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.
Once you had put the pieces back together, even though you may look intact, you were never quite the same as you’d been before the fall. - Jodi Picoult
You came from a large and loud Italian family that took up residence in San Francisco back when the roads had still been dirt and there wasn’t a trolley car in sight. Your great-great grandfather and his brothers had been fishermen who worked the boats while their wives worked the fish markets. The next generation wanted to join the police force as the city was starting to grow in population and crime. The generation after that continued in the steps of police work but also found ways to pay for college tuition and soon the family had accountants, teachers, and even a couple lawyers to add to their ranks.
By the time you had come around, those options were still mostly for the men of the family. So when you said you wanted to go to college, you earned a couple scoffing laughs and suggested majors like home economics and library science. When you said you wanted to go for an engineering degree in radio transmissions and communications, you earned outright ridicule. Your parents thought you had come to your senses when you accepted Nico’s marriage proposal, that you would give up your machines and tools, and finally settle down like a good woman.
That there was still hope for you to be a good wife.
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.
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…
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.
Once you had put the pieces back together, even though you may look intact, you were never quite the same as you’d been before the fall. - Jodi Picoult
You came from a large and loud Italian family that took up residence in San Francisco back when the roads had still been dirt and there wasn’t a trolley car in sight. Your great-great grandfather and his brothers had been fishermen who worked the boats while their wives worked the fish markets. The next generation wanted to join the police force as the city was starting to grow in population and crime. The generation after that continued in the steps of police work but also found ways to pay for college tuition and soon the family had accountants, teachers, and even a couple lawyers to add to their ranks.
By the time you had come around, those options were still mostly for the men of the family. So when you said you wanted to go to college, you earned a couple scoffing laughs and suggested majors like home economics and library science. When you said you wanted to go for an engineering degree in radio transmissions and communications, you earned outright ridicule. Your parents thought you had come to your senses when you accepted Nico’s marriage proposal, that you would give up your machines and tools, and finally settle down like a good woman.
That there was still hope for you to be a good wife.
Nico never wanted that for you though. He wanted you to continue in your job, working on radio patents and teaching community college classes because it made you happy. On Sundays, he would watch baseball games while you sat cross-legged on the floor reassembling a HAM radio and stealing kisses and sips of his beer. In the middle of the night, when neither one of you could sleep, he would whisper his dream of one day having children and how you would have to make sure you’re grabbing the diaper bag and not the radio transmitter case. You had asked him what he would have done if your daughter wanted to go into engineering, or science, or the military and had held your breath while you awaited his answer. But he merely smiled and shook his head.
“Our girl could be president or end up at NASA or do both. If she’s anything like you, why stop there, innamorato?” (Italian for sweetheart)
It was a week later that your older brother, a police officer in San Jose, had knocked on your door to tell you that Nico had been killed by a drunk driver on his way back from the Army base. And that had been the end of your dreams and started your life of duty.
Immediately following the funeral, you enlisted in the Army. With your engineering background, they took you immediately. Basic training wore you out physically while the grief took care of your emotional reserves. The Army gave you structure and distraction at a time in your life when you needed both desperately. Soon, the grief retracted to something you could contain and the days started to become easier. Your parents thought you would leave the military and return home, find another suitor, and still follow in your mother’s footsteps.
You soon needed a new challenge, different from the domestic one your parents wished for, so you started taking Spanish classes on the base. You already spoke Italian so learning Spanish was not that difficult and you wondered why you were even doing it. But then the job in Colombia presented itself. They needed someone with extensive knowledge of archaic radio equipment to go help the Colombian Army catch Escobar. You were the last Specialist to have been trained in both the technology and the language, so your name fell on the top of the list.
You accepted.
Your mother cried and begged you not to go. Your father was more stoic about it but had similar feelings. Your older brother, Giovanni, wanted to go in your stead and your three younger brothers thought it was “awesome” that you got to hang out with Colombians and chase narcos. Sometimes you wondered if you were adopted, or maybe your three younger brothers were. But they were more concerned with their college graduations and starting their careers in Silicon Valley in marketing, development, and accounting. Gio actually took time to teach you a couple self-defense moves and armed you with a lead baton that had been your grandfather’s.
