Prologue
“Mano. Mano, ven para aca’,” his mother’s voice rang out through the crisp mountain air, bouncing off the beauty of the poppy fields. His father could make more money growing poppies than he could coffee. The mountains served as a sanctuary for the beautiful red poppy fields. They were nature’s hideaway from the military that destroyed the crops the family made money from.
The little boy felt free out here in the open air. He would come out and run, waving his arms through the air and mimicking an airplane. The family had a landing strip for the cartel that would purchase the gummy paste used for heroin, and from time to time, it inspired his imagination. He was the only child of an American mother and a Colombian father. She, his mother, had been a missionary. She came to the mountains of Colombia and fell in love with a landowner who loved the peace and tranquility the mountains offered.
Mano’s mother was a contradiction in terms; conflicted about the part she played in the cartel. Fidel was a man who had orchestrated a finely-tuned deception to win the woman he loved. Once they had married, he had promised she would never be out from under his vicious hold. A dangerous man with diabolical intentions, he had systematically won her over—a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Though she was an educated woman, her merciful heart towards people had made her naïve enough to not realize just how dangerous Fidel was. It wasn’t until after years of marriage that the layers of Fidel's nature were revealed entirely. He had gotten her pregnant with Mano quickly, knowing she would never leave her son. Mano was the glue that held her captive to a man who ranked very high in the Colombian cartel. He was bi-lingual, bi-cultural, and blessed with dual-citizenship; however, the family remained on the small finca—the Spanish word for farm—they owned and operated.
The boy flew his imaginary plane to the large hacienda for the food his mother had prepared; the growling of his stomach was stronger than the boy’s vivid imagination. His mother was a patient woman, but even he knew how far to push her fortitude when hours in the kitchen had been spent to cook the family’s meal. He knew from his eavesdropping earlier that morning there would be men coming for dinner to talk business with his father. Unlike many Latin men, his father allowed his mother in on business decisions.
Sometimes, when his father ushered his guests from the room after dinner, Mano would open his window. He listened as the men drank aguardiente and smoked cigars on the large porch. His curiosity was fertile soil for his imagination, and he was smart beyond his years. His love for literature and ability to read in both Spanish and English allowed him to learn new and exciting things. He was a sponge soaking up the knowledge of two cultures as well as two bi-polar worlds of crime and law-abiding citizens. Even at a young age, the boy was a chameleon and able to blend into his surroundings. He had been born with the innate capability to be whatever or whomever he needed to be to get the job done; he was a true master at hiding in plain sight. Unknown to Mano, he was also learning the dynamic of predator and prey; the ability to pursue, takedown, and capture a victim. He had witnessed his father’s mentality and subtle nuances of control, as well as his blatant dominant, alpha personality. Fidel’s temperament had served him well in the cartel, and his friends, as well as his enemies, knew he wasn’t a man to be toyed with.
“Wash your hands, mijo,” said his mother without turning and looking at him. Mano eased over to the sink and glanced up towards his mother in an attempt to see if his tardiness had tried her patience. When she smiled down on him and rubbed his hair, he knew she was okay. He looked at the woman who had given him his green eyes and lighter complexion—she was beautiful with long blonde hair and piercing green eyes. More than once, he had seen the way men looked at her when they went into the city streets of Colombia. Sometimes he would purposely walk behind her to keep men from checking out her ass. His mother never flirted or returned their looks. In fact, she often acted as if she was unaware of the men who gawked at her. Mano knew better, though. She was too smart to not be aware of her surroundings. Colombia was a beautiful country rife with cartel; they were quick to kidnap a family member of an opposing organization. The connections of his father had provided his family with safety, but in Colombia, safety was a relative word.
Mano couldn’t resist running out the front door when he heard the airplane approaching. One day, he would have his own plane; the same freedom he felt running over the mountainside of Colombia would be felt in the clouds.
"Papi, Mira nuestros invitados han llegado, Papi, look, our guests have arrived,” he translated.
Both parents were aware of what he’d announced, however. Translating was a habit of the boy, so no one was left out when the Americans who didn’t speak Spanish visited. His arms went out, and he moved in circles at the door with excitement thrumming through him like a taut guitar string. He stood awestruck as he watched the plane land with precision. The cartel had the money for the best planes that transported the drugs that made them rich.
Armed bodyguards exited the private plane and ushered two Colombian cartel members to the house. The bodyguards' heads moved as if on a swivel even though there were no impending threats to be seen. When trouble hit, it came like a thief in the night; it was silent but deadly. Cartel wasn't the only presence the family was concerned with. The military also played a role as they had the job of crop dusting, burning crops, and killing cartel members on sight if the mood struck them. Colombia was a lawless land where power and money reigned.
Mano looked up at the man who towered over him. "Hola Señor Cupid," he said. It was a nickname the man had been given because he was such a hit with the ladies.
“Hola Chiquito.”
“I’m not little, soy El Hombre,” Mano stuck his chest out with pride.
“Claro que si’, Vato,” The man smiled down on the little boy who was far beyond his years in cartel matters and book learning.
Mano seemed pleased with the man who said, “clearly dude,” since it put him in the big boy category. He smiled to let Cupid know he was no longer offended. Mano always stood on his own two feet when it came to his interactions with cartel rather than the fear the men had for his father. He’d witnessed cartel kids who used the fear their fathers ignited in the hearts of men, and he viewed them as being weak and bratty; to him, they weren't madmen in the making. He would have more than just his father’s name when he grew up. He would have the knowledge and wisdom it took to be a leader. His surname would give him connections, but his heart would be that of a lion’s because he would be trained for warfare. Already at a young age, he had no intention of riding on anyone’s coattail to achieve the things he had in mind.
He looked at the man with him; a stranger, the man nodded in the boy’s direction. Something like razor-sharp ice ran up the boy’s backbone, and he hoped it was because the man was a Sicario and not because he wished to do the family any harm. It was only appropriate; a paid killer in the guise of a bodyguard has the eyes of an assassin and the expression of a man who has come to terms with the grim reaper. Mano ignored the three men he didn’t know and focused on Cupid. He didn’t like it when men he’d never met came to their home. The need to protect his family was primal. Throughout his lifetime, he would carry the animalistic trait towards anyone he believed to be his responsibility. The word mine held a much deeper meaning for him than battling over toys with a playmate. He had learned at a young age no one could be trusted under the right circumstances. In his young mind, it was his responsibility to ensure no enemy crossed what he believed to be the perimeter of his life.