San Cristobal district, Medellín, Colombia – right now:
Shorty lives up to his nickname. He hasn’t seen the target he’s about to take out, but knows it’ll be hard to do so with a headshot.
The boy’s driver – a man with a sleepy eye, known only as Manu – glances in the rear view mirror. Shorty is slouched in the back there. He has one shoe up on the seat, but Manu isn’t hired to teach him manners. That kind of thing was down to his wet-eyed mamà, also the boss man who covers her rent, and little kids like this one always listen to him first. Shorty is wearing cut-down jeans and a white t-shirt, the sleeves folded up like a vest, and he’s trying hard to fill it by chewing on a stick of gum. The shirt is way too big for him. So too is the gun in the holster Manu can make out underneath: a 38 Super Auto that the young assassin will have to fire with both hands to counter the kickback.
They’re parked in a dusty residential street, with wax palms on each side. The trunks are skinny and skewed, each crowned by green blades that cut up the skyline all over the city. The car is the same kind of green, but for the rust and the mud splats. It’s an old Dodge Dart that Manu sometimes drives as an unlicensed cab. Even with the windows down it reeks of sweat, tobacco and air freshener. If they have to wait any longer, thinks Manu, the stink will kill them before the heat.
It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, and a brutal sun keeps most people indoors. The only activity takes place up ahead, where a knot of older kids flick a soccer ball among themselves. Shorty has been focused on them since they pulled up. In his dreams he’ll play professionally one day, for Atlético Nacional, Medellín’s number one team, but right now the drug inside him stops his feet from becoming too itchy. Shorty has a job to do here, after all, which is why Manu had injected him minutes earlier with two mills of the anti-panic medication he keeps in the glove compartment.
Man, too much of that gear could send them straight to sleep. It was just a question of keeping them focused without watering down the natural adrenalin that turned the little ones into live wires. In the right hands, it could be a lethal combination. That the law wouldn’t jail a minor for a murder made them ideal for the job. Unless the government lived up to its half-assed legislation, and took hired guns like this one under its wing, well, the street would always take care of them. They got protection this way, and even a purpose in life, which was more than the state could offer. Sure, some rehab centres had been opened up to save such delinquents from themselves, but nowhere near enough to cope with demand. Abandoned but untouchable, these kids made perfect killers.
Voices emerge from a lobby just then: a couple in conversation. Shorty switches his attention to the concrete block across the street, hears Manu confirm it’s him – the fool with the loose mouth. They see a middle-aged businessman come out of the building, and agree it must be his wife behind. He stops to say a few parting words to her, slings his jacket over one shoulder and heads right, just as Shorty has been briefed. Manu turns to face the boy, and finds him chewing on his gum more furiously than ever. All kids were like this for a while. Trouble only happened when they grew tired of what they were doing, or figured they could call the shots, but this one has some way to go yet. Twisting round now, Manu reaches out of his window and springs the passenger door. The child lock is a pain, but it guards against a change of heart.
‘It’s always good to be a little scared,’ is the last thing the boy hears him say. ‘Just make it clean for the boss, if you can. You might even earn yourself that season ticket he’s been promising.’