The Perfect Stranger (LOS SANTOS Cartel Story #2) Page 4
The man’s wife looked frantically around, tears streaming down her distraught face as she met the eyes of Josiah. They had known each other all their lives and so had their families before them. Her desperation soon turned to a blank stare. Eyes wide and seeing nothing. The woman dropped her baby, its small body unraveling from the blanket its mother had wrapped him in. The child’s wails could be heard over the roar of the flames, the screams of those seeking sanctuary and the rounds of gun fire from the people who were told to shoot at first sight.
That was the fate of anyone who tried to escape. That was the fate the killers wanted everyone to witness, should they try to make a run for their lives. Many died that very way. Others who witnessed the threat on the outside of the fire circle made tracks to the inner town. Whoever didn’t die from burning alive, smoke inhalation, or by being shot, huddled together praying the flames would lose their raging strength.
When the skies opened up and extinguished the circling fire those left remaining breathed a temporary sigh of relief.
It was dark, early morning, when they heard the crunch of the footsteps. They were heavy footed, making no attempt to hide their approach. As everyone grouped together, eyes locked on the dark void in front of them, they saw the glimmer shining off the metal of the guns. They came in unison, large waves of soldiers who, while they didn’t outnumber the villagers, their weapons alone sealed their fate.
The men, identically dressed, faces covered, eyes carrying the same violent intent, separated the women villagers from the men and children. As families screamed for their loved ones, those that held each other a little too long were met with hostility. One couple who became hysterical when her infant child was ripped from her arms and thrust into that of her husband had the butt of the soldier’s gun between her brows. The vacant stare as she fell to the ground told of another life lost for a reason they had yet to discover.
As the men were marched off to the east of the village, the women were imprisoned in the large open community hall. Days passed before news of the two groups reached each other. The village men were in charge of gathering food supplies, and some were given the jobs of delivering meals to the women’s hall where a few trusted ladies would be responsible for the cooking and distribution. The guards watched every move. What messages were passed between them were cryptic. What couldn’t be said, was seen.
The men reported back to their camp that the soldiers had separated the women into “classifications.” Those who were old were kept at the back of the hall, and other than general cleaning duties were unharmed and went without harassment. Those who were considered young enough to still be fertile faced a different story. Two men who had delivered a crate of vegetables returned distraught. After being watched by their own guards, they waited until it was safe to reveal what they had witnessed. They recalled how when they entered the hall, the guards watched on with humor as they awaited the men’s reactions. Their ears were met with the cries of women begging for mercy. Their pleas were muted by the hand of the soldiers on top of them as they continued their assault. There were fifteen rapes occurring at the time the men arrived with their delivery. One woman who was particularly petite was being shared between three men, her limp, rag doll body having given up the fight.
What had sickened the men was that for days they had no idea what was happening in the hall. For days, this had carried on, without anyone so much as making a plan to intervene. These women were their wives, sisters, nieces, mothers and daughters, and while they carried out their duties, no one had a clue that the women were being raped every hour of the day.
A shrill noise penetrating the loft cut Josiah off. The intercom was buzzed startling the three of us. Lost in the horrific story, I’d completely forgotten about the Chinese takeaway I’d ordered. As I rose, I noticed the two men seemed shaken by the interruption, their nerves at shattering point. Josiah raked a hand through his hair, and Arturo’s left knee was bouncing up and down in agitation. Answering the door, I paid the greasy haired delivery man before returning to the living room and placing the bags on the small table between us. To starving men, the aroma of food practically had them frothing at the mouth despite the gruesome story they had just recounted. I for one didn’t feel like I could stomach anything for the next week.
Instead of interrogating them further, I watched as they tore through the take-out with a hungry ferocity that would put a wild animal to shame. I had so many questions. But I had to give the starving men a chance to eat.
When they finished their meal and I moved on to my third Corona, they continued.
Their homes had been destroyed, and the females of their family were being used as sex slaves. They had been tracking the behavior of the night guards, who walked the perimeter of the building and who stopped at the ends to peer around the sides. The frequency of their movements was also monitored, and the lazy ones were favored among the overly diligent. As the group of men coordinating lay next to each other on the hard ground feigning sleep, they listened. They didn’t need to see the faces of the guards, they were already familiar with voices. When one said to the other he would see him tomorrow night to change sentry, the captives knew the lazy guard would return to complete his shift in his usual lack of enthusiasm.
The guards had never done a head count, they were, according to the men, too pre-occupied with the women in the other shelter. This meant, with the right coordination and distraction, the guard's attention could be turned long enough for Josiah and Arturo to slip out unnoticed. The risk was what lay beyond the grounds behind the building they were held in. It was a risk that could end in disaster. For all they knew they would escape the compounds only to meet the barrel of a gun by a soldier on watch in the jungle.
