SIX OF US would travel on three bikes – Camila, me and four others. When I called for volunteers Ñoño immediately raised his hand.
‘You’re behind me on the lead bike,’ I said. Next was Tarantula. ‘You take Camila on the middle bike.’
When Hector volunteered to ride rear-guard with R6, our convoy was set.
As we motored downhill along the bumpy dirt road, it was a clear day, with a pink dawn sky and a scattering of clouds. As always, I had my pistol. But since it’s impossible to fire a rifle while driving a bike, only Ñoño and Hector carried their Galils. Nevertheless, with Palillo’s family having walked this route safely and Buitrago on his way and likely to cross our path any minute, my lingering fears about Buitre had vanished.
We passed my finca and then Old Man Domino’s white fence. Just as we rounded a bend and entered the thicket before the road dipped more steeply to the town centre, I spotted a severed tree trunk blocking the road. My heart raced.
‘Ambush! Turn around!’ Even as I braked heavily, several guerrilleros raised their heads from behind the tree and took aim with their rifles. Yanking the handlebar, I spun the bike into a desperate 180-degree turn. The other bikes skidded and spun too, sending up showers of tiny pebbles.
Ñoño’s fingers dug tightly under my ribcage as I sped back uphill. But it was too late. Another tree was already falling ahead of us, thumping onto the road. More guerrilleros crawled out to take up positions behind it. I skidded us to a halt again and glanced sideways at Camila. She was clutching Tarantula’s waist and looking at me in terror. We spun our bikes again.
From the trees to our left, I heard Buitre’s voice thunder through his megaphone, ‘Throw down your weapons!’
Ñoño let go of my waist and began firing, as did Hector from the back of R6’s bike. When the enemy returned fire, I screamed, ‘To the right! Go!’
We were at the lower reaches of Old Man Domino’s property, and provided we made it off the road, we’d be protected by the trees and have a chance of making it to the open fields behind.
Tarantula and Camila went first, exiting under heavy fire. They headed diagonally into scrubland. The instant they’d made it I followed, with Ñoño gripping my shoulder with one hand while firing with the other. As we zigzagged through the trees, low-hanging branches whipped against my legs and face. The engine screamed and my tyres spun wildly in the dirt. To my right, R6 and Hector were keeping pace – until I heard a shout and glanced side ways in time to see R6 fall off, hit, and Hector’s body being buffeted by bullets.
Camila and Tarantula were almost clear of the thicket when, fifty metres ahead of us, two guerrilleros emerged from the trees and began firing. Tarantula was struck. His head jerked sideways and their bike veered off course, tilted, then fell. Camila screamed as the Yamaha landed on her leg.
I changed course, accelerating towards her, when I heard a pop – my front tyre burst – and lost control of the steering. We struck a deep ditch at speed and Ñoño yelped as he was thrown into the air. I held on, squeezing the brake, but my momentum caused me to slide forward until my front wheel hit a tree root and I was catapulted over the handlebars.
I sat up, dazed. Fifteen metres behind me, Ñoño lay on the ground, unconscious. His rifle was nowhere to be seen. Fifteen metres ahead of me, Camila was trapped beneath the Yamaha, screaming for help. Both were completely exposed to the enemy. I had to make a quick choice with the Guerrilla closing in: I could likely save one, but not both.
I raced to Camila and pulled the bike off her, firing my pistol at the two guerrilleros as I dragged her to safety behind a tree. I pushed her into the woodlands behind me. ‘Run to the river,’ I yelled. ‘Don’t stop! And don’t turn around.’
I sprinted towards Ñoño, intending to drag him to safety and hold off the Guerrilla while praying for the army to arrive. But I’d barely made it five paces when a hail of gunfire forced me to dive behind another tree. Peering around it, I saw Buitre’s men swarm around Ñoño. He must have regained consciousness because I heard a panicked shout of ‘Pedro!’ as they lifted him and spirited him away.
Within seconds, figures were scurrying through the thick forest to my left and right. I fired at them but couldn’t get a clear shot. They were rapidly closing off my avenues of retreat.
This is it, I thought to myself as they edged closer. I fired sporadically, preferring to die fighting than be captured, but with only two magazines I had to conserve ammunition. Finally, with absolute dread, I realised the reason they weren’t shooting back: Buitre wanted me alive.