So you went to Colombia with one suitcase, a bag of tools, the baton, and a sense of purpose that had been evading you since Nico’s death. You had been looking forward to seeing Bogotá but the Army had other ideas and no sooner did you disembark, then you’re put on a puddlejumper to Medellín. It’s a whirlwind of trying to find your footing and your way around the twisting roads and back alleys of Medellín, getting to know your teammates in the intel unit.
Trying to not spend too much time daydreaming about the quiet, soft-spoken Colonel in charge of the Search Bloc unit.
The more you observed him and heard from his son, the more he reminded you of Nico. His contemplative look when he would look over files, his brief check-ins on his son, and his concern on your adaptation to Colombia all spoke to his kindness. In those unguarded moments he seemed almost too kind to be in the position he held so you asked his son about it one day when Morales was driving the van and you and Hugo Jr. were in the back listening to static.
“Why did your father choose to join the National Police?”
The young man shrugged. “Same reason I did. To make our country better, safer. My father doesn’t like to see wrong being committed and then do nothing to stop it. He raised me with that philosophy, if I don’t help fight for a solution then I’m part of the problem.”
It was almost verbatim what Nico had said to you about joining the Army.
That night was when the dreams started. You tried to pass it off as it being way too long since you’ve had a man in your bed and your body was just frustrated at the drought it was experiencing. But that didn’t stop you from trying to hold on to the feeling of broad hands sweeping across your skin, of a mouth pressed against your own, of a solid weight pushing you down into the soft mattress, of a heavily accented voice whispering in your ear. It also didn’t stop you from slipping your hands between your legs to relieve the ache.
You tried to push those desires and daydreams out of your mind during the day. You were over forty and silly, little sexual obsessions were for younger women. But then you would be called to the conference room and hear only about five words that were being said because you were trying to memorize the expanse of Colonel Martinez’s palms, the way his fingers would rub against each other as he was lost in thought, and the shifting muscles in his forearms. You would wonder what it felt like to run your fingers over the line of his jaw and then follow it with your lips.
It had been a long and boring day in the van and your mind had wandered far more than it should have to Colonel Hugo Martinez. All you could think about was getting back to your apartment, taking a cold shower, and going to bed. As soon as you all called it a day, you grabbed some fruit and vegetables from the local market before heading home. That was when Hugo Jr. had called to you from the restaurant and sat you down across from the man you had been fantasizing about for the last six hours.
You had tried to avoid looking at him, worried that his keen, hazel eyes would pick up on every heated thought you’ve ever had about him. You had tried to effortlessly extricate yourself from his company but it all failed. He drew you in with conversation, his standard concern for your feelings, his descriptions of Bogotá. He listened to you with rapt attention as you spoke of the California coast and your family.
And you fell in love with him all over again.
Well, to be fair you weren’t certain it was love. It was definitely affection with a healthy dose of lust. You weren’t certain about the falling in love part until he walked you up to your apartment and kissed you. His hands felt wider than you had imaged as one spanned the entire small of your back as it pulled you against him. His mouth was just as sweet as his words. You felt like a teenager at that moment, being kissed by someone you believed barely knew you existed and here he was pulling you closer to him, holding you like something to be protected. Like maybe he thought about you too.
Your daydreams were starting to cross into reality so when his tongue slipped into your mouth, your self control snapped. Your hands, which had been resting on the bend in his elbows, flexed suddenly, driving your fingertips into the sinews of his biceps as you tried to pull him closer to you. You couldn’t stop the deep moan that caught in your throat, which must have had a similar effect on him as you found your back pressed against the unforgiving wood of your front door. You needed air, needed a moment to think, so you tipped your head back and let it fall against the door. He looked just as wrecked as you felt, cheeks flushed, out of breath, and fingers flexing, unsure of what to do now that his brain was starting to catch up to his body.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in?” you asked him. You wanted him to say yes so badly. You wanted him in your apartment, your space, your bed. You wanted him to cross that threshold and never leave. You wanted to create a space where cartels were imaginary threats, mere monsters hiding in closets that were used to keep children in their beds at night and give their parents peace. Someplace where danger, violence, and death aren’t tangible threats. Someplace where you can keep each other safe, tangled together in just sheets and each other.
