[Image Description: a 6 panel page with colored characters in a burnt forest. It features the characters from After the Fall; Kaleb, a short-haired asian teenage boy with bleached-blond with a black undercut with a trench-coat, and Seli, an asian teenage girl with shoulder-length dark hair wearing a purple dress and leather chest armor and Thalia, a black teenage girl with braided hair and a red vest. Panel 1: Kaleb and Seli look shocked, Kaleb says “Kelley’s bow?” while Seli holds her hand against her mouth saying “Oh.” Panel 2: Kaleb crosses his hands, while Seli gestures with one hand saying “Why would he leave it? He’d probably take it even if it was already burning.” Panel 3: Kaleb gestures with a half smile, saying “Maybe he was turned into a rabbit and Devin refused to kiss him.” while imagining the image of Devin holding up a brown rabbit based off of Kelley. Seli glares at Kaleb. Panel 4: Seli elbows Kaleb in the side. Kaleb goes wide eyed and stiff, saying “eep” Panel 5: The camera focuses on Thalia, who Kaleb and Seli are standing behind as she kneels. She looks up, tears tracking down her face. Kaleb rubs his side saying “Ok I deserved that.” Panel 6: Thalia holds the charred bow in her hands, brows knit together in concern. Kaleb looks to the side, away from the others, holding his arms. Seli gently places a hand on Thalia’s shoulder, sympathetic. “Hey, it’s going to be okay, we’ll find them. We should go home. Get backup,” she says. Thalia says “The Knight Captain will know what to do.” End ID]
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Summary: You’re a radio transmission specialist with the US Army and assigned to provide support to Edward Jacoby in the hunt for Escobar. You spend most of your time trying to bring the mobile unit’s equipment up to date. After spending many of your days in close quarters with Lieutenant Martinez, he decides you and his father should spend more time together and sets out to make sure that it happens. After a couple awkward interactions, you think the younger Martinez might be on to something.
“To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.”
―Pablo Neruda
There had been a medic that was in the jungle with Hugo’s unit.
He had taken the assignment just a couple months after Melina had died. He needed to get out of the house, get out of Bogotá, because he was going out of his mind. The grief was so much and there had been no escape. Memories had been steeped into the wood floors, the decorated walls, and the furniture. Everywhere he turned, he expected to see her step around a corner, be seated in a chair, or standing by the kitchen sink. His son had just entered the Academy so it was just him to face the lingering scent of perfume and phantom footsteps in what used to be a home. When the assignment to fight FARC in the jungles was presented, he accepted without thinking much about it.
Two years.
It took him two years in the jungle to finally be able to return to his home in Bogotá and not feel like he was entering a mausoleum. That was the start of normalcy returning. The third year of chasing FARC had been the smoothest. They had a reliable system in place, a specific grid outline of the dense underbrush that they would move through square by square. Since the rebels were able to stay hidden in pockets of dense vegetation, taking the jungle apart piece by piece made sure they would find those pockets. Sometimes they were able to see the camps half a click away. Other times, they stumbled on rebels and the raid was more of a panicked shootout between the two sides. Nevertheless, it had been overall effective.
Summary: You’re a radio transmission specialist with the US Army and assigned to provide support to Edward Jacoby in the hunt for Escobar. You spend most of your time trying to bring the mobile unit’s equipment up to date. After spending many of your days in close quarters with Lieutenant Martinez, he decides you and his father should spend more time together and sets out to make sure that it happens. After a couple awkward interactions, you think the younger Martinez might be on to something.
“To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life.”
―Pablo Neruda
There had been a medic that was in the jungle with Hugo’s unit.
He had taken the assignment just a couple months after Melina had died. He needed to get out of the house, get out of Bogotá, because he was going out of his mind. The grief was so much and there had been no escape. Memories had been steeped into the wood floors, the decorated walls, and the furniture. Everywhere he turned, he expected to see her step around a corner, be seated in a chair, or standing by the kitchen sink. His son had just entered the Academy so it was just him to face the lingering scent of perfume and phantom footsteps in what used to be a home. When the assignment to fight FARC in the jungles was presented, he accepted without thinking much about it.
Two years.
