Narcos Read online

  “You may be wondering about Mr. Garcia.”

  How should he answer that? It might not be good to show curiosity about such things. But the truth was, he had been wondering, ever since he’d seen the gun and the splattered blood. Instead of speaking, he simply shrugged.

  “It was a personal matter, not business,” Escobar explained. “Between Garcia and his wife and her lover. Mr. Garcia will be on an airplane to Panama in a few hours. Mr. Garcia did me a favor, so I’m doing this favor for him. He’ll never set foot in Colombia again. None of this will fall on you, you have my word.”

  “Thank you, El Patrón,” Aguilar said again.

  “Until the next time, then,” Escobar said. Without waiting for a response, he headed back up the stairs.

  The dismissal was unmistakable. Still, he’d had a conversation with Pablo Escobar, and had not only survived it, but been paid for his effort.

  Aguilar got back behind the steering wheel and cranked the ignition. As soon as he rested his hands on the wheel, the enormity of what had just happened sank in and he started shivering uncontrollably.

  He’d picked up a man who had just murdered his wife and her lover, then delivered the man to the crime lord of all Medellín, to be spirited out of the country ahead of the law. All while wearing the uniform of the Colombian National Police. Escobar had thanked him and stuffed cash into his hand.

  What had he become? Who had he become? He no longer recognized himself.

  Just weeks ago, he’d graduated from the academy, ready to fight crime and uphold law and order. So quickly he had barely noticed, he had become an accomplice to murder—someone he would have felt obliged to arrest, if it had been anyone else. Had he succumbed to the corruption that seemed rooted in Colombia’s very soil? Or was his a personal moral failing? He could never confess it to his parents or his priest, he knew. He would have to confess to God, but in his own way, without the intercession of clergy.

  Perhaps the more vital question was, if he had so easily slipped across this line, where did his real moral line lie? Was there anything he wouldn’t do?

  And if so, when would he find out what it was?

  * * *

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  That evening, Luisa was working at the café. Aguilar treated himself to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in the comuna. Escobar had given him thirty thousand pesos, so he could afford it without worry. The food smelled delicious, but he could hardly taste it. All he could think about was the blood on Hernan Garcia’s clothing and shoes, the sound of the gunshots, and how disappointed Luisa would be if she knew the whole truth.

  He would have to bring her here, someday soon. Maybe if they were together, he could enjoy the experience. As it was, he paid his bill with half his dinner uneaten on his plate, then walked the dark streets until it was time for Luisa to come home. He met her at the bus stop, and they walked back to the apartment together.

  It was only after they were inside, sitting together on a couch, that she trained her deep brown eyes on him. “What’s wrong, Jose? Don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ I know you better than that.”

  “It’s not nothing,” he replied. “But it’s nothing I can talk about. So the same thing, really.”

  “Are you sure? You can talk to me about anything, you know that.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Is it work?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Work.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out what was left of the money Escobar had given him: more than twenty-five thousand pesos. “I made this, though.”

  She took it, flipped through the bills, and her eyes went wide. “For what?”

  “For work.”

  “Your salary? This is far too much.”

  “No, a tip.”

  “For doing what? Never mind, if you don’t want to tell me you don’t have to.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t want to, baby. I do. So much. But I can’t. I… I just can’t, that’s all. Ever.”

  Luisa moved against him, pressing herself close. She smelled like grilled meat and rich coffee. Suddenly, he was actually hungry, and regretted leaving that dinner behind.

  “You can trust me, darling,” she said. “Always. And if part of trusting me means that you keep things from me, well, then that’s how it must be. None of it affects how I feel about you.”

  “That’s good,” Aguilar said. “Because it affects how I feel about me, and I’m glad there’s someone who still likes me when I come home.”

  “Not just likes. Loves.” She pressed her face against his neck, planted small kisses there. “Always, always, always. No matter what.”

  * * *

  After a while, they moved into the bedroom. A while after that, they fell asleep, tangled in the sheets and each other’s limbs.