“Not tonight, querida.”
He softened the refusal with a chaste kiss to your forehead. It wasn’t an outright no, so there was hope and you grabbed onto that lifeline. You told him about the Sunday night dinners that have become a pseudo-tradition for his son and Morales. Just as your family always made it together for a loud and raucous meal every Sunday afternoon, you now carry on that tradition with your coworkers. It’s created a sense of camaraderie and trust in the field. Morales, consistently annoyed Morales, actually apologized for not being able to make it this Sunday due to a family birthday party for a niece. So you offered the spot to Hugo, who immediately accepted. He kissed you one final time, a soft but lingering press of his lips to yours, before leaving you for the evening.
An ice bath couldn’t have cooled you down that night. Neither did the three times you found relief with your own hands. He had gotten under your skin permanently now.
The next day in the van, Hugo Jr. keeps glancing over at you as static filters through your headphones. After an hour of sideways glances, you finally pull one of the headphones off your ear.
“Go ahead and ask,” you prompt.
There was a grin that was threatening to spread at the corner of his mouth. “Did you have a nice dinner last night?”
“I did.”
He waits for a moment to see if you’re going to elaborate, the hopeful look on his face slowly fading to disappointment. You take pity on him.
“Your father is taking Morales’ place at dinner tomorrow.”
He perks up slightly at that. “He is?”
Morales’ voice comes across the radio. “Me pierdo la cena de una semana y me reemplazan.” (I miss one week’s dinner and I’m replaced.)
You laugh. “Anímate, tuvimos que ir con un coronel que también es pariente consanguíneo. Nadie puede reemplazarte, amigo.”(Take heart, we had to go with a Colonel who’s also a blood relative. No one can replace you, my friend.) You then turn to Hugo Jr. “And if you try to ditch this meal, I will move the dinner up a floor to your place.”
A small smile creeps across his face. “Family dinner on Sunday. Bacano.” (Cool.)
You certainly hope it will go smoothly. Hugo Jr. seems perfectly comfortable with the idea of his father and you together but that doesn’t always mean that he will retain that attitude. You had tried dating a man a few years ago with a teenage daughter. She had been very much like Junior, excited and supportive. That was until she saw her father kiss you goodbye. He broke it off with you within the week claiming his daughter had been in tears all week and couldn’t cope with her mother being “replaced.”
You wonder if Sunday is going to end in a similar way as everything is fine and well until the reality of a parent moving forward with their life is right in front of the child’s face, no matter their age. Will he have a similar reaction and change his mind when he sees the two of you together? What kind of impact is that going to have on your professional relationships? You slide the headphones back over your ear and try to quell the worry that is building in your stomach.
***
Hugo can tell you’re nervous when he arrives at your apartment Sunday. There’s a slight tremor to your hands when you take the bottle of wine from him and he wants to slip his hands around yours until they stop shaking. His son is already there, a half-empty beer bottle next to a partially disassembled radio and a deep furrow in his brow. Despite the frustration in his facial expression, it’s the most relaxed he’s seen the boy in a long time. You bring him a glass of wine, your hands a little steadier but your smile isn’t as easy as it’s been previously.
“Give me about ten minutes and dinner will be ready,” you say with a slight apologetic tone. You’re out of your typical jeans and blouse attire, instead wearing a simple dress and sandals. Your hair is piled up on your head, escaped tendrils curling in the humidity of Medellín. Once again he’s struck with how lovely you are. If you ask him to stay again he will have a terrible time saying no this time.
“Do you need help?” he offers.
There’s the easy smile he’s used to seeing on your face. “No, I’m good. Thanks though.”
He watches you go back into the kitchen before turning to his son, whose focus is off the radio and fully on him.
“No sabía que te gustaba tanto.” (I didn’t realize that you liked her this much.)
He tries to shrug it off as he sits down in one of the armchairs. He wants to know where he stands with you, if anywhere, before he says anything to his son. “¿En que estas trabajando?” (What are you working on?)