It took him two years in the jungle to finally be able to return to his home in Bogotá and not feel like he was entering a mausoleum. That was the start of normalcy returning. The third year of chasing FARC had been the smoothest. They had a reliable system in place, a specific grid outline of the dense underbrush that they would move through square by square. Since the rebels were able to stay hidden in pockets of dense vegetation, taking the jungle apart piece by piece made sure they would find those pockets. Sometimes they were able to see the camps half a click away. Other times, they stumbled on rebels and the raid was more of a panicked shootout between the two sides. Nevertheless, it had been overall effective.
It was one of those sudden shootouts that landed him in the med tent that night. He knew he had been clipped by a stray bullet but he expected it to stop bleeding by the time evening rolled around. Besides, there were plenty of his men who were in worse shape than he was and he wanted their injuries to take priority. But when the raid had been over for six hours and a clean shirt was beginning to stick to him from the steady oozing of blood, he finally went over to where the medical supplies were kept. His intention was to just grab a few bandages and some antiseptic when he was caught red handed, literally.
“Coronel?” (Colonel?)
He had been so focused in making sure his bloody handprints didn’t show up on the makeshift storage lockers that he didn’t hear her enter into the tent and jumped slightly at her sudden presence.
“Lo siento, Coronel. No quise asustarte.” (I’m sorry, Colonel. I didn’t mean to startle you.) Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled. She gave orders in the same manner he did, quietly and with no room for questioning. She soon had him stripped out of his bloodied shirt, cleaned the wound and his hands, and was wrapping the deep gash along his ribs in a neat, and efficient fashion. She was biting her bottom lip in concentration and he had to close his eyes but the damage had been done.
Melina would do the same thing when she was fussing over his injuries. She would scold him while rewrapping healing bullet wounds or splints on broken bones. ¿Qué haría yo sin ti, Hugo? Tienes que tener más cuidado. (What would I do without you, Hugo? You have to be more careful.) And then she would smooth her hands over the skin and muscles that were unharmed. Little did she know that he would have to figure out what to do without her.
“Coronel, ¿está bien? ¿Estás desmayado?” (Colonel, are you okay? Are you faint?)
Her hands traced over the exposed skin around the bandages in almost the exact same manner that Melina’s would and the time that had passed since he had last been with a woman became painfully clear. He missed being touched, cared for. When she looked up at him, almost bashfully from under her eyelashes, he couldn’t help but kiss her. She kissed him back, with more enthusiasm than he anticipated and soon they found themselves falling into the cot in the corner of the med tent, shoving their clothes out of the way. It was a messy, brief ordeal. She came quickly, shoving her fist in her mouth to quiet her cries while he grabbed his bloodied shirt and pulled out in time to come into the ruined material. They had parted ways with shy smiles and she rotated back to wherever she came from as a new medical team came in to replace the previous one two days later. He never saw or spoke to her again.
He wonders, as he lays awake at three in the morning, who was your first lover after Nico’s death? Were they good to you? Did they care about you, or at least treat you with kindness and gentleness? Or did they leave you with even more heartbreak, more pieces of yourself scattered out there in the world? He was fortunate to have been with someone who had been kind towards him, someone who brought him solace. He hopes the same has been true for you.
When he has first woken up, he isn’t exactly certain where he is, or if the warm body in his arms is real or a dream. Your back is pressed tight against his chest, your legs tangle with each other, your hands still holding onto him even in sleep. Violets and oranges and something that is uniquely you overwhelm his senses. That’s how he knows it’s real.
He buries his nose in your hair, presses his lips against the soft skin of your shoulder. He doesn’t want to disturb you but he isn’t necessarily upset when he feels you shift and murmur in your sleep. It must take you a moment to orient yourself as well judging by your sharp intake of breath and the thought that maybe you didn’t want him in your bed anymore crosses his mind. But the fear is quickly vanquished when you stretch languidly and turn to face him, a lazy smile on your face.
“You stayed.”
He brushes some stray strands of hair off your face. “I did. Is that okay?”
Your smile grows. “More than okay.”
“Bueno.” (Good.)
He lets his hand explore the expanse of bare skin across your back. You’re so soft and he wonders absently how you’ve managed that. You curl in tighter against him with a contented sigh. He had been under the impression that this was most likely going to go the same way the nurse, and a couple others, had: one or two time encounters and then you would both part ways.
