“Santiago?”
Her eyes bounce from the road to my face, and then back again. “You’ve heard of him? It figures… That particular pinche puto escaped from US custody six months ago. Before then, he and his brother lived like kings off the people of Colombia. They crushed us. They pushed our faces into the dirt and held them there with their boots. I don't give a damn if he was some big-shot US war hero. Nothing makes up for the damage he’s done. He owned the government, the law… You paid your dues, or you paid the price.”
I turn away, feeling sick again. It wasn’t just Santiago who did this to her. It was him, as well.
“Hey, can you reach into that glove compartment for me, parcera?” She points at it impatiently. “I try not to smoke, but it’s been a really shit day.”
“No problem.” I dig out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and watch her slot one between her lips, sparking up a light and managing to look screen siren cool as she does it. “You mind?”
“Nope.”
“Fuck, I’ve missed this.” She blows out a stream of relief. “Wanna join me?”
“Sure, why not.” I take one and follow her lead, savoring the heady rush.
“It’s good to be bad sometimes, right?” We catch each other’s eye again and share a grin.
“What happened to the Santiago cartel?” I ask her, taking another drag. I can't help myself. It’s like I need to know how dark my shadow really is.
She tips her head from side to side, as if she isn’t sure how to answer. “No one knows. One day they just turned the war on each other. There were rumors about a woman, but that would require them to have hearts in the first place. Dante murdered his brother and the cartel disbanded, but he kept a stake in the Gomez Family processing plants. They’re another of the Big Five,” she explains.
“So, Santiago still operates?” Eve swore that this side of his life was done.
“He doesn’t sell, but he keeps the distribution channels to North America wide open for his criminal friends.”
I know whom she’s talking about right away. Rick Sanders. Total sleaze, master criminal, dangerously charismatic. My ex-boss.
I flick my ash out of the window and consider her words.
“You okay?” Vi shoots me a side-eye as we take a left onto a road that’s surrounded with green fields and grazing cattle.
“Just taking it all in,” I murmur. We’re heading up into the hills now, the Renault’s engine screaming in anger at the sudden, sharp incline.
“Santiago washed his hands of Colombia,” she says, after a beat. “He made this huge mess, and then he walked away. The place has been locked in civil war ever since.”
“Civil war?” I turn to her in surprise.
“Of the narcotics kind,” she clarifies, taking a deep drag and blowing a trail over her shoulder. “Cocaine production never goes away, and neither does the fight to control it. But there’s no unity anymore. Not like when the Santiagos controlled everything.” There’s a pause. “They were mad, bad and dangerous, Anna,” she confides, and I hear a history of bloodshed in her voice. “Especially Dante. I saw him once. His eyes were completely sin vida, dead. Like, scarily so.”
I know those eyes. They only come alive for one person: Eve.
“Their people were scary as hell, too. Santiago had this American working for him: El Asesino, The Killer. I remember my cousin telling me how El Asesino cut a man’s hand off once for disrespecting him. While the guy was screaming on the floor, El Asesino walked out of the bar and shot four of his men in the head. You never, ever fucked with them, Anna. They were devils, through and through.”
El Asesino.
The killer.
My savior.
“Tell me about the Big Five,” I say quickly. “Who are the families?”
Vi flicks her cigarette butt out of the window and coaxes the car into fourth gear. “Fernandez controls Cartagena and the whole of the north.” She holds up one finger. “Santiago’s US supplier, Gomez, operates out of the south.” Another finger. “The former Escobar western territory of Medellín is now controlled by Alvaro Perez.” A third digit. “Bogota is under the Hurtados.” Number four. “Finally, the eastern parts of Puerto Carreño and Santa Rita near the border with Venezuela are Luis Ossa’s territory.” It’s a finger full house before the Renault loses power again and she’s dropping her hand to nudge it back down to third.
“How do you know this stuff?” I ask her.
She sweeps her black hair to the side and blows out a breath. “The underworld controls the overland here. These men make it our business to know.” She switches off the stereo as we turn onto a dirt track with deep ditches either side. The Renault’s groans drop to a low whine as she swerves to dodge the giant potholes. “They’re all solo traffickers, with the exception of Gomez. The Mexicans cartels used to call it the plaza system. Here they call it La Orden, The Order. Each Family buys permission from the government to run their territory. The deal makes them think they’re demi-gods. They could walk down the street with their dicks swinging in the breeze, and the cops wouldn't stop them. Every business operating within a territory is expected to pay a tax.”
“You mean like racketeering?”
“Yeah, but without all the sexy Italian accents and suits.” Vi laughs. “Los Cinco Grandes enjoy dragging the rest of the country into their blood sports. Now the people of Colombia have five nemeses to deal with, not one.”
“What about the drug enforcements agencies? Does the DEA have any jurisdiction here?” I think about Eve again. Her father was a DEA special agent back in Miami before he betrayed us all. It’s another soul wound that’s still oozing.
“Are you kidding me?” She laughs again, this time in disbelief. “They don't have the power to do anything out here. Hey, d’you see that ocean?” she says suddenly, pointing at the gorgeous vista. “The locals used to say that color blue was Santiago-red in disguise. Everything that cartel touched turned to blood.”
“You hate him,” I say, reading the hostile tone in her voice.
“I do,” she agrees. “For me, it’s about as personal as it gets. But it’s the same for every man, woman and child in Colombia.”
“Are your family still here?”
“What family?” She gives me that bitter laugh again. “My mother dumped me in a convent when I was a few weeks old. I was adopted by my aunt Gabriela. She brought me up as one of her own. She’s the sweetest, kindest… I’d do anything...” she trails off, lost in a fog of emotions. “I need another cigarette.”
We’re approaching a narrow street bordered by tiny houses. They’re all painted a variation on the theme of dirty red and orange. There’s a charm about the place, though. Strings of green, vine-like leaves and violent bursts of white flowers prettify the fissures in the sidewalls.
“Santa Perdida. My village,” announces Vi, parking up next to a small bar with cracked windows and an old Coca-Cola sign hanging above the door. “It’s not Cartagena, but the owner’s fun and it serves great beer.”