His son sighs, his eyes darting back forth from the kitchen to his father, clearly wanting to talk about this new realization, but he answers the question that was posed to him. “Tuvimos que usar algunas de las partes de esta radio para nuestro equipo en la camioneta. Estaba tratando de armarlo de nuevo para ella.” (We had to use some of the parts from this radio for our equipment in the van. I was trying to put it back together for her.)
“¿Sucede esto a menudo? ¿Tienes que canibalizar otros equipos para la unidad móvil?” (Does this happen often? Having to cannibalize other equipment for the mobile unit?)
“Sí. Tomamos cosas todo el tiempo y luego las reemplazamos cuando su ejército nos envía las piezas reales.” (Yes. We take things all the time and then replace them when her Army sends us the actual parts.) A smile of chagrin crosses his face. “¿La radio de tu oficina? No hay piezas de trabajo en él.” (The radio in your office? There are no working parts in it.)
Hugo tries to express a stern look. “Puedo ver quién es su prioridad en asegurarse de que tengan una radio que funcione.” (I can see who your priority is on making sure they have a working radio.)
His son gives him a full blown grin. “Estoy seguro de que estás muy molesto por mi elección.” (I’m sure you’re very upset by my choice.)
You come out of the kitchen at that time with a large bowl of steaming food and set it down on the table. “Muy bien, muchachos, la cena está servida.” (Alright boys, dinner is served.)
His son immediately goes over to the table. “¿Tú lo hiciste?” (Did you make it?)
“Hice.” (I did.)
The exchange is confusing to Hugo as the food had clearly been made by you but then he realizes that you must have made this before and his son had requested it again. “What is it?”
“It’s like cazuela de mariscos but without the coconut milk added to the broth,” you answer, setting a basket of toasted bread on the table before joining them.. “Back home we call it cioppino. It started with the fishermen in the 1800’s in San Francisco. They would just toss whatever was left from the day’s catch into a tomato based broth and soak it up with bread. My grandmother on my father’s side found the winning combination of scraps and spices so it’s been a family recipe since then.”
Murphy had said if you tie an Italian’s hands, they won’t be able to talk and it took Hugo a couple days to realize that is a true observation. You talk just as much with your hands as you do with your mouth. He finds that the same apparently goes for Italian meals. You and his son both use your hands to pull clams and mussels out of the broth to eat them straight from their shells. The same goes for the bread as chunks are just torn from the long loaf and dipped into the broth. There is such a sense of familiarity throughout the entire meal that he forgets this is his first time being in attendance.
Now, he wants to always be a part of this.
This is why he chose to take the Search Bloc position. Not to just protect his own son but other people’s children too. Cocaine is like a cancer, malignant cells spreading across the country and reaching its tendrils out into the rest of the world. And people like Pablo Escobar and Gilberto Rodriguez were the factors that speed the infestation process along. Just like Melina’s fight with the disease, they tried to stop the circumstances by getting rid of her cigarettes, trying to mitigate her stress, and incorporating more vitamins into her diet. Slow the spread and then attack the cause.
Capture Escobar and then dissemble the cocaine production and farms.
The game plan wasn’t enough to save Melina in the end but there is still hope for Colombia. There is still hope for families to remain intact. And maybe, just maybe, there is still hope for a second chance for him as well. That thought gives him the resolution he needs to continue this fight. To keep up with the searches, leads, intel.
The clattering of dishes being gathered together pulls him out of his thoughts. You reach in front of him to take his bowl and he catches the scent of violets over the shellfish. Without thinking, he takes your wrist in his hand and presses a kiss to the base of your palm.
“Thank you.”
Your breath hitches but you recover quickly. “I need to cook for you more often if that’s the thanks I get.”
He releases your wrist reluctantly, fighting the desire to tug you into his lap so he can bury his nose in your neck and breathe in nothing but your scent. But he sees your nervousness has come back so he closes his hands to make sure they stay to themselves.
For now, at least.
He joins you and his son in the small, narrow kitchen and is impressed at the efficient routine of cleaning dishes and setting the kitchen back to its tidy state. You really have ingrained yourself into the lives of the intel unit and it only makes him want you more. He watches you at the sink, washing the heavy cast iron pot that the soup was cooked in, and all he wants to do is slip his hands around your waist and pull you back against him as he presses open-mouthed kisses along the line of your neck.