But your hands start an exploration of their own, moving over his ribs, around his waist, and then across his back with such gentleness, it threatens to bring tears to his eyes. You use the leverage to press your face closer against his chest, his heartbeat most likely thudding in your ear. You release a sigh that drains all tension from your body as it molds even closer to his own. It feels as if you don’t want to let go.
He doesn’t want to let you go either.
For the moment, he doesn’t have to but what happens in a week, a month, six months, when your time is up in Colombia and you return to the States? What happens if the separation is more permanent? He thought he only had his son’s life to fear during this war, but now there’s yours as well and his arms tighten instinctively around you.
You hum in concern. “What’s wrong?”
He loosens his grip and goes back to tracing patterns on your back. “Nada. Lo siento.” (Nothing. Sorry.)
“Hugo.”
He has to smile at the authoritative tone that you manage to emit despite not wearing a scrap of clothing and having your face pressed against his breastbone. But he doesn’t know how to properly express his thoughts and worries without overstepping any kind of relationship line. This has happened with hardly any discussion or classification of what this is between the two of you. As he’s gathering his thoughts, the tension comes back to your body in full force. No longer are your curves fitted neatly against him, rather you’re coiled tight and taught. You push yourself further away so you can establish eye contact with him, even in the dim, early morning light.
“What are you worried about? Is it your son?”
To be honest, yes, his son is one of the causes of his worries but he’s not certain of the context just yet so he deflects. “What makes you think I’m worried?”
Your eyes rove over his face. “Woman’s intuition.”
“Ah,” he shifts slightly so he can run his fingers through your hair, brushing it away from your face. “I am worried about my son the majority of the time. This is not exactly the safest place or position to be in right now in Colombia. And now,” he makes sure to hold your gaze when he says this, “I have to worry about you as well.”
The unease in your expression softens slightly as your fingertips trail down over the side of his face. “I worry about both of you as well. I can do what I can to keep Junior safe but you…”
He turns his head and presses a kiss to your palm. “I have plenty of protection.” He fights the urge to tell you not to worry because he knows it’s not that simple. He made the mistake of saying that to Melina shortly after they were married and when she told him that was the equivalent of telling her to not breathe, she didn’t speak to him for a week. He is, above all else, a man who learns from his mistakes.
But you start to fidget, that same type of nervousness from last night. This time, he does slip his fingers through yours, pressing your palms together until the trembling stills and your eyes meet his. “¿Qué pasa, querida?” (What is wrong, darling?)
Your forehead furrows as you try to find the words. He waits patiently and eventually you whisper the concern. “What if your son doesn’t…you know, approve of…us?”
It actually takes him a few moments to understand what you’re saying mostly because having his son’s approval on any relationship never even crossed his mind. He knows his son well enough to know even if he didn’t like the woman Hugo would choose, his son would always be polite to her. It was and would always be a nonissue. And the fact that you, someone Hugo knew is absolutely adored and respected by his son, would be troubled with this thought forces him to school his features to keep from laughing at the absurdity of the concern. But you are very much worried about this so he presses a kiss to the lines on your forehead in an effort to make them disappear.
“I would not be concerned about his approval. Remember he is the one who tricked us into that lovely dinner.”
Your smile is shaky. “True, but…”
There’s a story, a piece of history that he isn’t aware of just yet, that is at the bottom of this. He sits up slightly, keeping you tightly pressed against his side. “What happened, querida?”
You huff in defeat. “The first man I dated after Nico had a teenage daughter. She did the same thing Junior did, would set up her dad and me on these little dates and act all excited. First time I stayed over at their house, all of sudden she wasn’t so excited. He broke it off with me that week.”
His first thought is to call the man an idiot for letting you go that easily but he bites his tongue. His second thought is that you shared a piece of information that answers a previous question he was wondering about just an hour earlier. You did encounter even more heartbreak after losing Nico and the unfairness of that raises a sense of indignation in his chest. But his third thought is to pass you an equally significant piece of personal information on him.
“When Melina died, and my son and I could speak her name again without…”
You lay a hand on his chest and hum in sympathy.
“He told me that we needed a secret code of sorts. He knew I had trouble removing my ring so he suggested that when a woman of high enough caliber asked about my ring, he would tell her the truth as a sign of his approval. That night we had dinner together, he told me he had told you the real story about it. This is why I don’t believe you have anything to worry about when it comes to him.” He pauses before giving a slight shrug. “And besides, if he does pull his support, I’ll demote him.”
