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Colombia three years ago...
THE STALE STENCH of old wounds greets my senses the moment I step inside the semi-darkened room. It’s overpowering and undeniably human. That beginning stage of decomposition where lesions fail to heal and infection sets in, rotting a person from the inside out.
It’s a scent I know. One I understand.
Because for every action, there is an often more damning consequence that even the most corrupt fear. All men have a weakness. One soft spot which renders them useless, and no one is immune to the karma of divine justice.
I’m here today as an example of that.
You pay in life for your wrongdoings.
My eyes sweep the room, and I nod at the man responsible for my role in today’s proceedings. Alejandro, my cousin, sits just a few feet from the center in an opulent golden chair that doesn’t fit within these walls while villagers gather around. Men and women line the back wall of an old abandoned building on the outskirts of Bogota while waiting on justice to be served.
Two men are on trial for their misdeeds and are tied together by greed. Stupidity.
For stealing from those who trusted—put faith in the empty words of a low-life opportunist.
Because you don’t bite the hand that feeds. You don’t take away the only source of sustenance these families have by emptying the poppy fields while using their labor under false direction—telling them it was a direct order—and attempting to sell the flowers to a European company whose loyalty lies with our family.
A novice mistake, and they’ll pay with their lives for two reasons. One, for being scum. And the other, for trying to go behind his boss’s back and making that idiotic purchase.
Everyone’s watching the two men bound and gagged—bruised and bloodied—with horror-stricken expressions on their faces as the men take me in. The assholes wait, they beg with their eyes for a mercy they’ll never receive.
Instead, the closer I get, the more they tremble. The smile on my face eviscerates whatever shred of hope they held on to.
I don’t feel bad for them. Not at all.
I wouldn’t be here if they were honorable men.
Hushed whispers meet my ears then, the murmurs of witnesses filling the space as I stop beside a small rolling cart. There’s a tray atop it with two bullets, a .45 caliber Glock, and a machete.
It’s all I’ll need.
“That family is nothing but an infestation of roaches in need of extermination.”
I catch that, and my attention snaps in the direction of the idiot who spoke. It’s not hard to pick him out amongst the group. Not when the two women beside him take steps to the side with wide eyes. They’re watching him, and then flick their eyes to me and then back again. Back and forth three times, and then they all but run toward the opposite side when I move in his direction.
There’s a gulp, and two palms go up in supplication.
“Say it again, Güevon,” I hiss out, my hand wrapped around his neck before his next inhale. My fingers tighten and his breathing becomes choppy, chest rising and falling fast—fighting to regain the missing oxygen he needs to live. There’s a choking sound that slips from his parted lips while his body fights to break my hold, and still, I won’t budge. I don’t lose my stance even when his legs go weak. If anything, I take joy in the feel of his life slipping away beneath my fingertips.
I revel in the moment rationality sets in, and how easy it is to lose one’s mortality becomes a haunting truth; he has no choice but to confront.
“Por favor, I didn’t—” His fingernails try to break the skin at my wrist but fail. No strength whatsoever.
“I won’t ask you again.” Bringing my face closer to his, I arch a brow. “Repeat.”
“Can’t breathe,” he chokes out, voice low while the color of his face reminds me of a fallen tomato out on the fields: dirty and ripped open under a heavy boot. It’s a pathetic response that further fuels my dislike of him. Of his type.
A man without a backbone. Without conviction.
The kind that runs at the first sight of a fight but will feed the fire until someone snaps.
“If you can talk, you can breathe.” Multiple guns click and many avert their eyes as I tilt my head to the side, catching sight of Alejandro walking over from the corner of my eye. “What did you say?”
“Q’hubo, Andresito?” My cousin stops beside us and I look over, catching the smirk on his face. He’s calm and collected, methodically dissecting the idiot in my hold. “You have something to say?”