  They were still there when pounding at the door woke Aguilar. He rolled away from Luisa, struggled into some pants, and went to it. The door was shuddering from the force of the hammering, and he hesitated, wondering if he should go for his gun.

  Then he heard Montoya’s voice. “Come on, Jose! We don’t have all night!”

  Aguilar unlocked the door and opened it. Montoya stood there, out of uniform. His hair was in disarray, his cheeks thick with whiskers. “What is it?” Aguilar asked.

  “You’re not dressed,” Montoya said.

  “It’s two in the morning!”

  Montoya glanced at his gold wristwatch. His manner was urgent, almost frantic—much different than the usual casual Montoya that Aguilar knew. “One-forty. Come on, get dressed.”

  “Our shift doesn’t start until eight.”

  “This is different,” Montoya said. “Not police work. Pablo work.”

  “Now? In the middle of the night?”

  “Right now. You have three minutes to dress. In street clothes, not your uniform.”

  “I’ll be right back, then. I have to tell Luisa I’m going.”

  “Tell her quick,” Montoya ordered. “And bring a gun.”

  6

  A RENAULT 12 waited in the street, its motor running. The car had been dark blue once, but it was at least a dozen years old. The paint had oxidized, and rusted in spots, and now it was almost as mottled as Aguilar’s skin. It had, Aguilar thought, more dents than a golf ball.

  Montoya got in, and Aguilar went around to the passenger side. The seat was torn, tape curling down in places. “All the money you make, you can’t buy a new car?” Aguilar asked.

  “What makes you think this is my only one? I needed something that wouldn’t attract attention.” He pulled away from the curb and tore down the quiet street.

  “For what? What have you been doing all day?”

  “Surveillance.”

  “On who? Wait—for who? Escobar?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Tell me what’s going on, Alberto.”

  Montoya made a screeching right turn and hurtled downhill. Rain had fallen during the evening, and the streets were slick. “We have to pick somebody up. I know where he is right now, but I didn’t want to go in by myself.”

  “Who? Go in where?”

  “His name’s Leo Castellanos,” Montoya said. “He owes Don Pablo some money. We have to collect it.”

  “Collect it how?” Aguilar demanded.

  “He says he doesn’t have it, but his family does. We’ll pick him up and hold him until they pay.”

  Aguilar processed that for a few moments. “Wait, we’re kidnapping him?”

  “Of course we’re kidnapping him!” Montoya braked hard and twisted the wheel left, leaning into the turn. Aguilar grasped the door handle, but let go when it felt like it would come off in his hands.

  “But… how?”

  “Just follow my lead,” Montoya said. “Don’t say anything. Remember, no names. Don’t do anything stupid. We’ll be fine.”

  He slowed the Renault and watched the street numbers, finally pulling into an empty space at the curb. Rows of apartment buildings flank
ed both sides of the street. He pointed at one with a light burning on one side of the doorway, and a dark one on the far side. “That’s the place. He’s on the first floor. It’ll be easy.”

  “How do you know he’s still there?”

  “I’ve been watching him all day. He went in, had some wine, and finally turned out the lights. I’m sure he’s sleeping.”

  “How much does he owe?”

  Montoya handed him a balaclava. Or Aguilar thought it was a balaclava, at first. Closer inspection showed it was the end of a sweatpants leg, sewed shut at one end, with holes crudely cut out for eyes and mouth. “Half a million pesos.”

  Aguilar looked at the buildings again. This was not a wealthy neighborhood. “And he lives here?”

  “He’s hiding here. His family has plenty of money.”

  “How do you know they’ll pay?”

  “I don’t,” Montoya said. “But I guess we’ll find out, won’t we? Put that on.”

  Aguilar pulled the makeshift balaclava over his head. “It stinks.”

  “Don’t breathe, then.” Montoya put his on and opened his door. Outside the car, he pulled a pistol from his belt. “Remember, don’t shoot unless he forces us to. We need him alive.”

