It’s impulsive and crazy. It’s everything I didn't want or need in my life, but I find myself trailing her out of the restroom, and then we’re breaking into a run.
10
Anna
The humidity outside is breath stealing. It’s filling my lungs with a hot, wet heat instead as I hustle to keep pace with her. She’s weaving in and out of the packed sidewalks, ignoring the shouts and catcalls, and kicking up dust from her cowboy boots.
“Slow down!” I yell, colliding with a couple of kids and their electric blue suitcases, firing apologies in my shitty Spanish at two angry-looking parents.
“Can’t!” she puffs out, over her shoulder. “I have less than sixty seconds!”
We reach a long queue of people by the curbside, all idling away time next to their metal trollies piled high with multi-colored belongings. She yanks me to a stop, and then drags me in between two parked-up red and yellow tour buses.
“Stay here,” she says, leaning over to catch her breath. “Don’t let them see you.”
“Who?”
“Blacked-out SUV over there.” She points to a car parked twenty yards away on the opposite side of the road. Two men are hovering by the open driver’s door, dressed in identical blue suits and white dress shirts, smoking cigarettes and chatting shit like most of the other businessmen in the vicinity. As we watch, a passing car beeps its horn unexpectedly and their hands dive into their jackets. I don’t need to see the glinting metal there to have further confirmation of which side of the law they fall on.
“Who are they?” I whisper, my heart sinking.
“Alberto Fernandez’s men. Cartagena Costavo,” she says, flicking her black hair away from her face. “His father, Alejandro Fernandez, controls this place and all the nearby townships … He runs this territory all the way up to the northern ports.”
My blood turns cold. “You mean he’s a drug lord?”
She nods. “Alejandro Fernandez is one of the big five in Colombia. Los Cinco Grandes.”
Holy shit.
I’m scared suddenly.
I ran a thousand miles to escape from men exactly like them.
“This won’t take long.”
“Vi, wait!” But she’s already crossing the road.
The men glance up as she approaches. Words are exchanged; one even has the temerity to tap his watch at her with a smirk. I watch their eyeline dip to her ass as she moves toward the back door. It opens up wide, and she slides inside.
I wait and I wait, my eyes never leaving the black SUV, even when a bus driver shoos me away from his vehicle, forcing me to blend in with the growing line on the sidewalk. Uneasiness is blasting my skin and wicking away the worst of the heat. I’m torn with indecision… Do I wait here on a wing and prayer, or do I blow my fragile cover to help her out? What price do I put on a woman I only met ten minutes ago in an airport restroom?
A couple of Colombian law enforcement officers stroll past, looking me up and down with interest, until finally, finally, the back door to the SUV opens up again.
Vi doesn't know I’m watching her blasé mask slip. She doesn't know I’m seeing her tug at the hemline of her little white dress with a bitter familiarity that cuts me to the core, and when her hand darts out I know it’s to catch a stray tear that’s equal parts anger and shame. I’ve conditioned myself to never ever drop my guard like this, but she wears it so freely in her moment of privacy.
Her feisty spirit returns the moment she reaches my side of the road. She taps on my arm, and gestures for me to follow.
“Let's get out of here.”
“What happened?”
“Usual shit,” she sniffs.
“Did they hurt you?”
“Can we just walk, please?” She folds her arms tight across her chest, keeping her head low like a disgraced animal. “The dare’s over. Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”
“Okay.”
We walk in silence, all the way to the CTG parking lot. She takes out a key from her purse and leads me toward a Red Renault with a cracked windscreen and a dented front bumper.
“My other’s car’s a Ferrari,” she jokes, attempting to shake the tension from us.
“Listen, Vi, you don't have to do this. Just drop me off at the nearest hotel—”
“No.” Two dark circles flash in my direction. “We made a deal, remember? I may be shit with money, men, my business and everything else in my personal life, but I always keep my promises.” We catch each other’s eye again across the top of the Renault before she’s opening the door. “I’m done with airports for today,” she declares, sliding into the driver’s seat.
I slide in after her in full agreement.
She exits the parking lot and joins the airport highway road. I don't bother to ask her where we’re going. Our tentative friendship is based on survivorship, which comes with an element of trust. I get the sense we’re both dealing with the kind of crap we may never be able to share, but there’s no expectation to talk about it. Vi’s wild, impulsive energy is filling up my empty spaces far more than a team of therapists ever could.
It’s mid-morning, and the yellow sun is burning a path across a crystal-blue sky. The windows are down and the wind is blasting hot air in our faces. We’re cruising toward the outskirts of town, stuck behind a kitschy old bus. It’s traveling under the speed limit, but it’s pumping out a string of heavy beats as a form of apology.
“It’s a chiva,” says Vi, catching me staring. “A Cartagena party bus. They travel around the best bars… It’s a tourist thing.” She leans over and switches the stereo on. “What’s your poison? I’m taking a wild guess, but I don't think it’s metal.”
“Rock, pop, whatever,” I say listlessly. “My soul’s been dead to music for so long I can't remember what I used to listen to anymore.”
“Well, let’s see if this jogs your memory.” She chucks her cell phone into my lap, choosing not to comment on my bleak assertion. “The music app is right next to the Facebook one.”
“Got it.”
I scroll through her playlists; my fingers finding a track called Stop This Flame by Celeste. I’ve never heard it before, but I give in to another of those crazy impulses. The song starts up-tempo. I stare out of the window as the singer’s voice pours melted chocolate over my senses, her lyrics telling of an obsession that will never die.
It makes me think of him.
Everything makes me think of him.
The shadow I’m trying so hard to sever; the man who moves in sync with my life like a Bolshoi dancer—the black swan to my white. The one whose every chess move darkens my boards.
“Tell me about the Cartagena Costavo,” I ask as the track finishes. “Who’s Alberto Fernandez, and why is he playing messed up games with you?”
“Because he’s a pinche puto, a motherfucker,” she says, turning off onto a quieter stretch of road. The lush mountains fall away to a gorgeous Caribbean coastline that’s like Valhalla. “He’s ex government, and even more corrupt now than he was when he was in office. He and his men are a product of the Santiago cartel implosion, like all of Los Cinco Grandes—”