My father, who they had confided in, told them that if they should make it, to find me. He made them memorize my address and offered names of people who could assist them in getting over the border. It was a long shot. A gamble to get two men who were injured and weak to travel cross-continent relying on the help of strangers. But they did it, and I had to commend them on their will. Loaded with a message and armed with courage they staged their disappearance.
Renaldo, a man allergic to the skin of a Lulo and barracking for the young men, consumed two of the sweet oranges only to have his stomach violently heave less than an hour later. He put his plan in motion by lying on the floor groaning earning him the curious stares of the lazy guard. As the pain increased, he sat up, clutching his stomach while the stabbing pains and hot flushes caused beads of sweat to drip down his forehead. This had the guard turning his full body to face the action. When Renaldo stood, and the men either side of him cleared a path fearful of being covered in vomit, the guard became frantic, eager to get him outside. The last thing the lazy guard wanted was to have his section reeking of someone’s sick. The other guard positioned at the back did a quick scan of the room, with his rifle pointed around at the shadowed faces watching on, before helping to guide Renaldo through the maze.
With the action now occurring out front, Josiah and Arturo crawled through the back window. When they landed on the dirt outside, they anxiously waited for the gunshots. They waited for their very breath to become their last. When they heard and saw nothing in the distance, they made a move to the jungle’s edge. Looking back at their destroyed village with a heavy heart, they fled. With what little money they did have, they managed to travel by boat, car, train, and through illegal underground tunnels to get from a tiny village in La Balsa, Colombia to New York. The generosity of others only got them so far. Hungry and without shelter for over a week, and with the fear of being caught, the men finally found me.
“We need your help,” Josiah pleaded. “We don’t know if, by the time we return… if everyone will still be alive. Every day more people die. Your father…” he swallowed hard, and I dreaded the rest of the sentence. “…your father was very ill when we left. But he was certain you would be able to help.”
Help?
“I have no army of my own. I have no idea who these people are or what they want.”
“Your father gave us a name.”
“Who?”
Josiah’s face paled. “Santos.”
Now I understood why.
“Santos?”
“Yes.”
“From Los Santos cartel?”
“Yes.”
Fuck!
Los Santos. I knew of them. Their story had circulated well. The media had run the events and aftermath of the bloodied battle for years. The Saints were a rival cartel of the infamous Florez cartel. In their shadows was the Baja California cartel, who while small time, had great ambitions. When word spread of a drug trade between the shores of Mexico and Cuba, it was fair game. The Baja didn’t have the strength or men to take on the Florez cartel alone. What they did have, though, was a plan. A plan that with the right backing, could lead to the biggest haul of them all. A plan that appealed very much to the likes of Luis Rodriguez Santos, Los Santos drug lord. For the first time ever, Baja and Santos put their quarrels aside and joined forces to intercept and commandeer the yacht full of coke, as well as collect the hefty sum of drug money waiting in Cuba. It was a double whammy and a brave one to piss off the Florez cartel.
Santos planted his only son, Xavier, among the Florez employee’s and to befriend the courier. It worked. Until it didn’t. It was Santo’s greatest mistake and one he would pay for dearly.
Juan and Hector Florez were not only ruthless but they had eyes everywhere. The operation the media deemed “el engaño” quickly dissolved into chaos when word of the deception reached the ears of the Florez cartel. Off the coast of Cuba, the yacht and everyone on it went up in smoke. Xavier Santos was fatally shot. The men from both Baja and Los Santos never made it back with either the drugs or money. It was a fuck-up of monumental proportions. The only one who benefited was the Florez cartel who walked away with one hundred million dollars, of premium cocaine and the money to go with it. They had scored, while the others licked their wounds and mourned for their family. It also set a fine warning to the other cartels that the Florez empire was untouchable.
Although he had lost his only son, Xavier, Luis Santos still made headlines throughout the Americas. He had appointed a new heir to his throne. Gabriel, his nephew, was creating quite the name for himself living up to his uncle’s expectations. This meant that Gabriel’s behavior went from what was already considered bad to shockingly sadistic. Together, the two Santos men were picking up the pace and they had vengeance in their eyes. Now it seemed, they had my father and his coca production in their sights.
Throwing the take-out boxes in the trash, I watched as Josiah and Arturo fell asleep on the sofas.
Tomorrow I would fly out to Colombia.
“Zero?”
“What’s up, bro? It’s still dark out.” His raspy voice told me he was still in bed. I hadn’t made it to my own. Instead, I was plagued with images of a boy being pelted with bullets from my own weapon, and grief knowing my father and the people of my birthplace were slowly being eradicated.
“Yeah, I’m sorry.” I was. “I have a favor to ask, but it can’t go any further.”
“Makes it hard to agree to if you ain’t gonna tell me what it is first.”
“I need your help with acquiring a range of weapons.”
“I thought you’re on leave. I haven’t been told about the next job.”
“That’s because it’s not for the agency. It’s a private matter.”
There was a pause. “Private as in private, private?”
“Yes.”
“Is it legal?”
“No.”
“I’m in.”
My next call was to Jase.