  His heart pounding, Aguilar drew his own gun. He’d been swept up by Montoya’s intensity, not really thinking things through. Now there was no more time to think, no time to argue. Montoya was already on the move. Aguilar followed, and hoped this didn’t go wrong.

  Montoya reached the door to the apartment building. It was metal, with a glass panel at the top. The single light shone wanly, making the whole scene appear lopsided. When Aguilar caught up, Montoya yanked the door open and went in, gun first. Aguilar caught the door as it started to swing closed.

  Inside, Montoya pointed out a door with a brass 3 on it. There were so many questions Aguilar wanted to ask. Will he know someone’s coming for him? Is he waiting inside with a machine gun pointed at the door? How will we get him to come with us? What if we have to kill him—will we owe Escobar the money, then?

  But he couldn’t find his voice, and there was no chance to ask, anyway. Montoya went to the door and tried the handle. He shook his head. Locked. He turned back to Aguilar. “Go outside, in the alley. There’s a window. I’ll go in this way, and you make sure he doesn’t go out. When you hear me go in, break the glass and come in that way.”

  It didn’t sound like Montoya had thought this through, or he would have sent him to the alley in the first place. He was less confident than ever in this plan—if “plan” even described what was going on here.

  Not seeing any better option, he nodded and ran to the alley. The rain had somehow intensified, rather than washing away, the smells of urine and garbage. Two windows on the ground floor faced him; he didn’t know which was Castellanos’s apartment, or if they both were. He hoped he could tell when Montoya went in.

  He was still trying to figure out how to get through the window when he heard crashing sounds from inside. Montoya was trying to kick the door in, or break it down with his shoulder. It didn’t sound like he was having much luck.

  In the window to Aguilar’s right, a light clicked on. He saw a man stand up, wearing a strapped undershirt and boxers. The man snatched up a rifle or shotgun and opened his bedroom door.

  Aguilar’s thoughts raced. If the man killed Montoya, what then? Would Escobar have Aguilar killed, for failing? He couldn’t let that happen.

  He fired a shot through the window. The glass shattered, shards of it dropping into the apartment, some tinkling to the alley floor.

  Inside, the man spun around and started for the window, bringing the rifle up to his chest. Aguilar didn’t want to kill him, but—

  Then Montoya smashed through the door behind the man and charged into his apartment. “Drop it!” he cried. “Police!”

  The man hesitated. Looking outside, he saw Aguilar pointing a gun at him. He whirled around, and Montoya was bearing down on him. He threw the rifle down. “Don’t shoot!” he cried. “I won’t fight you!”

  Montoya went closer to him, looming over him, his pistol pointing at the man’s head. “Good,” he said. He met Aguilar’s gaze. “Come on through.”

  Aguilar looked at the window, chest high, still rimmed with glass shards. No way he was climbing through. “Fuck that,” he said. “I’m coming around.”

  * * *

  Castellanos was around thirty-five years old. He had a full head of dark hair, a slender mustache, a slim build but with a round belly, and the soft hands of someone who went to work in an office every day. There was nothing personal in the apartment at all. It was probably rented, furnished, by the week or the month. This was where he had gone to ground, not his residence. An overflowing ashtray sat next to the bed, and the room stank of stale smoke.

  He was—reasonably enough—terrified. Tears ran down his cheeks and snot bubbled from his nostrils. “Stop blubbering,” Montoya said. “We’re not going to hurt you. We need you in one piece.”

  “You’re not here to kill me?”

  “Nobody wants you dead. You owe money to somebody very important. He just wants to be paid.”

  “I told him I don’t have it! I tried to get it. I tried everyone I could think of. Nobody would help me.”

  “You need better friends, then,” Montoya said. “But we’ll find out who your real friends are soon enough.” He went to the bed, which had two pillows on it, and shook off the pillowcases. “Get his belt.”

  Aguilar looked around the room. The eyeholes were hard to see through, but he spotted a pair of pants wadded up in a corner, with a belt through the loops. He tugged it free. Montoya was draping both pillowcases over the trembling man’s head. “Loop that around his neck,” he said. “Not too tight. We don’t want to strangle him, just to keep him from seeing.”