A short laugh escapes you as you lift your head to check his facial expression and find the half smile on his lips. The sun is starting to rise, the light begins to invade through the bedroom window, and with it the reminder that there is work to be done. Hugo looks over at the clock and sees it’s now almost 4:30.
“It’s time to get up, isn’t it?”
He sighs. “For me. What time do you get up?”
“Around 5.” You turn and lay on your back, arms tossed over your head.
The desire to kiss every inch of exposed skin right now is extremely strong. He wants to feel you under him again but he knows there isn’t enough time for this distraction. He needs to go across the street, shower, change, and go determine which leads to follow today. You are heading out with the intel team to drive around Medellín, looking for Escobar’s transmissions. As a compromise, he leans down and presses his lips to yours firmly, before sitting up and searching for his clothes before you can tempt him even more than you have.
It is quite evident that both your minds were elsewhere last night when clothes were being removed as there is no order to where clothes landed. He hears you moving around the room, hears the slide of satin and catches the sight of you tying the belt of a robe around your waist in the dresser mirror. You run a hand through your messy hair and try to tame the wildness from sleep and his hands.
“Coffee?”
The temptation to stay rises again so he regretfully shakes his head. “I’ll get some at the office.”
You make a scoffing noise. “I’ll bring you some, how’s that? I’ll have to pick up the hotspots from the tips that came in overnight anyway.”
If he had any doubt about this relationship working, it’s completely gone now. You’re a compartmentalizer, like him. Last night was for your personal lives. Now, in the light of day, it is back to business. Even though you’re standing there in a black satin robe that hits your bare calves and gaps alluringly across your chest, stifling a yawn behind your hand, your mind is already focused on a game plan for the day.
He’s staring, he knows that but he can’t help himself at the moment. Not when he realizes that he’s in love with you. The feeling is new in that it’s directed at you, but it’s dusty and dull from being packed in a box for four years. The familiarity of it though is unmistakable, like a song you forgot existed until you hear it again and immediately remember all the words. And what makes it even more spectacular is this realization doesn’t elicit any type of fear or unease.
“What?”
He finishes buttoning his shirt before coming over to stand in front of you, holding your face in his palms before pulling your mouth up to his. You immediately press yourself to him, your hands holding the back of his head as you slip your clever tongue into his mouth. God, could you be any more perfect for him? It’s going to take an incredible amount of restraint to see you at Search Bloc and keep his hands and mouth to himself. Reluctantly he pulls away just enough to break the kiss.
“Would you join me for dinner this evening? Seven, my place.”
You smile up at him. “I would love to.”
“Bueno.” (Good.)
He kisses you briefly one more time before forcing his hands to release you to the world for a few hours. He has a time frame though. Seven tonight and you both can pick up where this leaves off. You walk him to the door, unlock the triple locks and open it for him.
He steps out into the hallway and waits until he hears the locks slide back into place before heading down the stairs. He reaches the bottom step and comes face to face with his son, back from a morning run from the looks of it.
“Hijo.” (Son.)
“Papa.”(Dad.)
Hugo nods to his son and steps around him. He pauses on the sidewalk and turns back to the stairs.
“Hijo, no-” (Son, don’t-)
“¿Decirle a alguien que vi a mi padre antes del trabajo?” (Tell anyone I saw my father before work?)
Hugo gives him a stern look but he just shrugs.
“Bueno.” (Okay.)
Hugo nods. “Bueno.”
***
Nine hours.
You pull the headphones off your ears and drop them on the desk in front of you. You’ve been sitting in the back of the van for nine hours, listening to static and sweating through your clothes. None of the leads brought anything remotely close to finding Escobar on the radio waves.
“We’d have an easier time finding Santa Claus out here,” you complain.
Junior huffs. “Gordo con traje rojo, destacaría.” (Fat man in a red suit, he would stand out.)
Morales radios back to them from the driver’s seat. “¿Algo de Los Pepes hoy?” (Anything from Los Pepes today?)
“Nada,” you respond. (Nothing.) That’s another thing that’s bugging you. Usually during your sweeps through Medellín, you would pick up blips of the radio communications between the group members as they too were searching for Escobar and his sicarios. The team typically catches the information just as the execution takes place and with a vigilante group that takes credit for their hit, the information is out of date by the time they radio it into Search Bloc. It’s just another frustration. Less sicarios, means less radio chatter. Less radio chatter means less tracking opportunities to find Escobar.
