Narcos

by Jeff Mariotte

  “You might as well come inside,” his father said. “Dinner’s late as it is.”

  “I can take you out someplace,” Aguilar offered.

  “Nonsense,” his mother said. “There’s plenty. And Gilbert is wrong, it’s not late, because you weren’t here yet. It’ll be ready in no time.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “Then you might have called first, or not come right at dinnertime.”

  His mother punched her husband’s arm, hard. “Gilbert! This is our only son! He’s a grown man, a serious man. A police officer. Treat him with respect.” Still gripping Aguilar, she led him inside the house and kicked the door closed.

  “I’m not with the police anymore,” he said. He followed his mother down the narrow hallway and into the small kitchen. It smelled like home.

  “With that gangster, then?” his father asked. “Do you read the Diario? Did you hear the editor, Osorio, was murdered by those thugs?”

  Aguilar didn’t want to lie to his parents. But he didn’t want to tell them the truth. When his father mentioned the killing, he remembered his last glimpse of Snake-eyes, bleeding out in the street but still alive, his gaze locked on Aguilar’s, beseeching. Could he have been helped? Maybe. But the mercenaries’ rounds had torn through his back and out his chest; severe organ damage was a certainty. It would have taken an immediate medical response to have any hope of saving him, and with the mercenaries still gunning for them, that was impossible.

  Osorio’s death wasn’t his concern. He’d known when he called out Don Pablo that he was taking his life in his hands. Snake-eyes had known that, too, but he’d just been doing a job. Osorio had been a glory-seeker, trying to inflate his own position by tying himself to the cartel.

  “Osorio had plenty of enemies,” Aguilar said. “He’s been making them his entire career. You can’t blame Don Pablo for that.”

  “I do. Who else would have attacked him in such a way? Seven innocent bystanders were also killed, in the street and the nearby buildings, in addition to Osorio and his bodyguards.”

  Aguilar hadn’t heard about that. Oscar had warned them about what he called “collateral damage.” They’d dismissed his concerns. Escobar wanted Osorio gone; anyone else who got hurt was just in the way. He sat at the little kitchen table, shrugged.

  “Their bad luck, I guess.”

  “So Luisa’s death, that was also just bad luck?”

  Was it? Montoya and the others had attacked the restaurant to eliminate an enemy of Escobar’s. Aguilar had taken her death very personally indeed, and Montoya had paid the ultimate price for it.

  In the end, though, Luisa was also collateral damage.

  “I guess, in a way.”

  “Can we talk about something less sad?” Aguilar’s mother asked. “Thank you for all the gifts you’ve been sending. Your father gripes, but he enjoys watching the big color television.”

  “It’s a good set,” Aguilar’s father admitted, eyes downcast. Aguilar saw some of the gifts he’d sent in the kitchen: a brand-new coffee maker, an expensive blender, a set of pans.

  “How are you eating, Jose? You look like you’ve gained weight.”

  “I’m eating well, Mama. It’s not your cooking, but it’s good, and there’s always plenty.”

  “Of course there is,” his father said. “Escobar likes to pretend he’s a man of the people, but he always makes sure he has the most of everything.”

  “He is a man of the people. He’s been very generous. You can see it all over Medellín.”

  “Sure, if there are news cameras in the area. Charity is charity if it’s done quietly. If it’s done in the press, it’s publicity.”

  “I guess there’s nothing I can say about him that you won’t complain about, Papa.”

  “Since I thought we raised an honest man, that’s true.”

  Aguilar turned away from the bitter disappointment in the man’s eyes.

  His mother rescued the moment by bringing plates of bandeja paisa to the table. The aroma yanked Aguilar back to his childhood, and after grace—he crossed himself and spoke the words, though he hadn’t been to Mass in months and thought God had turned His back on him—he happily dug in.