  “Can I get dressed?” Castellanos asked, sniffling.

  “You can dress later,” Montoya said. “We need to go.”

  Aguilar pulled the belt tight around his neck and buckled it. “What about his hands?” he asked.

  “He won’t try anything.” Montoya sounded confident. “If he did, we’d have to kill him, and he doesn’t want that.”

  “You’re right,” Castellanos said. “I won’t try anything. Just don’t hurt me, please.”

  “Only if you force us to,” Montoya said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  They led him out of the apartment and onto the sidewalk. A woman looked out a window, and Aguilar waved his gun in her direction until she ducked back in and pulled the curtains tight. At the Renault, Montoya made Castellanos lie on the floor in back. “My friend will be watching you,” he warned. “You make a move, he’ll put a bullet in your head.”

  “I promise,” he said between sobs. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  This time it was even harder for Aguilar to survive Montoya’s breakneck driving, because he was turned around in his seat, pointing his gun more or less in the direction of Castellanos’s head. He probably needn’t have bothered; the man curled into a fetal position on the floor, knees and head down, back up, and rocked back and forth like a baby trying to sleep. Aguilar had expected that anyone bold enough to find himself in debt to Pablo Escobar—and then to resist paying that debt—would be made of tougher stuff. Castellanos, by contrast, seemed on the verge of complete collapse.

  Soon enough, Montoya pulled the Renault up to the door of a garage attached to a single-story house on a fairly spacious lot. The lights of neighboring houses were visible through a screen of trees, and Aguilar figured the idea behind this house was that a prisoner could scream his head off without being heard. “Get the door,” Montoya said.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s not going anywhere,” Montoya said. He sniffed the air. “I think he pissed himself.”

  Aguilar shrugged, got out, and opened the garage door. The garage was empty. He waited as Montoya drove in, then closed the door again. Another door led into the ho
use. “Is anyone else here?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” Montoya said, tugging open the car’s back door. “It’s a safe house.”

  “Who will watch him, then?”

  Montoya sighed. “We will. We stay with him until his family pays up.”

  That was the first Aguilar had heard about staying with the hostage. “Us? But I haven’t told Lui—my wife.”

  “You can call her later, if you need to. Now shut up and help me peel him out of the car.”

  Montoya tried to pull Castellanos free, but the man was holding onto the carpeting, the bottom of the seats, anything to keep himself from being moved. Aguilar tucked his gun into his pants and went in through the opposite door. He pried Castellanos’s fingers away from whatever he gripped, but as soon as he did, Castellanos grabbed something else, or clawed at Aguilar’s hands. Finally, Aguilar drew the pistol and shoved it against Castellanos’s forehead hard enough to leave a mark. The man’s eyes grew wide, and he stopped struggling.

  “Please, no, don’t…”

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t want to be too much of a pain,” Aguilar said. “The more trouble you are, the less likely we are to keep you alive.”

  “No, I… I won’t. I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “Get out of the car.”

  Aguilar moved the gun away so Castellanos wouldn’t grab it. The man released his hold on the car’s interior surfaces and backed out stiffly. As he did, Montoya got a grip on his neck. “Now into the house,” he said.

  “All right. Whatever you say.”

  Aguilar opened the door to the house. It was dark inside, but he pawed at the wall until he found a switch. An overhead light came on, showing an empty hallway with a couple of doors and an opening at the far end.

  “Have you been here?” he asked.

  “Once,” Montoya said. “We can take him in there, second door.”

  Aguilar opened that one, and switched on a lamp inside. The room contained a steel bed frame with a thin mattress on it. No bedding, no pillows. A cockroach scuttled across the wood floor when the light came on, squeezing into a crack at the base of the wall. Another door led into a bathroom, with a sink, a toilet, and a bathtub. The only window was covered by a sheet of thick plywood, nailed to the frame.