I needed a wingman, and I knew Jase would be keen for another adventure.
“Yo,” he answered sounding groggy. Before I could greet him in turn, a pained groan sounded. “Give me a second…”
I couldn’t help but grin when he vomited twice before returning to the call.
“Yeah?” He sounded worse.
“When did you get home?”
“Half hour ago. You sound pretty shit yourself.”
No doubt, but for entirely different reasons.
For the next ten minutes, I filled Jase in about how my night had progressed once I’d left him.
“So, I need someone next to me who I know will have my back.”
“Fuck me,” he responded in disbelief. “That’s some fucked up shit, man. Like I’m talking, more fucked up than what we’ve ever seen or done.”
“Are you in?”
“Fuck yes!”
That afternoon, we boarded our plane having packed light. With Zero’s help, we scheduled meetings with those who would assist in getting us what we needed once we landed. While Jase conquered his post-hangover hunger by digging into the first of his two hot meals, I worked on the logistics of the mission.
“We gonna come out of this alive?” Jase asked through a mouthful of lasagne.
“That I’m not sure of.”
He gave a slow nod. “What if they’ve killed everyone by the time we get there?”
“Then we hunt them down until every last one of them is dead.”
Jase set his knife and fork on the tray table. “I’m really sorry this has happened to you, bro.”
Inhaling heavily, I stared at the clouds of condensation filtering from the air vents on the plane.
“You sure they won’t recognize you?”
“They have no clue who I am. And even if they did, they’ll never see us coming.”
Six and half hours later we landed in Ecuador. Before we headed to our final destination, I had one very important stop to make. After giving our driver the address of our first stop, he put on the brakes, waved his hands and repeated one word.
“No.”
I expected this. Most folk wanted to keep their noses clean and in the seedy parts of town, only the brave ventured.
“I have family,” he pleaded.
“You will be safe,” I guaranteed, meeting his gaze in the rear view mirror. He gave me a pointed look, unconvinced of my assurance.
“It’s too dangerous. No one…” he gestured around at all the other drivers waiting for passengers, “…will take you to that, barrio.”
“Just drop us off a block before and wait for us.” I took his hand and placed two hundred US dollars in his palm. His eyes widened in wonderment, fingers tightly circling the bills.
“One block before and no further?” he asked.
“And you wait for us?”
“Yes, I will wait.”
Forty minutes later, our driver pulled over, stopping on a busy road. The traffic flowed in a manic fashion and beggars lined the streets hassling others in the same financial predicament as them for money. Gangsters huddled around those they were striking deals with and the place reeked of sewerage and month old garbage.
“Choice, bro,” Jase announced, tone loaded with sarcasm. His gaze scanned the street sussing out any potential threat.
Leaning forward in the backseat I eyeballed our driver in the rear view mirror. “What’s your name?”
“Benito,” he answered cautiously.
“Benito, I don’t know how long, but stay here until we return.”
“Yes, yes.” He nodded with urgency, wishing for a quick end to his shift.
Jase and I hit the pavement at speed dodging beggars, abandoned screaming children and drug-hazed prostitutes. The heat bore down on us, the undesirables of the city watching us with keen interest. After asking some begrudging bystanders if we were close to the address, we finally landed in front of a numberless ramshackle of a building in the back streets. While traffic was scarce in these parts, we could feel eyes watching from every dark crevice. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog’s irate bark was echoing between the buildings.
“This is where people disappear, bro.” Jase’s forehead was beading in sweat under the unbearable sun.
“Yeah, yeah. Fuck doing things in halves.”
“You know it.”
The small eye hole slid open, and a pair of bloodshot eyes met ours. “Que?”
“En busca de Enrique.”
“You American?”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
“Antonio Suárez.”
The eye disappeared, the hole recovered. We waited, a cautious glance passing between us. Eventually, the deadbolt unlocked and the creaky door swung open. Greeting us was the man with the bloodshot eyes, bearing an AK-47 over one shoulder, a finger caressing the trigger.
Another man emerged from the shadows and through the door causing us to take a step back on the cracked pavement.
“Arms up,” the large man instructed. I was six-foot-three and well-built, yet this guy was still three times the size of me in every direction. His face resembled a Bullmastiff dog and a thick, still pink scar lined his face from the corner of his left eye down to his chin. After a quick frisk, ensuring we were void of weapons, the Bullmastiff grunted his approval and we were allowed inside. The men, one on either end, walked us up a narrow flight of stairs.
The upper floor was opened spaced, and unlike the outside it was clean and well furnished, the lighting dark and moody. Cabinets lined the walls containing a dozen different styles of Glocks, sniper rifles, machine guns, close contact weapons, and explosives. It was an enthusiast’s heaven.
“Antonio?” The man I presumed to be Enrique stepped forward, hands by his side, no hint of a friendly handshake. He was straight-laced, face void of all tell-tale emotion. “It’s a long way from the land of plenty. What brings you here? Looking to start a war on my side?”