“¿Lo llamamos un día?” (We calling it a day?) Morales asks.
You look at Junior, who tiredly nods his head. “Yeah. Llamémoslo.” (Let’s call it.)
It’s a little after six when you grab your things and leave the Search Bloc headquarters. When you pass through the bullpen, you notice Hugo’s office is already dark and you finally allow yourself to look forward to this evening. You and Junior did ride into work together this morning so you can only think about the dinner part of the evening if you’re going to retain any type of decorum on the fifteen minute drive to the apartments. Apparently, Junior had no such compunction.
“Any dinner plans tonight?” he asks with a sly grin.
“Maybe.” You grip the steering wheel tighter, suddenly nervous about venturing into this topic. Even though Hugo had told you there is nothing to worry about, you still do. Under other circumstances, where the three of you don’t work and live in close proximity to each other, it wouldn’t matter at all. But you do all work together and keeping peace is of the utmost importance.
The thought of distancing yourself from Hugo puts a pit in your stomach and the strength of the feeling surprises you. Last night had confirmed for you any and all feelings you held for the man: you were unequivocally in love with him. To say goodbye and close the door on that particular realization would hurt more than you care to acknowledge at the moment.
“I ran into my father this morning when I was coming back from my run.”
Your knuckles go white. “Okay.”
“He looked happy. Happier than I’ve seen him in a while.”
Half of the tension leaves your body. “Really?”
“Yes.”
You have to ask. It’s for the best and it’ll take the burden off your mind. You open your mouth and start to ask him his feelings about the situation when he cuts you off.
“I’m glad you found each other. You need each other.”
“Because we both lost significant others?”
“No.” He pauses. “I think it’s more about who those people were that you lost. You’ve told me about Nico and the kind of man he was. He sounded similar to my father.”
“And I remind you of your mother.”
He nods. “Yes.”
You sigh. “But you can’t find people who are similar and replace them-”
“No, no, no,” he shakes his head. “There is no intention of replacing anyone. My mother is…irreplaceable. Neither my father nor I would want to see her replaced. You would never replace Nico?”
“No.”
“But, there are things about my father that remind you of him.”
You nod slowly. “Yes, there are.”
“It’s not replacing. It’s loving the best parts of the person who isn’t here anymore.”
You park the VW Bug in your space and turn off the car, a small smile turning the corners of your mouth. “You know, you’re pretty wise for a twenty-year old.”
He smiles back. “I graduated in the top one percent of my class.”
You’re getting ready to open the car door when a flash of headlights appears in the rearview mirror. A dark four-door Jeep pulls into the parking garage and backs into the space two rows over from your space. Something tells you to be on high alert as the headlights are turned off but no one emerges from the vehicle. You grab your purse and pull out your sat phone. The signal is barely there but hopefully it’ll be enough to get a call to Hugo. You hand the phone to Junior. “Punch in your Dad’s number and be ready to call it.”
“The Jeep that just pulled in?”
So he saw it too. “Yeah. I don’t like it.”
He peers into the rear window mirror and then lets out a shaky breath. “Son los Castaño.” (It’s the Castaños.)
“Both of them?”
“Sí.” (Yes.)
You reach down between the car door and your seat and grab the lead-filled baton Gio had given you before you left California. You open the driver’s side door. “Call your father and stay put.”
As soon as your feet hit the concrete, both Constaños are closing the doors to the Jeep. They’re intimidating looking even without you knowing their reputation and the closer you get, the taller they become. The one with thick black hair, Fidel, has to be pushing six foot five. Fuck, what did you get yourself into?
“Buenas tardes señorita,” Carlos, shorter and broader than his brother, greets with hands raised to show he’s unarmed. “Nosotros estamos aquí para hablar.” (Good evening, Miss. We’re just here to talk.)
You keep your grip tight on the handle of the baton. They don’t have guns in their hands at the moment but they are on their persons. You’ve also seen some of the handiwork their fists can do so you can’t let your guard down for a moment. You stop about eight feet away from. “Bueno. Hablar.” (Great. Talk.)
“Manténgase fuera de nuestras transmisiones de radio.” (Stay off our radio transmissions.)