  During dinner, conversation was minimal. His mother brought him up to date on neighbors and relatives, and made a couple of pointed references to the eligible daughter of a family friend. Aguilar had no interest in her; he remembered her as silly, flighty, and dumb, so he made sure not to express any interest. He was able to avoid speaking much by keeping his mouth full. He noticed his father’s disapproving glances, though, and the way his mother’s gaze drifted back and forth between the two men, as if ready to intervene at any time.

  After the meal, Aguilar helped his mother with the dishes, then said, “Well, I need to get back.”

  “You can’t stay? Even for the night?”

  “The master whistles,” his father said. “The dog must obey.”

  Aguilar resisted the impulse to turn and look at his father. The man still sat at the table, arms folded over his chest, a dour expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Mama. I have too much work to do. It’s a busy time.”

  “Do whatever’s best,” she said. “Just take care of yourself. Make sure you’re eating right and getting enough sleep and going to Mass.”

  “I am,” Aguilar lied.

  “I wish you could stay for the night.”

  “Me too.” Another lie.

  His father muttered a few words in parting, and then Aguilar was out the door. Relief washed over him like a summer breeze on a hot day.

  He had grown up with those people, in that house. Why didn’t he feel like he belonged there? He had felt like a visitor from another planet, who had nothing in common with the residents of this one.

  It had been claustrophobic in there. The rooms had been tiny, close. Underlying the odor of his mother’s cooking had been the stench of his family’s failures. They’d never done anything with their lives. His father still fixed shoes for other people, and wore the stains of polish on his face like some kind of badge of honor. His mother repaired clothing. They’d lived in the same house for all their married years, raised one son, and they would probably die there without having accomplished anything to be remembered for.

  He was glad he hadn’t taken his suitcase inside. Spending a night there would have driven him mad. He might have had to kill himself, if his father hadn’t killed him first.

  He started the car and headed for the ranch, without looking back.

  26

  “DON’T UNPACK YOUR bag,” La Quica said when Aguilar got back to the ranch building they were using as a barracks.

  “What? Why?”

  “El Patrón wants some guys to go with him to Miami. He said if you got back in time, he wanted you to be part of the group.”

  “Miami? In North America?”

  “That’s the only Miami I know of,” La Quica said. He ran a hand through his unkempt mop of dark hair. “You speak English, right?”

  “Some. I could talk to Kyle when he was here.”

  “That’s why he wants you, I think. So are you in?”

  “Don Pablo wants me to go?”

  “Do you have beans in your ears?”

  “Hell yes, I’m in!” Aguilar had never been out of Colombia. The trip to Cartagena was the farthest from Medellín he’d traveled. He’d never been on an airplane, either, and always wondered what it would be like. Would the people on the ground look like ants?

  Then he remembered a problem. “I don’t have a passport, though.”

  “Don’t worry, that’ll be taken care of.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “Day after tomorrow,” La Quica said.

  “That soon?”

  La Quica walked away, shaking his head and muttering. Aguilar thought he heard “Fucking beans in his ears,” but he might have been mistaken.

  * * *

  The next day, he had a new passport with
his picture and his real name in it. It looked official, and for all he knew, it was. Passports ordinarily took time, but when Don Pablo wanted something done, it was done quickly and without fuss. He imagined some poor sap in the passport office had stayed up all night, preparing one for every member of the team. That person would be exhausted today, but he would have received a hefty cash bonus, or been relieved of some personal obligation, or both.

  That afternoon, Escobar came into the room he was sharing with Trigger, Jairo, and Sure Shot, all of whom were also on the team selected for the Miami trip. He and Jairo had their suitcases open on their beds. Aguilar had just put his Beretta in his.

  “Patrón, can I bring my MAC-10 as well?” he asked.

  “You can’t even bring the pistol,” Escobar replied.

  “I can’t?”

  “Too much trouble at Customs. We’re businessmen, flying to Miami for meetings on a commercial airline, and that’s what we have to look like. That goes for all of you,” Escobar clarified. “No guns. We’ll get some on the ground there, for the length of our stay.” He looked back at Aguilar. “You can bring your knife, just keep it packed in your suitcase. If anyone asks in Customs, tell them it’s a gift for an American friend.”

