Narcos

by Jeff Mariotte

  Escobar called and demanded to know why the fuck Osorio hadn’t been dealt with yet. “We’re working on it, Patrón,” Poison told him. “We’re told that the bomb will be ready tomorrow. By tomorrow night, Osorio will be nothing but a stain on the pavement and a bad memory.”

  “He’d better be!” Escobar replied, loud enough that Poison moved the phone away from his ear. Aguilar could hear him from across the room. “I didn’t send you to Medellín so you could enjoy liquor and whores for a week!”

  “We’re not, Patrón. I swear. Osorio is too well protected, that’s all. Then we came up with this plan, but it takes time to build it so it’ll do what we need it to. Tomorrow night, we can drive back to Nápoles.”

  “Good,” Escobar said. He sounded like he’d calmed down some, but his voice was still loud. “Get this taken care of, and get back here.”

  “Tomorrow, Don Pablo,” Poison said. “For sure.”

  Escobar hung up. Poison put the phone back on the table, and said, “Next time, one of you guys answers the phone.”

  Finally, Oscar delivered the device. He left it with Juliana, who called Aguilar to tell him she had it. Aguilar and the others took her the second half of the money—half had been paid up front—and exchanged it for the device. Aguilar thought it looked crude: it was a big glob of some putty-looking stuff with wires enmeshed in it, and an electronic device with a softly glowing green light on the other end of the wires. “That’s it?” he said. “I thought there would be dynamite or something.” A separate item looked like a garage door opener.

  “It’s C-4,” Juliana said. “There’s a detonator in it. When you click this”—she indicated the door opener—“the detonator goes off and that’s what blows the C-4. Otherwise, you can drop it, shoot it, set it on fire, and it won’t go off. I wouldn’t recommend any of those—especially setting it on fire, because the fumes are toxic. But it’s perfectly safe and stable until it’s detonated by a primary charge. Also, it’s malleable, but don’t mess with it. Oscar said it’s in the shape you need for the result you want.” She pointed to one side. “He said to be sure this side faces your target. The detonator’s range is fifteen to twenty meters. Any closer and you’d be in danger, but any farther and it won’t connect.”

  Snake-eyes had carried in the crumpled but reinforced box they would place it in, and Aguilar had brought in a briefcase full of U.S. dollars. He set the case on a table and opened it. Juliana riffled through a couple of stacks, appraising them. “Looks fine,” she said. She gave Aguilar a quick hug. “Thanks for doing business with me. I hope to see you again.”

  “Me too,” Aguilar said. He hadn’t thought he would ever see her again after that first time, but it turned out that she was a handy person to know.

  “Oh, how’s that knife working out for you?”

  “It’s great,” he said.

  “You’re the one who gave the Jaguar his claw?” Poison asked. “It’s famous now. At least, in our world.”

  “Jaguar?” She smiled. “I like it. It suits you.”

  “Just because I’m spotted?”

  “Because you’re mysterious,” she said. “And dangerous.”

  Aguilar liked the sound of that.

  * * *

  At four o’clock, Aguilar and the others strolled, seemingly casually, past the storm drain. Poison was carrying the box, and Aguilar had a gym bag over his shoulder with weapons inside. Just before reaching the drain, Aguilar stepped off the sidewalk and into the street. Poison followed. Aguilar paused beside the storm drain, turning this way and that, as if looking for something. On the sidewalk, Snake-eyes did the same. They were both trying to attract the attention of anyone who might otherwise notice Poison duck down and shove the box—rubber cement coating its bottom surface—into the drain.

  A second later, Poison stepped back onto the curb, followed by Aguilar.

  “Done,” Poison said quietly. “Let’s go to that place across the street and watch the fireworks.”

  They were seated by the windows facing the road, and had their coffee on the table before Osorio’s convoy appeared down the block. Poison reached into the pocket of the light jacket he wore. The detonator, Aguilar knew, was in that pocket. Just seconds to go.

  He took a sip of strong coffee, then set the mug on the table, bracing for the blast.

