ON THE ROAD to Villavicencio, I called Ratón’s number and left a message: it was Pacho calling and his chickens were ready for pick-up. It was after midnight when I arrived and parked the Blazer one block south of the electrical store, leaving the crate of weapons and explosives concealed beneath a blanket in the trunk.
When I asked the sleepy residencia manager for my key back, she wasn’t surprised to see me. In fact, since we were paid up until Sunday, she probably hadn’t even noticed our absence.
‘Where’s your friend?’ was her only question.
I shrugged and smiled. ‘Out with a chica.’
I found Room 8 exactly as we’d left it – curtains drawn, Palillo’s half-filled ashtray on the floor and our beds unmade. It was as though the entire week in Llorona with Camila and Mamá had never occurred.
The next day I resumed my stake-out, with one important difference: after my phone message, I was now certain Ratón would come. My plan remained unchanged: watch from the window, wait for him to appear and then sprint downstairs. Before Ratón reached the electrical store, I’d cross the street diagonally, carrying my Styrofoam-filled box, intercept him from behind, disarm him and then march him to the Blazer.
For most of Friday, I watched the comings and goings at the electrical store. I’d filled the Taurus magazine with 9mm rounds from the stolen cache, figuring it would be a fitting end for Ratón to be killed by a Guerrilla bullet. The Paramilitary bullets I’d stolen from the armoury were lined up on the windowsill. I tapped and spun them as I waited, scanning the street. Palillo called my cell phone several times. Each time I let the call ring out.
Finally, in the early afternoon, I saw a man of Ratón’s stature at the northern end of Third Avenue, walking coolly but resolutely in the direction of Sandoval’s store. I snatched up the binoculars, knocking over several bullets in my excitement. They were zoomed in too far to locate him within the dense crowd of lunchtime shoppers, and I cursed aloud as I struggled with the focus dial, trying to get a visual on him. I thought I’d lost him, or perhaps that I’d been mistaken, but no, there he was, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, with the same skinny face and pointy nose I’d seen last Saturday.
Immediately, I tensed. My fist clenched and I had to drop my binoculars and place my palms flat on the desk to regain control.
‘Son of a bitch!’
Cocking the pistol, I switched it off safety. I swiped the extra bullets from the windowsill into my pocket, bounded down the stairs two at a time and grabbed my box from under the stairwell. I supported it with one hand; with the other I gripped the pistol.
As I stepped from the pavement to cross the street a policeman on a motorbike cruised slowly past. From the other side of the avenida Ratón noticed him too – he slowed, lit a cigarette and leaned casually against a wall. Five metres behind him, a man dressed in a collared shirt and pleated trousers stopped also and took out his phone. He nodded discreetly to Ratón.
My heart raced. I hadn’t factored in a bodyguard. It would be impossible to disarm two men and control both while forcing them into the Blazer. I still had the element of surprise, but I had to quickly recalibrate my plan.
The police patrol departed. Ratón stomped out his cigarette and signalled to his bodyguard; they were on the move again. A parking space had opened up close to the store entrance, and Ratón waved to the driver of a small yellow taxi double-parked at the north-eastern corner of the block. I realised that, rather than arriving on foot, the two men had arrived by car. The driver flashed his headlights and started the engine.
I drew a deep breath and crossed the street as the taxi pulled in. The driver honked and slammed on his brakes.
‘Watch where you’re going!’ he yelled, bringing me to the attention of Ratón and his bodyguard.
The bodyguard held up his hand. ‘I’m sorry but this taxi’s reserved. I’ll flag you another.’
His right hand remained by his hip, and I detected the slight bulge of a weapon at both his and Ratón’s waistlines. Adrenalin flooded my body. I looked up and down the street. With scores of potential witnesses in both directions, shooting the bodyguard in broad daylight and then trying to abduct Ratón was not an option.
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I’m going into this store.’
‘That looks heavy,’ said Ratón, glancing at my box and addressing me with a crooked-toothed smile. I had a moment of panic as he squinted, as though trying to place me, but then he continued, ‘Do you need a hand? Open the door for the muchacho,’ he ordered his bodyguard.
The bodyguard obeyed, and I walked through with the two of them following closely.
