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“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 this 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.”