  The front Suburban rolled to a stop at the corner. Behind it, the second one—Osorio’s—obstructed his view of the storm drain. A terrible thought occurred to him: what if the SUV’s armor blocked the radio signal from the garage door opener? Escobar would be furious.

  Then a white flash drove all thoughts from his head.

  Everything seemed to happen at once. Concrete soared into the air from the sidewalk above the storm drain. Windows in the nearest buildings shattered, and the front wall of the closest building buckled, stones dropping to the street. The Suburban lifted off the ground—and the pavement along with it—flipped a quarter-turn in midair, and crashed back to earth with the side facing the blast torn to shredded steel. All of it was accompanied by a deafening roar and a yellow-white fireball that seemed to shoot six meters into the air, then balloon out.

  The windows of the café blew in, sending shards of glass into the patrons. Aguilar covered his face, but too late; he was vaguely aware that he’d been cut. He saw another shard jutting from his right upper arm—instinctively, he yanked it out, and blood spurted from the wound. He clapped his left hand over it, to stanch the bleeding.

  Only then did he realize three things: he had been cut worse than he thought—not only the arm but his face was bleeding from multiple wounds, and his chest was bleeding through his shirt; he could barely hear anything other than a pronounced ringing in his ears; and gunmen were pouring from the front and rear Suburbans, looking for somebody to shoot.

  And a fourth thing—a couple of the mercenaries went to Osorio’s overturned vehicle and helped two survivors out through what was now the upper door.

  “Shit!” Snake-eyes shouted. His voice sounded distant, as though he was speaking from somewhere beneath the ocean. “That’s Osorio!”

  Aguilar didn’t have to hear him to know it was true. Osorio lived, despite their efforts.

  That was why they’d brought the guns. Aguilar hoisted the bag from the floor, set it on the table, and unzipped it. Each man snatched up a Mini Uzi and two extra magazines. Poison said something Aguilar couldn’t hear and stepped through the wreckage of the café’s windows. Aguilar and Snake-eyes followed.

  The scene was chaos—thick smoke and flames and onlookers rushing toward them and Osorio bleeding from dozens of wounds—which kept the mercenaries from noticing them at first. They were just three more of the blast’s victims, disoriented, walking toward its epicenter. When the guns came up, the mercenaries realized their mistake and reacted, but they were too late. As they had arranged, Poison targeted Osorio while the other two raked their fire over the mercenaries. Osorio’s head exploded under Poison’s barrage.

  Three of the mercenaries ducked behind the armored vehicles and returned fire, but with Osorio down, Aguilar and the others were already sprinting for the motorcycles they had left down the block. Aguilar fired over his shoulder, and when Poison reached his bike, he aimed a covering spray back toward the Suburbans.

  Snake-eyes was slower to reach the motorcycles, and Aguilar saw that he was dragging his left leg. His jeans were drenched with blood. “Come on, man,” Aguilar shouted. “You’re almost there!”

  Snake-eyes looked up, met his gaze—and a burst from the mercenaries’ guns tore through his back, ripping his chest into bloody chunks. He flopped forward onto the street.

  “Let’s go!” Poison shouted. “He’s done!”

  Aguilar didn’t want to leave Snake-eyes—the closest thing to a real friend he had among the sicarios—but Poison was right. Osorio was dead, and it was too late to do anything for Snake-eyes. If they weren’t all to die here, they had to get going. He started his bike and took off.
In case of pursuit, they’d planned to take different routes back to the apartment, so he made a right at the next corner while Poison peeled left.

  The cost was high, but the job was done.

  To El Patrón, that was the only thing that really mattered. The rest of it was details.

  25

  ESCOBAR HAD TIRED of Hacienda Nápoles, or believed for security reasons that it was time to move to another of his many residences, or had simply arbitrarily decided to change locations. At any rate, in the week since the deaths of Osorio and Snake-eyes, preparations were made to leave Nápoles.

