Corrupt

by Elena M. Reyes

  Taking the cold bottle of water, I twist the cap and take a few sips. “Bring me the SAT phone. I want him to be there when we disembark.”

  “Right away.” He’s gone maybe a minute at the most, coming back with the satellite device and placing it on the bench seat. Geronimo doesn’t linger, heading downstairs so I’ll have some privacy while the boat’s driver is far enough not to hear me.

  Opening the case with the phone, I pull out the device and turn it on, leaving the antenna pointing toward the sky. It comes to life within a few seconds and I press the number three, bringing it to my ear as it starts to ring right away.

  “Are you close by, hermanito?” My brother’s voice is gruff, always sounds annoyed, and I chuckle at the fact he still calls me his little brother. The asshole works for me but uses the term to show some bullshit hierarchy when it comes to siblings.

  “Forty minutes or so.” I stand from my seat and walk over to the back where the water ripples, the motor slicing through as it propels us deeper into the jungle. Off to the left, there’s a caiman on the embankment sunbathing, while another swims up close and then stops. They watch each other, not moving an inch as they wait for an opportunistic moment to present itself.

  “Are we meeting by a large tree with the machete embedded?” There’s shouting behind him, the sound of a group creating a formation and rifles being shifted in unison. Hands grabbing the metal, it slaps against their palms as they continue to perform a drill and can be heard clearly through the line. “That works?”

  “Yes.” A fish jumps out of the water and both predators rush forward, disappearing beneath the water. They don’t come back up as we get farther away. “And come alone.”

  “Is there a reason why?”

  “Because you sound as if you have something to say.”

  He’s there when I arrive, arms crossed over his chest and a foot bent at the knee against the tree with the machete. I put it there over five years ago, the only sign of which riverbank I use.

  No dock. Nothing but the splash of boot-covered feet as we jump down and walk the few feet to shore.

  Geronimo walks ahead of me, gun drawn and after a quick head nod to my brother, continues his trek, and then stops out of hearing range. His back is to us and attention on making sure no one comes close, not even my right-hand, who I’m beginning to doubt.

  “You sounded off earlier. What’s going on?”

  At my question, he nods, gazing out onto the still water. “Things are heating up, Alejandro. Have you seen the new advertisement he’s running at the top of every hour?”

  “I’ve seen it.” Matias Quintero is pushing for a change in national law. To be given the chance to run for a second term, using the same tactics that helped his father win fifteen years ago. Smearing my family. Using fear to antagonize those that are in power and move chess pieces at their disposal. “You moved them?”

  “Yeah. All three are at the safe house in San Andres.” Emiliano rubs his jaw, eyes shifting to me. He’s concerned. “We need to talk.”

  “Something wrong with…?”

  “No. Mom is fine, and so is my wife.”

  “That leaves Lourdes.”

  “I think she’s seeing someone.”

  “Does Mom know who?”

  “That’s the problem…” Emiliano looks at me with worry in his eyes “…our sister refuses to talk to me. She’s starry-eyed and found daydreaming around the house but gets nervous when you ask her what’s going on.”

  “I’ll talk to her. She’s always been honest with me.”

  “That’s not the only problem right now, Alejandro.” The worry in his expression turns into anger, hands clenching. “You need to speak with Chiquito, brother. He’s out of line.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He almost smacked a female soldier across the face.”

  14

  ALL NOISES CEASE as I step through the trees.

  The camp becomes mute—not even the sounds of the jungle’s natural inhabitants can be heard. This area is unexplored territory deep in the Colombian stretch of the Amazon and about an hour’s hike from the riverbank where my boat is docked. It’s off a deviation from the river that runs through these lands, a small marsh that once you pass, opens into an even larger body of water and where a smaller vessel awaits my return.

  The clearing where my unit trains is large, an unobstructed terrain that’s surrounded by dense bush. I don’t say a word as my eyes scan the field, taking in those standing at the head. Chiquito’s there along with another soldier, a rifle in the latter’s hand, the butt being held up by his right palm as it lies over his shoulder.

  Past them, I take account of the provisions being provided. There are huts with food and some for bathroom usage, and then three large structures with a metal roof that house hammocks. Twenty to a unit and each hammock is spaced to give each individual a bit of privacy.

  It’s their preferred choice; my paramilitary is resourceful and always on high alert. They’re trained to move fast, live off the grid, and kill on command. My command.

  The group—both men and women—stand at attention with their eyes trained ahead. Out in the field or while on assignment, they’re equals. They’re ready to die for their country if it comes to that.

  The soldiers are divided between two groups with a pathway that lies in the middle. It’s long and leads to the small stage, a height advantage needed so every person out on the field can both see and hear their instructors. Their eyes look ahead, trained on Chiquito although they know I’m here.

  Breaking command to look over is unacceptable. Something I won’t allow.

  I walk with Emiliano close behind me, his footsteps heavier than mine, and I turn my face slightly toward him. “Get everything ready for our meeting in the white hut. I’ll be there in ten.”

  “Listo.” Emiliano walks away without looking back, but I do catch the way Chiquito eyes him, curiosity brimming in his expression.