“¿Por qué? Para cuando tengamos información decente, ya tienes el objetivo.” (Why? By the time we get any decent information , you’ve already got the target.)
Fidel speaks up. “Estamos pidiendo amablemente. Esta vez.” (We’re asking nicely. This time.)
Carlos adds on the statement. “Digamos que puede escuchar alguna charla que preferiría no escuchar.” (Let’s just say that you may hear some chatter that you would rather not hear.)
So that’s why Los Pepes have gone radio silent for the last few days. There’s something happening, some secret that is getting close to the surface. It would have to be something big to bring the Castaños out like this. The first person you think of is Escobar but you’re fairly certain if you were that close to finding Escobar, Los Pepes would just put a bullet in your head and then step over your body to do the same to Escobar. Maybe this has something to do with whoever is working for Los Pepes in Search Bloc. Maybe you’re getting close to discovering who they are.
“Gringa, ¿me escuchaste?” (Did you hear me?)
“Sí, te escuché. Pero vamos a seguir haciendo nuestro trabajo.” (Yeah, I heard you. But we’re going to keep doing our job.)
“Bien, pero si te interpones en nuestro camino-” (Fine, but if you get in our way-)
You take a step towards them and motion with the baton in their direction. “No, si se sale con la nuestra, tendrá un problema.” (No, if you get in our way, you will have a problem.)
Fidel laughs. “Cree que nos está amenazando. Esta cosita.” (She thinks she’s threatening us. This little thing.)
“Niña, mantente fuera de nuestro camino. Esta es la única advertencia que está recibiendo.” (Little girl, stay out of our way. This is the only warning you’re getting.)
There’s no use in arguing with them. If you did, it would only start a fight, one that you would most likely sorely lose. So, you shrug your shoulders. “Entonces supongo que ambos hemos sido advertidos.” (Then I guess we’ve both been warned.)
You turn your back to them, walking towards the car. That is when things happen in such short succession your brain barely has time to process the events. The passenger side door of your car opens and there’s a flash of a gun going off. The sound bounces off the concrete walls of the small parking garage, the sharp rapport reverberating around the space. You instinctively duck but there’s no cover. You see both brother’s are now focused on Junior who is taking cover behind a pillar.
You should find cover. You should grab a radio, pager, sat phone, scream for help. Instead, you feel the weight of the baton in your hand and with no cover close by, you charge the two Castaños. Fidel is closest and certainly doesn’t think you’re a threat since his focus is waiting for Junior to show any part of himself from behind the pillar so you blind side him. You bring the baton down with full force of his wrist. He drops his gun with a startled yell but recovers immediately.
He grabs the baton with his left hand and uses it to toss you into the car behind him. You hit your back against the grill and you hit the ground. You can hear Junior telling them to drop their weapons but Carlos is shouting obscenities back at him. You still have a deathgrip on the baton as does Fidel and he yanks it and you up off the ground, your face colliding with his fist. Thankfully it’s the one with the injury so the force behind the blow isn’t half of what it normally would be but it’s enough to blind your sight temporarily.
Thankfully the pain of hitting you with his injured hand loosens Fidel’s grip on the baton enough for you to pull it away from him. You use the momentum to swing it in a backhand motion and feel it connect with his ribs. Another gunshot rings out but from a different direction this time. New voices are added to the commands of laying down the weapons. You immediately recognize Hugo’s followed quickly by Steve Murphy’s slight Southern twang. By the time you’re standing solidly on your two feet, the Castaños are fleeing the scene, there are multiple bullet holes in your passenger side car door and one of the pillars, and drops of blood littering the floor of the garage.
You just survived your first shootout. And as Junior steps from cover, not a scratch or drop of blood on him, you breathe a sigh of relief. But when you turn to see Hugo and Murphy, Hugo’s face is thunderous. Tense, white, and jaw constricted so hard you could practically hear his teeth grinding. It’s a look you’ve never seen before and it’s so different from what you studied this morning from the weak new day light while in your bed. Murphy is radioing in for the police to be on the lookout for the Castaños while Hugo comes to stand in front of you and Junior.
“¿Qué diablos estaban pensando ustedes dos?” (What the fuck were you two thinking?)
***
He sees red and practically loses his mind. Thankfully, he’s able to present a calm persona, one that is still a leader through and through, despite the absolute fury that is tearing apart his ribcage at the moment. His heart rate is through the roof, his blood pressure skyrocketing and continuing to climb with each drop of blood from your nose. He’s going to have either a stroke, heart attack, or both as he assesses the damage before him.
