Corrupt - Elena M. Reyes Page 0,36

by, hermanito?” My brother’s voice is gruff, always sounds annoyed, and I chuckle at the fact he still calls me his little brother. The asshole works for me but uses the term to show some bullshit hierarchy when it comes to siblings.

“Forty minutes or so.” I stand from my seat and walk over to the back where the water ripples, the motor slicing through as it propels us deeper into the jungle. Off to the left, there’s a caiman on the embankment sunbathing, while another swims up close and then stops. They watch each other, not moving an inch as they wait for an opportunistic moment to present itself.

“Are we meeting by a large tree with the machete embedded?” There’s shouting behind him, the sound of a group creating a formation and rifles being shifted in unison. Hands grabbing the metal, it slaps against their palms as they continue to perform a drill and can be heard clearly through the line. “That works?”

“Yes.” A fish jumps out of the water and both predators rush forward, disappearing beneath the water. They don’t come back up as we get farther away. “And come alone.”

“Is there a reason why?”

“Because you sound as if you have something to say.”

He’s there when I arrive, arms crossed over his chest and a foot bent at the knee against the tree with the machete. I put it there over five years ago, the only sign of which riverbank I use.

No dock. Nothing but the splash of boot-covered feet as we jump down and walk the few feet to shore.

Geronimo walks ahead of me, gun drawn and after a quick head nod to my brother, continues his trek, and then stops out of hearing range. His back is to us and attention on making sure no one comes close, not even my right-hand, who I’m beginning to doubt.

“You sounded off earlier. What’s going on?”

At my question, he nods, gazing out onto the still water. “Things are heating up, Alejandro. Have you seen the new advertisement he’s running at the top of every hour?”

“I’ve seen it.” Matias Quintero is pushing for a change in national law. To be given the chance to run for a second term, using the same tactics that helped his father win fifteen years ago. Smearing my family. Using fear to antagonize those that are in power and move chess pieces at their disposal. “You moved them?”

“Yeah. All three are at the safe house in San Andres.” Emiliano rubs his jaw, eyes shifting to me. He’s concerned. “We need to talk.”

“Something wrong with…?”

“No. Mom is fine, and so is my wife.”

“That leaves Lourdes.”

“I think she’s seeing someone.”

“Does Mom know who?”

“That’s the problem…” Emiliano looks at me with worry in his eyes “…our sister refuses to talk to me. She’s starry-eyed and found daydreaming around the house but gets nervous when you ask her what’s going on.”

“I’ll talk to her. She’s always been honest with me.”

“That’s not the only problem right now, Alejandro.” The worry in his expression turns into anger, hands clenching. “You need to speak with Chiquito, brother. He’s out of line.”

“What did he do?”

“He almost smacked a female soldier across the face.”

14

ALL NOISES CEASE as I step through the trees.

The camp becomes mute—not even the sounds of the jungle’s natural inhabitants can be heard. This area is unexplored territory deep in the Colombian stretch of the Amazon and about an hour’s hike from the riverbank where my boat is docked. It’s off a deviation from the river that runs through these lands, a small marsh that once you pass, opens into an even larger body of water and where a smaller vessel awaits my return.

The clearing where my unit trains is large, an unobstructed terrain that’s surrounded by dense bush. I don’t say a word as my eyes scan the field, taking in those standing at the head. Chiquito’s there along with another soldier, a rifle in the latter’s hand, the butt being held up by his right palm as it lies over his shoulder.

Past them, I take account of the provisions being provided. There are huts with food and some for bathroom usage, and then three large structures with a metal roof that house hammocks. Twenty to a unit and each hammock is spaced to give each individual a bit of privacy.

It’s their preferred choice; my paramilitary is resourceful and always on high alert. They’re trained to move fast, live off the grid, and kill on command. My command.

The group—both men and