  “Patron,” he says as I climb the steps and then step onto the platform. His hand is outstretched in greeting and I take it, squeezing harder than I would any other day. I’m not happy with him. He’s toeing the line into dangerous territory. “They’ve been running drills all day. Are ready for any standoff with the national—”

  “Silencio.” My glare makes him take a few steps back. I ignore him for the moment; his atonement will come later today, and I turn to face the group. All eyes are on me. All waiting on my orders. “Come closer.”

  Feet move on command; they stomp on the ground in unison and the sound is loud across the field. Every single person crowds around the stage, almost surrounding me as they await orders.

  “Tonight, we leave for Bogota.” Boots stomp, their rifles all turning counterclockwise before they settle the weapon at their feet, barrel pointing toward the sky. “The president of Colombia has left us with no other choice in the matter. Not when he wishes to pursue another term by lying—changing our constitution to best serve his needs. Not when he’s negotiating the extradition of our fellow man to other countries to win political favors.” Every expression around me is one of anger. Of having had enough. “No more fattening the rich off the bones of the poor.”

  These soldiers come from all walks of life. Criminals, anarchists, and those that simply dislike how the richer get richer while their families starve. And while I’ll never be an innocent and my hands are just as dirty, I do remember where I come from.

  It’s a promise I made to my mother, and I comply with each year. For every dollar I make, fifty percent goes back to those in need. It’s why so many—the poor and hungry—are loyal to me.

  “Viva Colombia!” they shout in unison.

  “No more suffering in silence. No more fear.”

  “Viva Colombia.”

  “No more empty promises or stolen riches. It’s time to fight and take back our country.” The ground vibrates beneath the feet of my soldiers, their ire radiates throughout every single inch of th
is campsite. Boots stomping. Men pounding their chest as the women shout out their loyalty to me. Our country. And while I appreciate them, the dedication, I hold a hand up so they’re quiet. At once, noises cease and all eyes are on me. Anxious and excited. Ready. “Tonight we show Quintero who we are. Why he and his father will never make Colombia a communist country.”

  “Viva Colombia!”

  “God bless our country.”

  “You wanted to see me?” Chiquito asks, stepping inside the large hut my brother and I are sitting in. It’s the largest, with a round table and a few chairs at the center—a battery-powered radio playing the national news lowly in the background as I sip some rum.

  In front of me, there are a few maps of the capital. Everything from the city’s major avenues to the back alleyways that lead to an empty building with the façade of an expensive apartment dwelling that the military tombos use as a hideout.

  It’s where they monitor those coming and going. It’s where certain business meetings are held.

  Where I know Quintero will be tonight as he meets with a foreign leader and the man he believes will be his daughter’s future father-in-law. They’d have to kill me first before I let any of those pieces of shit anywhere near Solimar.

  I have eyes and ears everywhere.

  In every department of state.

  At every fucking corner.

  “Have a seat, Salazar.” He does as I ask, sitting between my brother and me, his gaze shifting between us. For a few minutes, silence lingers, slowly making him nervous. His leg beneath the table begins to bounce, hitting the wooden pole beside his knee. Then there are the beads of sweat that dot his upper lip, the perspiration spreading the longer I look at him.

  He’s the first to break the quiet, squaring his shoulders and sitting up a little taller. “Why do I feel as though you’re upset with me?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Nothing happened, Alejandro. Heated words—”

  “Is lying the road you wish to travel down? Emiliano—”

  “Doesn’t understand what a firm hand…fuck!” In a flash, my chair tips back and I’m leaning over the table, his neck in my hand. My fingers tighten around the sweaty flesh as he begins to fight for oxygen. “Why?” It’s a hoarse whisper, his eyes wide and becoming frantic as my hold doesn’t waver.

  “You don’t ever interrupt me,” I hiss out, glaring at the idiot as I drag him over the papers I have spread out, most of them falling to the floor. “Have you forgotten your place?” From the corner of my eye, I see Emiliano leave the hut. “Have you forgotten who I am?”

  “No.”

  “Then why am I here having this conversation with you?” I deepen my grip, his face turning red a few seconds before I let him go. Chiquito slumps back in his seat, coughing and avoiding my narrowed eyes. “Explain yourself. You have a minute.”

  “I’m sorry, Patron.”

  “For?”

  “Disrespecting you and Mr. Emiliano.” My expression is emotionless at those less than convincing words. If anything, the sight of him is irritating me at the moment. “I was out of line.”

  “Is there something troubling you today? A problem I’m not aware of?” A flash of fear crosses his features, but it’s gone soon after. I saw it, though. Just like I took notice of the blood on his holster when inside my home office after delivering Marin to me. “Now is your only chance to get this off your chest, Chiquito. Lie to me, and it’s your funeral your wife will be attending next.”

  “Just problems with the missus. Nothing big.”

  “You need time off?” I’m not buying his excuse or the clear lie; something’s up with him, and I’ll find out. “Maybe take her away for a few days?”

  “That would be amazing.”

  “Then you’re dismissed.” At my words he sputters, almost looks indignant, but is smart enough to snap his lips shut when my brother re-enters the hut a few seconds later with the woman he almost assaulted.

