authorize this, but here it was right in front of his eyes.
It had to be some kind of rogue or independent operation, he thought.
Pablo read the
other messages and logged out of the account. He laid his suitcase on the bed,
opened it, and produced a cell phone from a hidden compartment. It was an
encrypted phone provided to him by Daniel. No one in FARC knew he had it. He
began to compose a new text message. In his eagerness, his thumb slipped a few
times, entering the wrong character, and he’d backspace and correct it.
Someone knocked
on the door, and Pablo gave a startled jumped.
He knew it
wasn’t hotel staff. He’d left the “do not disturb” card in its slot on the
exterior door handle. Only two others knew to find him here, and he knew that
Daniel never sent anyone unannounced.
The hairs on the
back of his neck stood up. His sixth sense screamed at him that there was
something wrong, but he was trapped. There was no way out of here, except
through the sliding glass doors, onto the balcony, and thirty-four floors down.
Pablo heard
someone manually working the lock on the door from outside, and quickly
composed the text, franticly now, without stopping to correct typos. He heard
the door open with a thud when it struck the interior wall. He dropped the
phone and snatched the Beretta from his suitcase with a trembling hand. He got
onto his feet and stepped out of the bedroom into the living room space and
kitchen.
There were three
of them coming through the door. Two men armed with pistols. A woman came in
behind them, and kicked the door shut.
They shouted at
Pablo, commanded him to drop his gun. He hesitated for a second, looked once more
at the guns in their hands, and then set the Beretta down on the nearby table
and raised his hands in the air.
The intruders
converged on him. One of the men landed an uppercut into his solar plexus,
knocking the air out of him and bending him forward, opening him up for a punch
to the face.
Pablo didn’t
struggle. The fight had long since ebbed from him.
From the tattoos
on one man’s neck, Pablo recognized them as Los Perros, Panamanian gangbangers.
Although he
didn’t recognize the woman offhand, her reputation proceeded her and, from the
messages he’d just read between Andrés Flores, he easily surmised that she was
the one they called the Viper.
The men hit
Pablo more and pushed him down into one of the armchairs. The woman walked past
him, her eyes covering every inch of the room, and she stepped into the
bedroom. She came out ten seconds later, holding the cell phone, with Pablo’s
message still composed on the screen. She smiled with satisfaction, as if this
was confirmation she sought and her job suddenly became easier.
Pablo didn’t
understand why they would send her here.
As far as he
knew, the Viper wasn’t used to ferret out sapos —and why use Los Perros
as muscle—but he knew that the past ten years had somehow just caught up with
him, and it was finally over. For that, despite the pain he knew he was now set
to endure, he was grateful.
___
A
vibrating chirp alerted Daniel to the incoming message from Canastilla. He knew
it was the message he’d been waiting for all week. No one else would contact him
at this hour, unless it was an emergency, in which case they would have called.
His hand snapped out, nearly knocking over the third-full bottle of aguardiente ,
Colombian liquor derived from sugarcane, and snapped up the phone from the
desktop, where it sat near a sticky shot glass and the file folder containing
Pablo Muňoz’s dossier.
After Operation Phoenix, Daniel decided to stay on at
Palanquero until the business with Canastilla was resolved, rather than shuttle
back and forth between here and his home in Chia, a suburb of Bogotá. He stayed
in one of the base’s spare civilian apartment units with sparse amenities and just
a week’s worth of clothing. He hadn’t turned on the TV or radio once during his
two weeks here. He
It had to be some kind of rogue or independent operation, he thought.
Pablo read the
other messages and logged out of the account. He laid his suitcase on the bed,
opened it, and produced a cell phone from a hidden compartment. It was an
encrypted phone provided to him by Daniel. No one in FARC knew he had it. He
began to compose a new text message. In his eagerness, his thumb slipped a few
times, entering the wrong character, and he’d backspace and correct it.
Someone knocked
on the door, and Pablo gave a startled jumped.
He knew it
wasn’t hotel staff. He’d left the “do not disturb” card in its slot on the
exterior door handle. Only two others knew to find him here, and he knew that
Daniel never sent anyone unannounced.
The hairs on the
back of his neck stood up. His sixth sense screamed at him that there was
something wrong, but he was trapped. There was no way out of here, except
through the sliding glass doors, onto the balcony, and thirty-four floors down.
Pablo heard
someone manually working the lock on the door from outside, and quickly
composed the text, franticly now, without stopping to correct typos. He heard
the door open with a thud when it struck the interior wall. He dropped the
phone and snatched the Beretta from his suitcase with a trembling hand. He got
onto his feet and stepped out of the bedroom into the living room space and
kitchen.
There were three
of them coming through the door. Two men armed with pistols. A woman came in
behind them, and kicked the door shut.
They shouted at
Pablo, commanded him to drop his gun. He hesitated for a second, looked once more
at the guns in their hands, and then set the Beretta down on the nearby table
and raised his hands in the air.
The intruders
converged on him. One of the men landed an uppercut into his solar plexus,
knocking the air out of him and bending him forward, opening him up for a punch
to the face.
Pablo didn’t
struggle. The fight had long since ebbed from him.
From the tattoos
on one man’s neck, Pablo recognized them as Los Perros, Panamanian gangbangers.
Although he
didn’t recognize the woman offhand, her reputation proceeded her and, from the
messages he’d just read between Andrés Flores, he easily surmised that she was
the one they called the Viper.
The men hit
Pablo more and pushed him down into one of the armchairs. The woman walked past
him, her eyes covering every inch of the room, and she stepped into the
bedroom. She came out ten seconds later, holding the cell phone, with Pablo’s
message still composed on the screen. She smiled with satisfaction, as if this
was confirmation she sought and her job suddenly became easier.
Pablo didn’t
understand why they would send her here.
As far as he
knew, the Viper wasn’t used to ferret out sapos —and why use Los Perros
as muscle—but he knew that the past ten years had somehow just caught up with
him, and it was finally over. For that, despite the pain he knew he was now set
to endure, he was grateful.
___
A
vibrating chirp alerted Daniel to the incoming message from Canastilla. He knew
it was the message he’d been waiting for all week. No one else would contact him
at this hour, unless it was an emergency, in which case they would have called.
His hand snapped out, nearly knocking over the third-full bottle of aguardiente ,
Colombian liquor derived from sugarcane, and snapped up the phone from the
desktop, where it sat near a sticky shot glass and the file folder containing
Pablo Muňoz’s dossier.
After Operation Phoenix, Daniel decided to stay on at
Palanquero until the business with Canastilla was resolved, rather than shuttle
back and forth between here and his home in Chia, a suburb of Bogotá. He stayed
in one of the base’s spare civilian apartment units with sparse amenities and just
a week’s worth of clothing. He hadn’t turned on the TV or radio once during his
two weeks here. He
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