Page 25 of Shadow Man

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 achiva,” 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 calledStop This Flameby 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 apinche 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 ofLos Cinco Grandes—”

“Santiago?”

Her eyes bounce from the road to my face, and then back again. “You’ve heard of him? It figures…Thatparticularpinche putoescaped 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 hewassome 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 washim, 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.”

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