  “What are we going to Miami for?” Trigger asked.

  “Business,” Escobar said. “We’ll have some fun while we’re there, so bring some clothes for going out at night. I’ll explain more when we get there.”

  * * *

  They had an early morning flight out of Bogotá, so spent the night before in a hotel near the El Dorado International Airport. Aguilar could barely sleep, and in the morning he was up before the alarm, showered and ready for the flight.

  Escobar had a window seat in first class, with La Quica on the aisle beside him. The others were in coach, but that was fine with Aguilar. He took a window seat, with Trigger in the center seat and Jairo on the end, and Sure Shot across the aisle from Jairo.

  “Have you ever been in a plane?” he asked.

  “Not me,” Trigger said. He was still in his teens, and Aguilar doubted that he’d been out of his neighborhood before Escobar hired him.

  “I have,” Jairo said. “But not a big one like this. I flew with a shipment to Panama once, when Don Pablo was worried that the guys on the ground there were ripping him off.”

  “Were they?”

  “Yeah. We took care of it, though.”

  Aguilar knew what that meant. He briefly wondered how many people had died to further Escobar’s business interests. He didn’t stress about it, though; he was too excited to be in an airplane on his way to the United States.

  The stewardess for their section was a black woman with long legs and a brilliant, toothy smile. Aguilar watched as she demonstrated the seatbelts and pointed out the emergency exits, and wished she would just stand in the aisle for the whole flight, looking pretty.

  Then the airplane started to move, and his heart jumped. He clutched his armrests. “We’re going!” He looked out the window. “We’re still on the ground, though.”

  “We have to taxi out to the runway,” Jairo explained. “Then probably sit and wait until it’s clear. Then we taxi some more, faster and faster, until we take off. Don’t worry, you’ll know when we’re airborne.”

  Jairo was right. It took another fifteen minutes before they had a clear runway, then the plane started forward. Aguilar listened to the engines race as it picked up speed, staring out his window at the scenery whipping past. When it left the ground, he swallowed and crossed himself, just in case. As they rose above the city, he was too excited to be worried, watching Bogotá pass by. They gained altitude quickly, and soon were over the mountains, then banked and flew almost due north. The seatbelt light blinked off, and the no-smoking light, and soon smoke wafted throughout the whole cabin.

  The flight took about four hours, during which time the friendly stewardess brought drinks and lunch in a plastic tray, and scowled when Jairo pinched her ass. When they dropped down toward Miami, Aguilar thought his eardrums were going to burst out of his head. He distracted himself by watching the glittering ocean and the tall buildings growing larger and closer with every second. Finally, they were on the ground. He shook his head, trying to clear his ears, and waited to deplane.

  Customs took an hour, but they got through it, and Lion met them on the other side. Aguilar had heard about him, but had never met him. He was handsome, with his brown hair slicked back away from his forehead and a neat beard and mustache. He wore what looked like an expensive silk T-shirt, white jeans, and leather loafers, and had gold jewelry at his neck and wrists. When Escobar saw him, he threw his arms around the man in a warm embrace.

  “Lion!” he shouted. Still holding on, he looked over his shoulder at the others. “Boys, this is the Lion, my main man in Miami. He’s been in charge here since day one.” He introduced Lion to the others.

  When they got outside, the air was humid and heavy, settling over Aguilar’s skin like a hot, wet blanket. But there were palm trees and shining buildings all around, and taking it all in made Aguilar forget the weather. The airport seemed to be right in the middle of the city.

  “Where are we staying?” La Quica asked as they walked through the parking lot. “I’ve heard good things about the Mutiny.”

  “The Mutiny’s a dive for drug dealers,” Lion said.

  La Quica laughed. “Sounds perfect! That’s what we are!”

  “I mean, they have a box in the champagne cave where you can lock up your guns. It’s fun, but it’s not classy. Don Pablo’s a class act, so he needs a nice place.”

  “So where are we?”