His son hangs up the dish towel to dry after the last dish is put away. “Voy a salir. Algunos de mis amigos se encuentran en la calle para tomar una copa.” (I’m going to head out. Some of my friends are meeting down the street for drinks.)
You and Hugo both tell him to be careful, Hugo in Spanish and you in English.
“Guess I’ll have to be doubly careful now.” He gives you both a sheepish look before leaving.
“Now,” you say, refilling both of the wine glasses, “is he really going out or is he just going up to his apartment?”
Hugo goes to the sliding glass door that leads out to your balcony, and waits. Sure enough, his son is nowhere to be seen on the street.
“Not out there is he?”
Hugo shakes his head with a fleeting smile. “No.”
You laugh. “So not subtle.”
Hugo sits on the couch and takes a sip of wine. “I would say I would work on it with him, but I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”
You sit down next to him, your knees almost touching. “He’s just fine the way he is. He’ll find himself a sweet girl who’ll think he’s endearing and they’ll live happily ever after.”
“I hope so. He is very kind and cares much more than he should.”
“Like his father.”
“More like his mother.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “He takes after her quite a bit then?”
He nods slowly. “He does. He has her temperament, her love of art and reading. Her eyes.”
“And the stubborn streak?”
“Oh, that’s completely from me.”
“Of course, it is.”
He takes your hand in his, the tremor in it is much less now, and he rubs his thumb across your knuckles. “Thank you for helping him find his place. For helping the entire intel unit, for that matter.”
You nod seriously. “I have to admit, I saw a lot of myself in him when we first met.”
“How so?”
Your eyes are drawn to your entwined fingers as yours flex nervously. “I know what it’s like to have to defend your position, defend the space that you’re taking up. Or at least the feeling of having to do so. I’m a woman in a man’s field on two fronts, engineering and the military. He’s the son of the boss and finds himself transferred to the intel unit shortly after joining Search Bloc. People tend to think that we didn’t earn our positions, they were handed to us for one reason or another. But in reality…”
“You’ve worked twice as hard to get there.” He gently squeezes your hand. “I’m very glad he met you. That you were able to help him with that particular situation. To see that he’s where he’s the most useful based on his talents.”
“Me too.” You squeeze his hand back. “I’m also very glad to have met his father.”
He sets his wineglass down and pulls you closer to him. “His father is also very glad about that as well.” He closes the space between the two of you, pressing his lips against yours. There is no hesitation in your response, your hands eagerly finding their way to his shoulders as you kiss him back. His hands slide up your sides and around your back. It still amazes him that you’re petite enough for his hands to span the majority of your back. So much is contained in such a small space: intelligence, compassion, determination…desire.
“Hugo.”
You breathe his name like it’s a prayer, a supplication for something you desperately need. It both humbles and ignites something possessive in him. He wants you closer to him but his choices are limited to laying you out on the couch or pulling you into his lap. He wants you to have control of the situation, wants to see just how far you want to take this interaction so he moves his hands down to your waist. You immediately understand his intention and your knees fall on either side of his hips as you straddle his lap. You had broken the kiss when you moved and now you’re staring down into his face. Your fingers trace over his cheekbones and jawline in a ghost like touch. His hands twitch nervously as he’s not sure what exactly you’re thinking and is afraid of scaring you away from…whatever this happens to be.
God, he’d give anything to know what is going through your beautiful mind right now.
***
You were wrong.
And your error surprises you by how much that unsettles you. All your dreams, day and night, were completely wrong. You see that now, staring down into Hugo’s face at such a close range. There is far more green to his eyes than you had thought, so much so you would have to change your mental image of them from the imagined hazel you thought them to be.
That’s when you see the worry in those eyes and it causes your heart to clench. What’s the cause? He certainly has a wide range of things to choose from: his son’s safety as well as that of his men, Escobar still being at large, the politicians demanding updates and answers. You, perhaps. Even though you don’t want to be a reason for his worry, you do wonder if he cares about you enough to invest the energy in that emotion. Well, there’s only one way to find out.
