Bloodline by Jeff Buick Page A

Eugenio,” Pablo said, grinning. He called to one of the servants and a few moments later a young man, perhaps eighteen, came jogging onto the verandah. “Miguel, take Eugenio to the hippo ponds and show him some of the trails.”
    â€œ Sí, Señor Escobar,” the young man replied. He gave Eugene a wide grin. “Let’s go have some fun and leave these guys to their tea.”
    Eugene followed Miguel to a modern outbuilding on the perimeter of the landscaped grounds. Inside was a fleet of ATVs and trail bikes, all washed and sitting in rows, ready for back-country action. Eugene was an expert trail-bike rider and chose a 360cc Yamaha, lots of power and stylish to boot. They roared off from the house and into the wilds of the adjoining rainforest. The path was narrow, bordered with thick trunks of giant emergent ceiba and eucalyptus trees, and fraught with danger. The path opened in places to sudden and unexpected cliffs dropping hundreds of feet to the valley floor. Toucans and horned screamers flitted about the dark enclaves under the jungle canopy, and when the path cut close to the river, Eugene sometimes spotted a jaguar lounging on the exposed sand banks.
    He stayed immediately behind his guide, alternately laying on the throttle and the brakes. A couple of times, Miguel glanced back and gave Eugene a nod for keeping up with him. Eventually they reached a pond with muddy banks and dense vegetation to the water’s edge. Miguel stopped the bike and switched off the ignition, and Eugene followed suit. A strange quiet descended on the tiny clearing next to the pond.
    â€œWatch,” Miguel said, pointing to the glassy surface of the pond. A few moments later the water stirred slightly. Then a large, round snout with two large nostrils appeared above the water. Two humps with huge eyeballs followed. For a few seconds, only the one hippo was in view, then another surfaced, and another, until the water was dotted with nostrils and eyes. “They like to swim here,” Miguel said, glancing over at Eugene. “They’ve got another pond a few hundred meters through the jungle that has huge mud pits. They use that one more for sunbathing.”
    â€œHoly shit,” Eugene said. “Hippos in Colombia.”
    â€œYeah. Señor Escobar had them shipped in from Africa. Along with a bunch of other exotic animals. What Pablo wants, Pablo gets.”
    Eugene turned to his guide. “How well do you know my cousin?” he asked.
    â€œI just work for him. Why?”
    Eugene shrugged and lifted his leg off the motorcycle. He walked slowly to the water and watched the closest hippo watch him. “I don’t really know Pablo. My father only gets together with Pablo when he calls.” Eugene was silent for a minute, then turned and asked Miguel, “Is he a narco? That’s what a lot of kids in my school say. And all the men who work for him have guns, including you.”
    Miguel didn’t answer for a while. Then he said, “Your cousin is a very rich man. There are many people who would take his money if they were given a chance. As for me, I work for Senor Escobar and he treats me very well. I wouldn’t know about these things your classmates speak of. We should be getting back.” He switched on the ignition and pumped the kick-start with his right foot. The motor coughed, then caught, spewing blue smoke into the humid jungle air.
    Eugene straddled his bike and started the engine. He pushed the gear shift down with his left foot, gave it some gas and popped out the clutch. But instead of heading back toward the house—just for the hell of it—he darted off down the path they had been traveling on, moving deeper into the jungle. He could hear Miguel screaming at him, but he ignored the shouts and increased his speed until he was sure Miguel could not attempt to pass or stop him on the narrow trail. He glanced back and saw the other bike fifty feet