  “I got you the penthouse suite at the Fontainebleau,” Lion said. “It’s the classic Miami Beach landmark. You’ll love it.”

  “I already love it,” Escobar said.

  “It’s in the heart of the Millionaire’s Row district.”

  “Now I love it even more.”

  “Have you guys ever been to Miami?” Lion asked. “I know Pablo has.”

  None of the others had. They told him that, and as they reached his convertible Trans Am, Lion said, “I would have brought the Ferrari, but all of you guys wouldn’t fit in it. As it is, you’ll have to be friendly back there. I’ll take you down Tamiami Trail and we’ll cruise through Little Havana. It’s not home, but it’s closer to it than Miami Beach is.”

  “Lion’s from home,” Escobar explained. “He knew Gustavo there, growing up. But he’s lived in North America for a long time. Poor bastard.”

  “You guys will like Little Havana,” Lion said. “But you’ll love Miami Beach. Sun, sand, bikinis, and the most beautiful women in the world. Including Colombia.”

  “No way,” La Quica said. “Prettier than Colombian ladies?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Lion was true to his word. Little Havana looked and smelled much like Medellín, albeit with Cuban and American variations. After a little time there, they headed for what Lion called the causeway, which took them over the narrow channel of Biscayne Bay, past fishing boats, pleasure yachts, and enormous cruise ships. After briefly passing across a small island, they shot out over the water again. Massive cranes to the right indicated the seaport. Escobar waved toward them. “We’ve moved so much product through there, you wouldn’t believe it,” he said. “Miami has been very good to us.”

  Then high-rise buildings loomed ahead. “Almost there, boys,” Escobar said. “Our home for the next few days. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “I started enjoying it as soon as we got here,” Trigger said. Aguilar liked him—he wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box, but he was almost always in a good mood. For a killer, he was surprisingly optimistic. And although some of the sicarios were valuable because they were willing to kill, Trigger was actually one of the better shots among them, and sometimes gave marksmanship lessons to the rest.

  When the causeway ended, Lion stayed on Fifth Street and took them into South Beach. “This is where t
he fashion models hang out,” he said as he made a left on Ocean Drive. “You won’t believe how tiny bikinis can get until you see them on the girls here.”

  It looked like heaven to Aguilar. To their left were buildings housing high-end hotels, restaurants, and bars. To their right, only a grassy park and a few trees separated them from glorious white-sand beaches and the Atlantic Ocean. On the sidewalks and sitting in the open-air bars were women who must have been some of the fashion models Lion had mentioned.

  Finally, they pulled up to the sweeping white façade of the Fontainebleau. Bellmen were at the car before they could even get out. “Checking in?” one asked, wheeling a gold cart up to the trunk.

  “Yes,” Lion said. “My friends are.” He opened the trunk and supervised the unloading of the bags onto the cart. When there was only one bag left—which hadn’t come with them from Colombia—he picked it up. “I’ll carry that one.”

  The penthouse suite was on the thirty-seventh floor. Aguilar had never seen such luxury, even in Escobar’s homes. Each man had his own bedroom, with a huge TV and a bathroom—and each bathroom had its own telephone! The floors were marble, the beds like tethered clouds, the views practically infinite.

  After everyone had picked his room—Don Pablo, of course, had the largest, most sumptuous—they met in the suite’s huge foyer. Lion put the bag he’d carried on the table and unzipped it. “I brought Walther PPKs for everyone. If you need something more sophisticated, let me know, but I figured you could carry these easily without anybody noticing. This isn’t Colombia, and you won’t be able to get away with anything you want just by mentioning Pablo’s name, so you don’t want to get picked up carrying a piece if you can help it.”

  “I have my knife, too,” Aguilar said.

  Lion grinned. “I’ve heard about that knife,” he said. “Caldwell told me about you.”

  “Caldwell’s cool,” Aguilar said.

  “About that,” Escobar said, his expression suddenly grim. He sat down heavily. “Kyle Caldwell is why we’re here.”

  “What’s up, Patrón?” Jairo asked.