  “He told you.” Not a question, and the way my brother glares at him makes Salazar shrink back.

  “He did.” Looking over at the young woman, I crook my finger at her. “Come here.”

  “Am I in trouble, Patron?” She looks young. Almost too young to be here, but I leave it alone, knowing that the age we accept any involvement within my units is twenty. “I’m sorry if—”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Karla Jimenez, Patron.”

  “How long have you been with the group, Ms. Jimenez?”

  Her hands shake at her sides, but she holds my gaze. “Six months.”

  I nod. “Karla, if I asked you to do something for me, would you? Without questioning me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hagale.” My eyes shift to my brother, and I nod at him. He’s quick to move into position, grabbing Chiquito’s arms and pulling back, forcing the man to his knees with his face unobstructed. “Strike him.”

  “Alejandro, you can’t—” Karla surprises him with a backhand across his cheek that leaves my general in shock and enraged. His body tenses and eyes cut fire at her, but before he can even attempt to fight my brother off, I crouch down to his line of sight. Anger still dominates his body language, but the hijueputa is smart enough to stand down.

  “I have never hit a woman.” His bottom lip is bleeding, and I wipe it with my thumb, then clean it off using his uniform shirt. “I have never hit a woman.”

  “Patron, I—”

  “Karla, please leave and join the others. Thank you for your help, and I ask that this stay between the four of us.”

  “My lips are sealed, sir.”

  “Gracias.” The second she exits, Emiliano releases Chiquito, who looks at me with fear as he takes his place in front of the door to guard it. My right-hand—my highest-ranking soldier—is shaking. “I HAVE NEVER HIT A WOMAN,” I growl out from between clenched teeth as the hand with drops of his blood lands straight across the bridge of his nose. One blow and the bone crunches, breaks, and the blood begins to flow from each nostril. “I have never motherfucking hit a woman, and those who work for me need to follow that rule. If I ever so much as hear that you ignored my order, I’ll hunt you down and expose your organs to the vultures roaming the city streets. Understood?”

  “Yes, Patron.”

  “Good.” Standing up, I extend a hand, which he takes, and I pull him up. He’s smart enough to keep some distance, but I’m a peaceful man and slap him on the back before returning to my seat. “Now, get out here. You’re dismissed for the next two weeks.”

  “But what about Quintero and…” The look I give him shuts him up. Knowing there’s no changing my mind, he picks up all the papers I dropped, putting them in a neat pile before me. “Thank you, and I apologize once more.”

  I don’t say anything, and he leaves after mumbling another apology to my brother.

  His actions bring forth a few problems that I’ll be rectifying soon. Very soon.

  It’s time for a change.

  The city streets are deserted at this time of night, and the police aren’t paying attention to this building. Not when they need to protect the president and his guests as they discuss foreign diplomacy, fuck a whore or two, and plot ways to fuck the working class.

  And while I’m not a saint nor will I ever be one, I do believe in progress. In giving back to those that have nothing as I do business with both sides of the coin. You give and take, keep balance.

  Something Quintero hates. Loathes how easily I’ve made myself into what he’ll never be.

  Rich.

  Powerful.

  Feared.

  I’m the devil they run from—a criminal in the eyes of their law—but loved by those whose stomachs would go hungry without me.

  “We’re in position, brother. Waiting on your signal.”

  My eyes shift to the Piguet watch on my wrist and wait. The building where the president currently sits is about seven blocks from here and has the perfect view to witness my retaliation. The S
UV’s TV is playing the end of a soccer game on a local channel. The referee blows his whistle while holding up a yellow card, and the transmission goes into a commercial break. A family restaurant, a national event, and then my father’s name flashes across the screen as piano music plays in the background.

  Pressing the two buttons on the right of my communication device, I wait for the beep that signals Emiliano is on the line.

  “Listo?”

  “Hagale.”

  Not ten seconds pass when the first of five bombs go off, each one louder than the last. The justice building goes up in flames, the sky a plumage of smoke and fire as the evidence the state has on my father withers to ash. No more using his memory to further campaigns. No more using our name to bullshit these citizens.

  The device in my hand beeps three times a minute later, and that’s the signal everyone’s gone from the scene. Emiliano will take a different route, meeting me back at my place here in the city, while the others have different safe points to spend time at. Where they’ll be seen to create alibis.

  My eyes shift back to the screen, and I watch as old footage of my father in handcuffs plays out. Lines are fed to the nation—lies that make him and his father looks like saviors and my family to be terrorists.

  Newspaper headlines.

  False facts.

  Empty promises made off the back of a now-dead man.

  I’ve been your president, my family a part of yours, and now I ask that you trust me once more. Please vote yes on amendment one for a change to an outdated constitution. Together we can make history. We can clean up the streets of these modern-day narcos and make them safe again for future generations to come. Our country deserves to be safe. You deserve peace and prosperity.

  “Take me back to my apartment, Geronimo, and take the scenic route.” Sirens drive past us, heading toward the engulfed building without so much as looking toward my bulletproof vehicle. They’re in a rush. Hoping to contain something that won’t be easily stopped. “There’s much to enjoy.”