The skirt of your dress is pooled around your upper thighs, the bare skin a couple inches over your knees is visible, so when you settle on his lap, the only barrier you have is the thin cotton fabric of your panties. And you feel him very clearly, hard and thick. You both groan in unison at the contact. His head drops to the back of the couch and you waste no time pressing your lips to the exposed skin on the strong column of his neck, the clean, sharp scent of his cologne filling your nose.
His hands find their purpose again as they slide under your skirt, his thumbs stroking over your hip bones. It’s a delicious mix of being tickled and aroused at the same time. He guides your hips in that familiar, circular motion as he gently rolls his own hips, dragging your increasingly wet center over his clothed length. All of your fantasies are coming together but now the scent of his cologne, the sound of pants all overwhelm your senses. You try to focus on the details, the sting of his fingernails as they dig into your skin, the slow drag of his rock hard cock against your slick panties, the almost imperceptible moans that are escaping his mouth.
You’re going to come, very soon, if you don’t pull back and slow down. But you don’t want to stop, you don’t want to slow down. You want to go full steam ahead. You want to feel his body pressed to yours, skin sliding against skin. You want to feel his mouth on you, everywhere and anywhere he’s willing to place it. You want to wrap your hand around him, stroke him, feel him in your mouth, until he’s just as wrecked as you’re feeling at this moment. His one hand frees itself from under your skirt and grabs the back of your head, pulling your mouth back down to his in a bruising kiss. The only thing you can manage to do at the moment is grab fistfuls of his dress shirt and groan into the kiss as his tongue invades your mouth. You feel the start of your orgasm, the building of it almost at its peak. You break away from his mouth.
“Hu…Hugo, I’m…”
His broad hand wraps around your jaw and holds your head in place so he can see your face. “Está bien. Ven por mí, cariño.” (It’s okay. Come for me, darling.)
He bucks his hips a couple more times, harder than before, and you’re soon shaking in his arms, the sweet release of your climax washing over you. It’s such a different feel than by your own hand. There is more power behind it, more satisfaction. And even though you feel sated, you know it is only temporary. You want so much more from him if he’s willing to give it. The grip he had on your face softens as he pulls your mouth back down to his and swallows your sighs. He rests his forehead against yours as you catch your breath.
“Eres tan hermosa cuando vienes.” (You’re so beautiful when you come.)
Embarrassment creeps into your face at the comment as you realize what has just occurred. You certainly didn’t intend for all your fantasies to play out in a dry humping session on your couch with the Colonel leading the hunt for Escobar, a man you may or may not be in love with. You hide your face in the side of his neck. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” he sighs, his hands still gently roaming across your body.
The thrill that comment gives you is enough to spark your courage. You lift your head and try to smooth out the wrinkles you’ve caused in his shirt. “Would you like to stay?”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I would.”
You kiss him briefly, sweetly on the lips before standing up from the couch. Your legs are stiff from being bent in that position for so long. As you lead him back to your bedroom, you realize that when you asked him to stay, you didn’t specify for how long. And he had said yes without there being an understood stipulation. You pause briefly at the threshold of your room and look up at him, at those green eyes, serious mouth, and sharp jawline. A wary confusion crosses his face but you quickly kiss it away as you start unbuttoning his shirt. He in turn reaches for the zipper on the back of your dress and soon you feel his hands on the skin of your back.
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.
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.
Second chances are not given to make things right. But are given to prove that we could be better even after we fall. -Unknown
Technology is changing rapidly and it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to keep up with the methods that the narcos are using. You had been in the communications field in the Army for ten years and were just coming out of the latest training on satellite communications and now with the internet becoming available to the public, it was going to open thousands of new doors that will allow narcos to distribute their products. It is a double-edged sword.
When Edward Jacoby requested extra support with the equipment that Centra Spike was using in Colombia, it was kismet that you were placed into that position given the completion of your latest training. Your job is to continue offering support to Jacoby while updating the dated equipment the Colombian Army was still using. So within twenty-four hours of arriving in Colombia, you’re already sitting in the conference room of the Search Bloc headquarters giving your insight. You don’t know anyone in the room and they don’t know you. You find out later that there are quite a few new faces around the Search Bloc, their leader Colonel Hugo Martinez, being one of them.
