Page 26 of Shadow Man

“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 completelysin 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 howEl Asesinocut a man’s hand off once for disrespecting him. While the guy was screaming on the floor,El Asesinowalked 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 itLa 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 Grandesenjoy 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 doanythingout 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.”

“This is your bar?” I say in surprise.

“Yep.” She yanks the keys out of the ignition. “Well, technically it was my cousin’s, but he’s not around anymore.” She pauses before opening the car door. “Look, I know it’s not much, but you’re welcome to stay for a couple of days while you sort your shit out. Stay for as long as you like. Whichever. It’s cool with me.”

“Thank you,” I say, humbled by her generosity. I’m a stranger to her—a Trojan horse crammed full with secrets about the very men she hates. If I remembered what guilt felt like, I’d be experiencing a ton of it right now. “I don't have much money, but I’d be happy to work something out with you.”

She follows my gaze to the faded cherry-red awning flapping above the chairs and tables, stamped with a Spanish name I can't translate.

“Have you ever worked in a bar before?”

A faint smile tugs at my lips. “It’s kinda funny you should say that.”

“Parcera, if that’s a yes, I’m taking away your passport!” she warns me. “It’s only myself and Samuel running this place, and he’s about twenty years past his expiration date.”

I laugh and a warm sensation filters down through my body, like spring melt after a freezing-cold winter.I was searching so hard for oblivion when I should have been looking for an ally.

I go to climb out of the car.

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