’t want to watch Montoya’s suffering any longer than he had to. Luisa had suffered, but only for a short while. Aguilar was suffering, and would for every day of his life, with every breath he took. Montoya had to pay for that.
No longer able to hold himself up, Montoya had curled into a fetal position. He winced and cried out when Aguilar cut him, but weakly. Aguilar moved quickly, slicing Montoya’s other Achilles tendon, his arms, his face. Blood pooled around him. Finally, to finish it, he drew the blade across his partner’s throat, feeling flesh tear and cartilage snag. Montoya made a choking noise as blood gushed from the wound.
Minutes later, he was dead.
Aguilar found Montoya’s Polaroid camera in the bedroom; he’d been using it to photograph himself with the young woman. Aguilar wished he could stay and burn the photos, but he’d been here longer than he’d intended anyway.
He took a few shots of Montoya, figuring Escobar would want to see the proof that Aguilar wasn’t as “gentle” as he’d thought, and left the house.
He had thought killing Montoya would make him feel better.
It didn’t.
But it didn’t make him feel any worse, either.
18
ESCOBAR HANDED BACK the photos with a grin. “You’re like that North American, Ansel Adams,” he said. “A master of the photographic arts.”
Aguilar had seen the photographer’s work in a Medellín bookstore. He took pictures of trees and rocks, all in black and white. These photos were primarily red. Still, Escobar seemed to mean it as a compliment. “Thank you.”
“You should study his work,” Escobar said. “It’s beautiful. I wish he would photograph Colombia, to show the world the raw power of our landscapes. I don’t know as much about art as I would like to—Tata chooses most of what we have—but I know some things. Such as, the best art is the most expensive. Also, private buying and selling is good, because nobody knows how much you paid, or what profit you earned. In my business—our business—it’s good to be able to disguise such things sometimes.”
“I understand,” Aguilar said. “Montoya explained some of that to me.”
“You’re a smart guy, Jose. And observant, like all good policemen.” Escobar leaned forward in his chair, and lowered his voice, as if to stress the import of what he said next. “So, I know you noticed when I started to say ‘my business,’ and changed it to ‘our business.’”
“I did.”
“Do you know why?”
“Tell me.”
Escobar smiled. “Ordering me around? That’s good. Within limits, of course.”
“Of course,” Aguilar said. He had already grown more comfortable with the gangster than he had ever expected to. Escobar had an easy charm about him. Aguilar had heard he was interested in politics, and could imagine him doing well at it.
“I want you to join us,” Escobar said. “Keep your police job, for now. It has come in handy in the past, and without Montoya on the job, you’ll be one of my main connections in the department. I’ll pay you regularly, and far better than that job does. You can buy a house in Medellín, but often you’ll stay here at Nápoles, or wherever I am.”
“You want me to be a sicario?”
“More than that. A sicario is just a kid with a gun and a chip on his shoulder. I can afford truckloads of those. Yes, you would fulfill that function when needed, but you’d also be someone I can talk to when I want intelligent conversation. A bodyguard and driver for my family. Perhaps one day a lieutenant or a captain in the organization, if you have the aptitude for it.”
Aguilar didn’t have to think it over for long. Since Luisa’s death, he’d been living in a nice hotel, because he couldn’t bear to spend time in the apartment they had shared. He was burning through money fast, and he hadn’t been earning.
He didn’t know yet what effect Montoya’s death would have on his police work, but since he and Montoya had been partners and friends, people would expect him to be in mourning. Thanks to Luisa’s death, he knew how to behave, and could probably fake it.
He would have to.
“Thank you for the opportunity, Don Pablo,” he said. “I will serve you faithfully, and will put your life and the lives of your family ahead of my own.”
“That’s all I can ask,” Escobar replied. He clasped Aguilar’s hand and held it tightly. “Welcome to the organization, Jose Aguilar Gonzales.”
When he released the hand and sat back, his brow furrowed. “You need a nickname. I probably have seven or eight Joses working for me already, and one of my partners is José Rodriguez Gacha. But I think I already know what I’ll call you. With your spotted skin and your initials—J.A.G.—the obvious name is Jaguar. Even better, your knife will be the Jaguar’s Claw. Do you like it?”
Aguilar didn’t think it mattered whether he liked it—Escobar had already made up his mind. But in fact, he did like it. It sounded exotic, dangerous. There were jaguars in the Colombian jungles, he knew, but he had never seen one. They were sleek, muscular beasts.
They were born killers.
“It’s perfect,” he said. “I’ll do my best to live up to it.”
* * *
At work the next day, Aguilar had to feign sorrow over Montoya’s reported murder. The captain called him into his private office, where some of the other brass had gathered.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about your partner by now,” the captain said. “Your partner and friend, I understand. I want to offer my deepest condolences. And so soon after the tragic loss of your wife—nobody could blame you for being completely shattered. If you need some time off, we’ll understand.”
Aguilar had expected something along those lines. But Escobar wanted him to remain on the force, and taking time off would negate whatever advantage came from that. Better to stay put, and use the sympathy offered him to further whatever El Patrón needed done.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “But I think I should keep working. Keep my mind occupied. If that’s all right, of course.”
“Oh, yes. I understand completely,” the captain said. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, just let me
know. Of course, you can avail yourself of our department counselor, if you feel the need.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, sir. Thank you again.”
The men sat quietly for a couple more minutes, with occasional attempts at conversation. Nobody knew what to say, though, and soon, Aguilar was dismissed. In the hallways and locker room, others tried to express their sorrow, and Aguilar tried to respond appropriately.
It didn’t take long for his usefulness to Escobar to make itself known.
Aguilar was out on patrol when the dispatcher radioed him and directed him toward a downtown intersection, without explaining further. When he arrived, he found Poison leaning against a motorcycle.
Aguilar pulled up beside him and lowered his window. “Waiting for me?”
“Yeah,” Poison said. “We have a problem.”
“What is it?”
“Police have retrieved a car they say was stolen. There’s some product in it, and we can’t let them have it.”
“How much?” Aguilar asked.
“Twenty kilos,” Poison said. “It was a special sale to an ally of Don Pablo’s, somebody who wants to get into the distribution business. But he hasn’t paid for it yet, and Pablo doesn’t want it to disappear.”
“Where’s the car now?”
“Still at the arrest site.” Poison named an intersection not far away. “The cops had to call for a tow truck. The towing service operator is a friend of ours, so he’s delaying as long as he can. But he won’t be able to hold off much longer, or they’ll just call someone else.”
“What about the driver?”
“He’s already been booked. If you can get him out, fine, but he’s not as important as the merchandise. Pablo wants to make sure the car doesn’t get to the police garage, because they’ll find it in no time. Twenty kilos is hard to hide in a regular car.”
“How do you want to do it?”
“I don’t know if you have enough seniority to take over the investigation,” Poison said.
“No,” Aguilar said. “Not nearly.”
“Then we’ll probably have to do it by force. Either there at the scene, or intercept it en route.”
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