Boris Sandoval was seated at the glass display counter at the far end of his store, punching buttons on a calculator. Behind him was the staircase that led up to his apartment. Down the centre of the store, effectively dividing it into two separate spaces, ran a two-metre-high metal shelf stacked with light fittings and transformers.
As we entered, Sandoval looked up from his accounting, recognised me and smiled in greeting, perhaps relieved that I’d arrived in the company of my ‘boss’, Ratón.
‘Good to see you again!’
Luckily, it wasn’t clear to whom he was speaking, but I had to act quickly. Sandoval’s next utterance might give me away. Walking towards the counter with my enemy at my back, the narrow aisle seemed to contract, hemming me in on all sides.
I quickly scanned the shelves and saw what I needed: a roll of electrical cable. I’d disarm Ratón and the bodyguard, make Sandoval lock down the outside shutter, and then bind the bodyguard with electrical cable before interrogating Ratón inside the store.
‘After you,’ the bodyguard said to me as we approached Sandoval. However, I wanted to surprise them from behind.
‘No, I insist,’ I said, stepping aside so I could put two metres between us – close enough to aim, but too far for them to grab at the Taurus. ‘You go first.’
When Sandoval frowned in confusion, I got ready to drop my box and point the Taurus at Ratón. Suddenly, the upstairs door clicked open and Sandoval’s daughter padded down the stairs carrying two plates of food. For some reason, although it was Friday, she wasn’t at school. Immediately, I began to panic. I couldn’t shoot anyone in front of a little girl. I edged towards the door, preparing to abort the mission.
‘You won’t need that box, compa,’ Sandoval said, using the Guerrilla’s term for friend. ‘I packaged the batteries for both your orders together.’
Ratón stared at my face, finally recognising who I was. He looked stunned and horrified.
I dropped my box. The bodyguard looked at me in astonishment as Styrofoam spilled onto the floor. When I advanced, crunching it beneath my feet, he must have realised the box was a prop. I raised the Taurus and aimed at Ratón’s chest.
The little girl gasped as the bodyguard went to draw his weapon.
‘Leave it!’ I shouted at him. ‘Put your hands on the counter or I put a bullet in your boss.’
Reluctantly, the bodyguard obeyed. Ratón held up both palms towards me and started retreating, trying to placate me.
‘Easy, muchacho. Put that thing away. We can work this out together.’
The little girl began crying.
‘Close your eyes, cariño,’ Sandoval said.
‘Stand still,’ I yelled at Ratón. ‘Throw your pistol on the floor.’
He glanced at his bodyguard, clearly stalling for time while trying to coordinate a response, but then reluctantly complied.
However, he’d created a critical distance between himself and his bodyguard so that it was impossible for me to keep my pistol trained on both.
‘Sandoval,’ I ordered. ‘Lock the shutter and cut me some electrical cable.’
When Sandoval went to move, his daughter latched onto his thigh, screaming, ‘No! No! No!’
‘It’s okay, cariño,’ he said, bending down to comfort her. But then, rather than fetching the cable, Sandoval bundled her into a hug and pulled her down behind the counter.
With my attention momentarily distracted, the bodyguard reached for his weapon. I aimed for his chest and fired. In the confined space of the electrical store, the shot sounded like a thunderclap. The pistol recoiled, jerking my hands upwards.
I’d missed, striking his arm. The bodyguard dived towards the shelves, firing back at me. I fired two more rounds – one missed but the other hit him in the stomach as he disappeared behind the metal racks of electrical goods.
Almost at the same time, Ratón lunged forward to retrieve his pistol, but before he could get his hands on it I fired at him and missed. He scrambled out of sight as his injured bodyguard let loose from between the stacked boxes with a volley of shots that forced me to drop flat onto the floor and scramble behind the glass counter. We exchanged fire, but neither of us had a clear view of the other. Bullets ricocheted off the wall behind me and the glass cabinet exploded into flying shards.
Next to me, the little girl was crying while Sandoval hugged her, repeating over and over, ‘Don’t hurt my daughter, please don’t hurt my daughter.’ Then he yelped in pain and blood spurted from his thigh.
I was now trapped behind the counter with no safe way out of the store or even up the stairs. I heard whispering and then the bodyguard fired again. I fired back repeatedly until his pistol clinked against the tiled floor and he fell silent.
