PALILLO RACED AFTER me. When he caught up, he patted my back in approval, although he did have one mild reproach.
‘Why didn’t you ask for the location of his cocaine millions? Then I could buy more of these.’ He raised his wrist, displaying Zorrillo’s Rolex, which he’d exchanged for his fake one.
I tried to coax Fabián from the shattered Mercedes, which was dotted with dents and tears from the bullets. At first he was too traumatised to unlock the door.
‘It’s okay,’ I comforted him when he finally emerged, placing my hand on his shoulder and leading him to the porch where he could sit and breathe easily. I’d punished Fabián enough; I now considered us even. ‘You’re safe. You can go home to Bogotá. They won’t touch you there.’
Buitrago’s Blackhawk landed near the farmhouse. The sight of the colonel reassured Fabián further, but when Buitrago went to inspect Zorrillo’s corpse, Fabián hardly knew where to cast his eyes. Twenty-six blood-soaked bodies lay sprawled in the yard of his boyhood homestead. There were five more near the trees. Fabián couldn’t bear to look at any of them. Zorrillo had murdered his father, but he didn’t seem happy the man was dead.
Witnessing Fabián’s distress reminded me of how, in only eighteen months, I’d become accustomed to guns and battles and blood and dead bodies. During that first skirmish at Puerto Pescador, I’d been petrified. At the Jaguar River, I’d been revolted and, afterwards, depressed by all the killing. But this ambush elated me.
Trigeño’s helicopter touched down with Javier aboard. When they saw each other, Trigeño and Buitrago raised their hands uncertainly, like secret lovers who didn’t know whether to acknowledge each other at a party.
Javier sprinted across to Fabián. The brothers hugged. Their mutual terror during this incident seemed to have brought them closer together, and I was glad. They’d kept their word and would spend the coming months with their mother in the capital. After some pressure from Trigeño, they’d agreed to leave their bodyguards behind with Mamá, who would stay on at Javier’s hacienda. Mamá would be completely protected there until I could safely reclaim our finca.
Buitrago approached me by the farmhouse. He must have been pleased, but he veiled his delight. We were professional soldiers, and victories that involved the extinguishment of human life had to be chalked up privately on blackboards in our minds.
Buitrago mustn’t have heard my transmission on the Guerrilla frequency because he congratulated me for an operation that had been executed flawlessly.
‘No civilians injured. No army soldiers killed. Thirty-one guerrilleros dead and, as I instructed, no one tortured.’
An army cameraman filmed the bodies strewn around the ranch as soldiers packaged them in black plastic. Of course, we six snipers, still in ghillie suits, were careful not to be caught on camera, but this time I didn’t mind that the images of the dead would be broadcast – these were all genuine guerrilleros. Buitrago would have preferred to parade Zorrillo alive in front of television cameras at a press conference, but it was still the first time a mid-level comandante had been killed in decades.
After years of continual losses, this operation would give the Garbanzos battalion a much-needed boost in morale and public prestige. Accolades would be heaped upon Buitrago by his generals and the North Americans. As a result, Buitrago’s trust in me and in the Autodefensas enjoyed a manifold increase.
The colonel called to the cameraman, ‘Enough filming. Turn that thing off!’
While we stood there, a corporal arrived bearing a radio backpack. He relayed the message that Buitrago’s soldiers had rappelled into the jungle from helicopters to intercept the fleeing guerrilleros. They’d managed to capture seven, who were being marched back to us with their wrists bound and bags over their heads.
‘They’re already blaming each other,’ the corporal said with satisfaction. ‘They claim they hate Zorrillo and have wanted to desert for a year. And they’re promising to reveal everything they know about Caraquemada.’
Leaving me, Buitrago signalled to Trigeño for a private word. As I climbed aboard Buitrago’s Blackhawk to be airlifted back to the battalion, I saw Trigeño and Buitrago – the illicit lovers – hugging in the shadows. It was the first and last time that I saw the army and Autodefensas embrace.
The dark alliance I’d helped form was now on a fast-moving upward trajectory. And although the journey ahead would be long and arduous, I felt like I was on a steam train accelerating quickly away from the station. We had a fresh victory behind us. We had confidence. And our momentum was unstoppable.