His son is eyeing him warily. He knows. He knows the seriousness of the situation and just how livid Hugo is at the moment. He is wise to keep his silence at the moment, standing at a parade rest, freshly fired weapon re-holstered. You, on the other hand, have no idea just how thin the ice is that you’re standing on right now.
Your nose is broken, blood running down over your lips and chin. You swipe at it with the sleeve of your shirt. Your eye is swelling, a black eye in the making. You’re standing oddly but he can’t tell if it’s your back, knee, ankle, or foot that is the culprit. A short baton is gripped tightly in your hand.
“¿Qué sucedió?” (What happened?)
You clear your throat. “I parked my car and noticed that the Jeep then parked two rows over from us. They didn’t get out of the car until I did-“
“So why did you get out of the car?”
You now recognize his anger. And instead of it humbling you, it causes you to become indignant. “I got out of the car to get them to leave. They were going to wait us out.”
His son speaks up at that moment. “Cuando nos dimos cuenta de quién era, te llamé. Pero… el concreto bloquea las señales telefónicas.” (When we realized who it was, I called you. But…the concrete blocks the phone signals.)
That explains the phone ringing but no one being on the other end.
“Wait,” you interrupt, motioning to Junior. “You never spoke to your dad?”
Junior shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.”
Your eyes widen as much as they can with the swelling. “Then why did you get out of the car?”
“Because,” he swallows visibly, “because they pointed a gun at you. I wasn’t going to just sit there and watch-”
“Alright,” Hugo interrupts him. “Alright. So you get out of the car, open fire and that starts the fight.”
Both you and his son nod your heads. “Yes.”
Murphy is taking notes. “Did you talk to them? What did they want?”
You laugh dryly. “They wanted us to stay off their radio channels. They said we might hear something we don’t want to hear. I’m assuming it’s whoever is helping them from inside the Search Bloc.”
“What did you tell them?” Hugo asks.
You shrug. “I told them not a chance. We’ll do our job which includes listening to them come what may.”
Of course you told them that. Of course you faced off with two of the most dangerous men running the streets of Medellín right now and told them to fuck off. He turns to Murphy, who is closing his notebook and motions to the abandoned Jeep..
“We’ll impound the Jeep,” Murphy says, “see if there’s anything in it we can use. I’ll stay with it.”
“I’ll stay too,” Junior offers.
“Okay,” Hugo agrees and reaches out to take your hand that is still wrapped around the baton. “This needs to stay here.”
Your response is immediate. “No, no, it’s my great-grandfather’s.”
Murphy gives you a sympathetic smile. “Family heirloom, I get it. I’ll make sure you get back tomorrow, okay?”
“Promise?”
He raises his hand, his index and middle finger raised. “Scouts honor.”
You frown up at him. “That’s the wrong hand, Stephen.”
While you and Murphy are working out getting your grandfather’s baton back, Hugo steps up to his son. His anger is still relatively high but the adrenaline rush is wearing off, everyone is safe, so it’s a bit easier to breathe. He’s able to tone down the bite in his question to his son.
“Why did you get out of the car and open fire?”
His son sighs deeply. “Like I said, they were going to shoot her in the back. I couldn’t…I couldn’t watch it happen.” There’s a significant pause and he looks at Hugo with intense eyes, his mother’s eyes. “Not again.”
Hugo feels off balance, like he’s standing on the deck of a boat. The ground is shifting under him, realizations and understandings are moving like gears and locking pieces beneath his feet. He loves you. That realization hit him this morning and only solidified throughout the day as he counted down the hours until he could feel you under his hands once more.
His son loves you. He must. Those feelings were put to the test today. He couldn’t bring himself to fire a weapon when faced with the Castaño brothers before but this time? This time he put himself in open engagement, opened fire, and protected, not himself, but you. If that didn’t tell Hugo just how much his son cared about you, enough to defend you with his life, then he didn’t know what other signs to look for. And while this all bodes extremely well for a smooth sailing relationship, there is one imperative question that needs to be answered.
Sooo….do I leave Chapter 3 of “After the Fall” on a cliffhanger before leaving the country for 8 days and not being able to update it until I come back? Hmmm…
