back and following him. Miguel waved at him, but he ignored the plea to stop and kept on the gas. For twenty minutes the two riders twisted along the dark floor of the rainforest, Eugene using all his skills to stay ahead of his cousinâs employee. Then, without warning, they rounded a bend and entered a clearing. Eugene stopped and cut the motor. Facing him were a handful of rugged looking men, each holding a gun. And to a man, they were pointing the guns at him. Miguel pulled up beside him and switched off his bike.
âPut the guns away,â Miguel said. âHeâs with me.â
The men lowered their weapons and turned their backs on the two riders. They filtered back into a series of six wooden huts that took up most of the clearing. Smoke spiraled up from tin chimneys, and a gentle breeze blew it in Eugene and Miguelâs direction. The smell was foul and Eugeneâs eyes burned. He recognized the odors from his science labs in school; a mixture of hydrochloric acid, acetone and ether. Eugene got off his bike and walked slowly toward one of the huts where a few barefoot men stomped about in a huge vat filled with leaves and some form of liquid. To a man they all looked stoned.
âThis is a cocaine lab, isnât it?â he said to Miguel. It wasnât really a question. âSo Pablo is a narco.â Eugene shook his head in disgust and started the bike. He turned a stern face to his guide. âDonât worry, I wonât say anything to Pablo. I donât want to get you in any trouble.â He started back for the main house, Miguel on his tail.
Eugene opened his eyes and Pablo Escobarâs Nápoles estate was gone. The opulence was replaced with his small, clean kitchen, the stack of dirty money on the table. Twenty-six years had passed since that fateful day, and over that time he had built himself a wonderful life, with a loving wife and two children. Somehow, through all the misery and shame that went with the Escobar legacy, he had kept his ethics intact. He worked for his money and held his head high, even when Pabloâs name surfaced. He had risen above the abyss into which his cousin had dragged the family name. But now everything had changed; the scum had resurfaced. And they were threatening to take his life apart, seam by seam.
That would only happen over his dead body.
Chapter Six
Eugene watched the outline of Isla de Margarita disappear into the afternoon mist rising off the Caribbean until it became a fuzzy haze on the distant horizon. Everything was out of focus: his island, his life, his wife and daughter. What had happened? He felt the bile rising as the plane touched down on the Venezuelan mainland. Caracas airport, dull, gray and ugly between the coastline and the slum-covered hills to the west. One question weighed on his mind: Would his friend help him find Julie and Shiara? Only a face-to-face meeting would give him the answer.
He deplaned at MaiquetÃa, the domestic terminal, and was saved from the madness of Simón BolÃvar terminal, which serviced international air traffic in and out of Caracas. A queue of taxis waited at the curb and he checked three sets of ID before settling on a driver. Taking the wrong cab from the airport was akin to wearing a âPlease Rob and Beat Me Senselessâ sign on your back.
The cab entered the city of five million and moved with the frenzied flow of traffic, much like the men of Pamplona with the bulls at their heels. The once sleepy town of Santiago de León de Caracas, its red-tiled roofs glinting in the equatorial sun, was long gone. The discovery of rich oil reserves in Venezuela brought unprecedented growth to the city as workers flooded in from the rural areas; slums and wealthy enclaves sprang up along the strip of habitable land between the ocean and the mountains. The ranchitos were nothing more than hovels that provided some protection from the elements, and no protection from the high
âPut the guns away,â Miguel said. âHeâs with me.â
The men lowered their weapons and turned their backs on the two riders. They filtered back into a series of six wooden huts that took up most of the clearing. Smoke spiraled up from tin chimneys, and a gentle breeze blew it in Eugene and Miguelâs direction. The smell was foul and Eugeneâs eyes burned. He recognized the odors from his science labs in school; a mixture of hydrochloric acid, acetone and ether. Eugene got off his bike and walked slowly toward one of the huts where a few barefoot men stomped about in a huge vat filled with leaves and some form of liquid. To a man they all looked stoned.
âThis is a cocaine lab, isnât it?â he said to Miguel. It wasnât really a question. âSo Pablo is a narco.â Eugene shook his head in disgust and started the bike. He turned a stern face to his guide. âDonât worry, I wonât say anything to Pablo. I donât want to get you in any trouble.â He started back for the main house, Miguel on his tail.
Eugene opened his eyes and Pablo Escobarâs Nápoles estate was gone. The opulence was replaced with his small, clean kitchen, the stack of dirty money on the table. Twenty-six years had passed since that fateful day, and over that time he had built himself a wonderful life, with a loving wife and two children. Somehow, through all the misery and shame that went with the Escobar legacy, he had kept his ethics intact. He worked for his money and held his head high, even when Pabloâs name surfaced. He had risen above the abyss into which his cousin had dragged the family name. But now everything had changed; the scum had resurfaced. And they were threatening to take his life apart, seam by seam.
That would only happen over his dead body.
Chapter Six
Eugene watched the outline of Isla de Margarita disappear into the afternoon mist rising off the Caribbean until it became a fuzzy haze on the distant horizon. Everything was out of focus: his island, his life, his wife and daughter. What had happened? He felt the bile rising as the plane touched down on the Venezuelan mainland. Caracas airport, dull, gray and ugly between the coastline and the slum-covered hills to the west. One question weighed on his mind: Would his friend help him find Julie and Shiara? Only a face-to-face meeting would give him the answer.
He deplaned at MaiquetÃa, the domestic terminal, and was saved from the madness of Simón BolÃvar terminal, which serviced international air traffic in and out of Caracas. A queue of taxis waited at the curb and he checked three sets of ID before settling on a driver. Taking the wrong cab from the airport was akin to wearing a âPlease Rob and Beat Me Senselessâ sign on your back.
The cab entered the city of five million and moved with the frenzied flow of traffic, much like the men of Pamplona with the bulls at their heels. The once sleepy town of Santiago de León de Caracas, its red-tiled roofs glinting in the equatorial sun, was long gone. The discovery of rich oil reserves in Venezuela brought unprecedented growth to the city as workers flooded in from the rural areas; slums and wealthy enclaves sprang up along the strip of habitable land between the ocean and the mountains. The ranchitos were nothing more than hovels that provided some protection from the elements, and no protection from the high
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