“So how seriously do you think we need to consider the internet in our searches?” Martinez asks.
“I don’t think we need to be concerned with it at all right now. There’s a lot of groundwork that will need to be run, cabling and even more satellites in order for the internet to start being a form of communication that is easily accessible here in Colombia. Besides, with Pablo Escobar’s history, I actually think he could be using something much more primitive.”
“When he was in his ‘prison,’” one of the DEA guys says, Murphy, you think his name is, “he was using pigeons to carry messages.”
“And while I don’t think he’s gone that primitive,” you continue, “I do think we should start monitoring the radio frequencies more. I heard that Search Bloc has their own mobile unit now?”
You get a couple side-eye glances between everyone. Well, that’s not reassuring.
“Lieutenant Martinez can show you the equipment at your disposal,” the Colonel says.
You don’t know what else to say other than “thank you, Colonel” and that apparently ends the meeting. You’ll be the first to admit that you’re not much of a soldier, used to your radios and radar screens. All you had to do was slip those headphones over your ears and you were in the zone, able to differentiate the various tones of static and undertones. You love to tinker with wires and antennas, finding them much easier to interact with than actual people. Working with military and government agents certainly is not your forte. So when you follow the very young Lieutenant Martinez out to the mobile unit, your tact completely disappears.
“This is a joke, right?”
The young man gives you a minute shake of his head. “No, ma’am.”
The van is about fifteen years old with an even older metal antenna strapped to the top of it. You’re afraid to look inside of it and brace yourself for the worst. It’s not as bad as it could be though. The equipment is dated, some of it patched together with paperclips and tape, but it’s workable. Another officer comes up to the van and extends his hand to you.
“Sergeant Morales.”
You introduce yourself and shake Morales’ hand. “I assume you’re the head of the intel division here?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s just me and Martinez.”
Jacoby left out that little detail as well as the condition of the mobile unit. You knew he was burned out; that’s why you’re here now, to help relieve some of the pressure. Now you know why. You feel a migraine forming in the back of your eyes. “Okay. Guess I have some paperwork to fill out then.”
“Paperwork?” Morales asks.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” you warn him. “But I’m going to try to at least get us an updated triple band fixed site DF antenna.” You see smiles on both their faces and shake your head. “Uh-huh. No smiling yet, fellas. No smiling until we’re attaching it to the van.”
You go back into the building and find your desk, situated in a dark corner a few steps from the equipment room. There are three other desks but since most of the work takes place with the physical equipment, the desks are mostly bare. It’s depressing if you’re being frank about it. But this is why you’re here, to try to make it better. You find the supply request paperwork and set to work typing up the equipment requests. The more you work, the longer the list becomes, especially when you stick your head in the equipment room. Morales and Martinez come and go while you work on the wishlist and requests. You’re almost finished when someone clears their throat to alert you of their presence. Your fingers pause over the keys of the typewriter to see Colonel Martinez standing next to your desk and you immediately stand up.
“Sir.”
He motions for you to sit down. “Please. I saw the light still on over here and thought I might catch my son.”
“Your son?”
“Lieutenant Martinez.”
You feel like an idiot for not making that connection. “Sergeant Morales and Lieutenant Martinez left,” you check the clock, “about three hours ago. I didn’t realize it’s been that long.”
“What are you working on?”
You turn the handwritten list so he can read it easier. “Equipement requests. The sooner I send them over to the Embassy, the sooner we can get…some of it, hopefully. I’m going to have Jacoby sign off on it tomorrow morning.”
“Why can’t you do that?” There is no accusation in his questions, just mere curiosity.
“The people who approve these requests, well, they don’t think women know what they’re talking about when it comes to DF antennas and radio transmitters. We’ll have a better shot at getting it if they think it’s coming from a man.”
He hums and turns the paper back around to you. “If I can do anything to help, please let me know.”
“Thank you. I will. Maybe I’ll have you sign off on it as well.”
He gives a half shrug. “I’m not sure that will help. Better stick to Jacoby’s signature.”
“You’re not that popular with the Embassy either?”
“I doubt it. I don’t think any person in this position is popular with anyone.”
“So why did you take the position?”