I heard footsteps sprinting towards the door. I got one shot away at Ratón as he fumbled with the door handle, but it, too, went off-target, striking him in the lower back and causing him to trip and stumble as he rushed onto the street.
I raced out and found him on the pavement, crawling towards the taxi.
The taxi driver leaned across the passenger’s seat to open the door for Ratón. He reached into the glove box and raised a pistol. But before Ratón could climb in, I fired three shots, splintering the rear windscreen. Ratón changed direction, scrambling instead under a truck where I could no longer see him. Tyres squealed as the taxi sped away, its open door swiping two parked cars. The gunshots, screeching tyres and scraping metal had brought shoppers to doorways. Pedestrians hid behind cars. All of them were watching me. But I had to finish the job.
Gripping Ratón by the ankles, I dragged him out from beneath his truck. Bleeding, he clutched at my trousers.
‘No. Please. No. Please, no.’
I placed the pistol against his temple. ‘You killed my father. Why, when I was the one who spoke to the recruiters?’
‘That was Caraquemada, not me.’
‘Not true and not good enough.’
‘I’m a radio operator. I have nothing to do with making the orders or carrying them out.’
That wasn’t true either – he’d been more than happy to extort money, oversee drug transactions and write a threatening letter to Padre Rojas. If I’d had more time, I could have argued. But dragging Ratón to the Blazer was now out of the question. I pressed the muzzle of the Taurus against his head.
‘Why?’ I demanded angrily.
‘I don’t know. It wasn’t up to me. I liked your father. We were friends.’
Ratón’s claim of friendship with Papá infuriated me. It was the last lie he’d ever tell.
I pulled the trigger. The pistol clicked. I was out of bullets. Seeing his opportunity, Ratón tried to wrestle me down. I fought to stay on my feet, reaching into my pocket for the extra bullets, but Ratón punched my wrist, spilling them across the pavement. Although bleeding heavily, he was strong. He grappled me to the ground, climbed on top of me and strangled me as my left arm flailed about the pavement, grasping for the bullets that remained just out of reach. Using my right hand, I struck at him with the Taurus butt.
Ratón choked me harder and harder with one hand while the other struggled to prise the pistol from my grasp. My left hand alternated between unhooking his grip from my neck and groping for bullets. Each time I saw one and reached for it, Ratón kicked or slapped it away. Just as I was about to pass out, I thought of his bored expression as he repeated the order, ‘Execute him!’ With a sudden burst of anger my fingertips stretched out and lit on a bullet. Inserting it in the chamber, I held Ratón in a fierce hug and fired into his side. His chokehold went limp. I rolled him off me. He was dead.
Panicked, I sprinted down the block towards the Blazer. Then I had second thoughts: the numberplate could be noted down by witnesses. Instead, I ran around the corner, planning to blend in with lunchtime shoppers. But I wasn’t thinking straight. How could I blend in, covered in blood and holding a pistol? I hailed a taxi. The driver slowed down but then sped past me. I heard sirens. On foot I wouldn’t get far so I ran back to the Blazer. Pulling out, I scraped the rear bumper of the white sedan in front.
My hands were shaking uncontrollably and I breathed in deep gulps of air. Since I hadn’t arranged a safe house in case things went wrong, at first I didn’t know what to do or where to go. Then I reverted to my original plan, taking the quiet back streets out of the city and driving towards the Ni Pío sign in Monterrey. I didn’t stop until I reached the saman tree.
I sat there, forehead against the steering wheel, heart still racing, breathing hard. I’d killed Ratón. Everything had gone wrong. But at least I’d killed Ratón.
Five minutes later, through the shock, the gravity of my new predicament dawned on me. Although safely out of sight, I was covered in blood with no change of clothes, sitting in a vehicle whose numberplates might have been noted. I’d been seen by Sandoval, his daughter, the taxi driver and scores of passers-by. The binoculars with my fingerprints on them were still in the residencia, but I couldn’t return.
Police would be searching for me and the Blazer. Maybe they’d already identified me through the residencia manager. I had no doubt they’d catch me shortly. But if I drove back onto the highway, they’d catch me immediately.
My phone rang. I flinched. Had they tracked me already? I scrambled to remove the battery, intending to throw away the SIM card. But then I saw the caller ID: PALILLO.