  It was no simple matter. Household staff, a landscaping crew, and security personnel had to stay at Nápoles. The property had an airstrip, which would remain in use for outgoing shipments of cocaine and incoming ones of cash. Even with those people remaining behind, a small army would move. Trucks were loaded with personal possessions, equipment, and men. A separate convoy of vehicles carried cash and weapons, and the sicarios required to keep those safe. Finally, Escobar and his family had to be transported, in multiple vehicles, with their personal belongings.

  In the midst of the bustle, Escobar found Aguilar supervising the loading of a truck. “Tata wants you to drive her and Juan Pablo,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “I know you’ll drive carefully.”

  “Of course.”

  “She trusts you. Likes you.”

  “She’s a great lady. You’re a lucky man.”

  “I know it,” Escobar said. “She’s more than I deserve.”

  Aguilar didn’t know how to respond to that, so he left it alone. Escobar added, “There’s something else I need for you to do.”

  “Anything, Patrón.”

  “I need to know that she’s faithful.”

  “I’m sure she is.”

  “So am I. But still, it’s in my nature to be suspicious. I don’t have reason to think she’s not, but I need to know. I want you to find out. Subtly, of course. Don’t let her know that I told you to ask her, or anything like that. Just bring it up somehow, and try to draw her out.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “If I thought she was sleeping with anyone else… I don’t know what I would do. With her, I mean. I know what I would do to the man.”

  Aguilar had the impression that it would be painful indeed, and memorable for whatever brief length of time the man might live.

  But he also had the impression that Escobar might indeed suspect that Tata was sleeping with someone—and that the “someone” in question was him. This wasn’t just a request for information, it was a warning.

  “I’m sure she would never be unfaithful, Don Pablo,” he said. “She loves you; that much I know for certain. She told me so.”

  “And I love her,” Escobar said. The unspoken context was clear—although he loved Tata, he’d had many other lovers since they’d been married. Tata wasn’t like that, Aguilar believed, but he didn’t know how to convince Escobar of it. People often projected their worst qualities on those around them, and Escobar was a master.

  “I’ll bring it up casually,” he promised. “She’ll never know you were asking.”

  “Good,” Escobar said. “And take care of her and my son.”

  “Always.”

  * * *

  Once again, Tata sat up front, next to him. Juan Pablo was sleepy, and stretched out in the back seat. Aguilar was glad he wouldn’t hear the conversation, but he couldn’t think of a good way to introduce the topic. He made a couple of half-hearted attempts, then gave up. He would tell Escobar that she had sworn eternal fidelity and she was living up to that vow. Escobar would never ask her about a conversation he’d insisted had to be subtle and never traced back to him.

  Almost as if she could read his mind, or found his silence uncomfortable, she raised a subject of her own. “I know you lost your wife,” she said. “I’m so sorry for that. What about the rest of your family? Tell me about them.”

  “There’s not much to tell. My mother fixes people’s clothing. She made my clothing, when I was little, but she never thought she was good enough to make things for anyone outside the family. But if someone had a tear, or needed a patch or some pants made a little longer, anything like that she could do and nobody would ever know it had been mended. Sometimes she sold lottery tickets, too, for extra money, but not anymore. My father is a cobbler. He can practically rebuild a pair of shoes. I guess they both fix things that people need but that wear out or can be damaged, and they do it more cheaply than buying new things. I never thought about it that way before.”

  “They sound like good, hardworking people.”

  “They are. They were good to me.”

  “Mine were like that, too. Simple, good people.”

  “Do you see them much?” Aguilar asked.

  “My father’s gone. My mother, sometimes. My father never approved of Pablo, but my mother was willing to let me make my own decisions. How about you? Do you see yours?”

  He hadn’t, for ages. Since Luisa’s funeral, and his father’s comments there. He sent money and gifts, but without including a letter or a message of any kind. “Not often,” he said.

  “You should. After we get settled in at the ranch. It’s not so far from Medellín. Ask Pablo for a few days off so you can visit them. Or I can ask him for you.”