He shouted through his megaphone, ‘I tried to do this the friendly way, Pedro. You asked me to surrender. Now it’s your turn.’
Meanwhile, his men moved nearer and nearer. One would scurry closer in front of me; I’d fire. Then another moved behind me; I’d turn and fire again. They were well trained and gradually formed a circle around me, which grew tighter and tighter.
My panic continued to mount. If captured, ordinary commanders could expect a protracted, agonising death. But I wasn’t an ordinary commander – I’d killed two of their leaders, held Buitre’s brother hostage and sworn death to Caraquemada.
My second magazine was almost empty. I’d been counting the shots, just as Culebra taught me. Evidently, so had Buitre.
‘Don’t move, Pedro!’ he yelled. His voice was closer and he was no longer using the megaphone. I caught sight of him behind a tree. ‘You have one round left. Hands behind your head!’
I raised the pistol to my temple, my finger resting on the trigger. I was breathing in short gasps, my heart racing. Sweat poured down my neck. I was terrified by what I now had to do. I didn’t want to die, but the alternative was unthinkable.
Fifteen of Buitre’s men closed the circle, their rifles trained on me.
‘You threaten to shoot my innocent brother,’ Buitre called out. ‘Yet you’re too scared to pull the trigger yourself?’
‘I’m not the one hiding behind a tree,’ I yelled back. ‘Yes, I have one bullet left. Come out and let’s see who I use it on.’
In the distance, I heard the faint howl of engines. Buitrago’s trucks! I couldn’t be sure but I took a gamble.
I aimed the pistol at my left boot, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. A dull pain exploded in my foot, like a blow from a hammer, and lightning shot up my spine. My vision blurred as I fell backwards, throwing my pistol towards Buitre.
‘Stupid move,’ he said, kicking it aside and walking smugly towards me.
My aim now was simply to stall for time. ‘I can’t walk,’ I taunted him from the ground. ‘So you can’t march me anywhere. Go ahead and finish me.’
‘You idiot.’ Buitre laughed. ‘We can carry you. I know many people who will be extremely interested to meet you back at camp.’
‘You won’t get far carrying me,’ I said. ‘Not with only three minutes’ head-start on the army.’
Buitre now heard the trucks too. ‘¡Chulos! ¡Hijos de putas!’ he said bitterly. ‘Saved by the chulos from the slow death you deserve.’
Buitre took a running kick at my ribs, and his men piled in behind, landing brutal kicks and punches.
‘Go ahead and kill me!’ I spat. ‘It will be much less painful than what Beta will do to your brother in response.’
This stopped Buitre in his tracks, and his men stopped too. I had his attention.
‘The limpieza took three days. I’m sure with the right razorblades Beta could make Ernesto’s pain last much longer …’ Buitre said nothing, so I drove home my advantage. ‘He might even let you listen via radio before he sends Ernesto’s fingers to your mother, assuming Beta’s men don’t pick her up too … in Barrancabermeja.’
‘You son of a bitch!’ Buitre kicked me again. I heard my ribs crack.
‘Think about it!’ I wheezed, wincing in pain. ‘You’ll never get Ernesto back unless you let me live.’
‘Not true,’ said Buitre, drawing a serrated hunting knife and pointing towards the forest. ‘I have your little friend, Ñoño.’
‘A skinny fourteen-year-old who’s worth nothing. No way Beta would trade Ernesto for Ñoño. Not when he sees you’ve killed me and the soldiers on the base.’
I could hear the army trucks drawing closer.
‘You get me my brother back,’ Buitre said, crouching and holding his knife to my throat. ‘Or I’ll come for you again. You and your whole family. In case you forget, let this serve as a reminder.’ He slashed his knife down the side of my face, cutting deep.
Then he stood and booted me in the head.
When I came to, Camila was leaning over me, looking aghast and sobbing. ‘What have they done to you?’
Groggily, I turned my head and saw Buitrago’s men fanning out in a protective ring.
‘Please don’t say anything about Ernesto,’ I croaked.
After that, my recollections are hazy; I was bumping along a road – the army soldiers were conveying me somewhere in a truck. I was barely conscious when someone stabbed my thigh with a syringe, and after that I felt nothing.