  Aguilar worried about what Escobar might think if his wife asked for time off on his behalf. “No, that’s okay. Thank you. I’ll ask him, but you don’t need to trouble yourself.”

  “It’s no trouble, Jose.”

  “It’s better if I ask myself, though. I will, I swear.”

  “All right. I’ll give you two days, after we’re moved in. If you haven’t by then, I’ll ask him myself.”

  “I will,” he said again. Sicarios were often hesitant to ask Don Pablo for special favors, he had noticed. He had also seen Tata take it upon herself, as if she knew she could get away with things the men couldn’t. But Escobar had confessed his suspicions to Aguilar, and he didn’t want to do anything to direct those suspicions toward him.

  “Two days. That’s all.”

  * * *

  Settling in was as large an effort as moving out had been. Escobar had properties all over the country, some little more than hideouts he could escape to at a moment’s notice, if the law or professional enemies came after him. But when he was planning to stay for a while, with his family and most of his organization, it was like moving an army. The trucks needed to be unloaded, a place found for everybody and everything.

  This ranch was in the hills above Medellín. The property was considerably smaller than Nápoles, with only a few houses and a big barn on it. Most of it was open pasture, on which long-horned cattle grazed. The air smelled like cows, morning, noon, and night.

  Aguilar wasn’t sure he wanted to see his parents. But he had promised Tata. And after a couple of days of smelling cattle, he was ready for a change. He asked Escobar for permission—he’d already assured the man that Tata was absolutely faithful to him—and Escobar told him to go.

  So he drove down the hill and into the city. His old neighborhood hadn’t changed, that he could see. It still smelled of sewage and the paper mill. The same small shops lined the main street, with the same small houses on the streets behind that. He even saw old Pedro, the drunk, sitting on his usual bench outside the butcher shop. He couldn’t say for sure if Pedro had ever been off that bench, or if perhaps he was glued to it.

  Nothing had changed, and that remained true even as he approached his parents’ home. The trees along the street were green and full, the houses that had flowers blooming in front were the ones that always did, and the houses that looked like they should be torn down had somehow managed to stay upright, but in no better condition.

  His parents’ house was in between; neither of them had time or energy to plant and care for flowers, but the house was solid. It needed paint—it had been blue once, now faded to a pale gray—but structurally it was s
ound. Aguilar’s father did most of the work on the house himself. It was, he said from time to time, much like fixing shoes, only on a bigger scale. The principle was the same: keep the wearer warm and dry and keep the weather out.

  Aguilar parked and sat in the car for a few minutes. He had a suitcase in back, in case he stayed for a few days, but he didn’t think he wanted to take it in at first. No one had invited him. He didn’t even know if they were home, or if they had plans. Except that they were always home, and outside of working they never seemed to have plans. He had no reason to believe that anything inside the house had changed any more than the exterior had. Anyway, it was almost six; his mother would be preparing dinner and his father would be complaining about the wait.

  Finally, he told himself to stop delaying. They were his parents, they’d be glad to see him. They would welcome him, probably want to serve him a big dinner, and would want him to stay for as long as he could. No sense putting it off.

  He got out of the car, leaving the suitcase in the trunk for now, and walked up to the front door. It was locked, so he knocked on it. After a little while, he heard muttering on the other side, then it opened and his father stood there. The man had changed; he looked older, his cheeks sunken in, his hair grayer and sparser on his head. He had a streak of boot polish on his nose and cheek.

  “Hello, Papa,” Aguilar said.

  “Oh, it’s you.” His father turned to shout inside. “Sofia, it’s the boy!”

  He looked at Aguilar, without expression or another word, until she came to the door. “Get out of the way, Gilbert,” she said. “Let me see my son.”

  “Hello, Mama.”

  She brushed past her husband with her arms out, and drew Aguilar into them. She smelled of the chili peppers she had probably spent much of the morning roasting, and she was soft and warm. “It’s so good to see you!” she said. “You’ve been away so long!”

  “It’s good to see you, Mama,” Aguilar said. “You too, Papa.”