His eyes cut briefly to his son’s desk. “Personal reasons.”
You nod a couple times. “I can understand that. Your son is very smart and has a talent for machines. It’s not easy finding someone who can work physically on the machines and use them efficiently. He does both extremely well. Morales is no slouch either. For a two man team, you have the elite. I’m looking forward to going out with them tomorrow.”
“Good.” He glances around the office space once more. “If you’re almost done, I can walk you out.”
You think about telling him to not worry about it but you also want to make sure you start off on the right foot so you finish typing up the last three items and put the request on your desk to have Jacoby sign in the morning. You grab your bag and keys to the car the Embassy loaned you. With a brief nod, you follow him out of the dark corner of the building and back out to the brighter lit bullpen area.
He’s not a tall man but he’s solidly built and moves like a bulldog through the building. His eyes rove over the space as you both move through it, taking in who is still there and what areas are darkened for the evening. It’s almost ten o’clock and most of the people left are Colombian officers handling the nighttime skirmishes. He nods to a couple of the officers, turns lights out of the places that have been abandoned for the night, before heading towards the parking garage. His actions remind you of your father going through the house before going to bed and making sure everything is secure. It tells you just how seriously he takes his position here at Search Bloc, even if he did take the position for personal reasons.
“How familiar are you with Medellín?” he asks you when you reach the outside of the building.
You stumble on your words, wanting to assure him you can manage by yourself but the truth is, you have no idea where you are at the moment. He picks up on it immediately.
“Where are you staying?” he asks instead.
You pull out the paperwork that the embassy handed you on the plane ride to Medellín and pass it to him. “This is the address they gave me.”
He nods and returns it. “I’m going to the same place so you can follow me if you want. The area is mostly made up of police officers and Americans. There’s a restaurant on the corner that stays open late if you need something to eat.”
“Thank you.” It’s the most helpful anyone has been so far since you’ve arrived in Colombia. Part of you is slightly suspicious as you get into your car, an old VW Bug, but you suppose if there is anything nefarious about Colonel Martinez’s intentions, you wouldn’t be driving your own car. The apartment building is only a ten minute drive from the Search Bloc headquarters and it looks to be on a relatively nice street. You can see the cafe on the corner with the lights still on and a few people milling around the tables that are set up on the sidewalk. You find your assigned parking spot in the garage, grab your suitcase, and head back to the street with the intention of picking up some food before finding your apartment. You’re surprised to see Colonel Martinez walking up to the restaurant. He points to a building across the street and two doors down.
“That’s where I live, but my son lives in your building, on the third floor. Morales,” he points to the building on the other side of the restaurant, “he lives on the second floor, I think. The DEA agents, Peña and Murphy, they’re over in my building.”
“We all are close together then. Does that make it safer or more dangerous?”
“Safety in numbers, as they say. Were you issued a weapon?”
“Yes.” Not that you were very comfortable with it but you had a handgun.
“Make sure you have it on your person, even when you’re out here. Sicarios run these streets, even this one. Always be alert and ready.”
It sounds exhausting but is what you expected when you took the position. His words and eyes are very serious when he gives you this advice so you nod to assure him that you’ve heard the warning loud and clear. You find something that looks familiar to you on the menu and order it to go. Apparently the Colonel has a standing order and they bring him his food immediately, but he ends up standing with you while you wait.
“How long have you been in the Army?” you ask him.
“Twenty-seven years. I’ve spent the last three years in the jungle fighting FARC guerrillas. How about you?”
“I’ve only been in the Army for ten years. I haven’t seen any actual action. My job has always kept me on the sidelines.” You don’t tell him that you’ve been working in the engineering field for ten years before you joined the Army and became a specialist in transmissions and communications.
“Do you like being in the American military?”
“I suppose it’s like any other job. I enjoy what I actually do but could do without the red tape and politics.”
There’s the briefest, most fleeting of smiles that crosses his face. It’s the first time you’ve seen anything that could resemble a smile from him. “I can appreciate that sentiment.”
Your food is handed to you and so you pick up your suitcase and start to leave the restaurant. “Thank you for keeping me company and making sure I found the place.”
“Of course. Can’t have us lose our Army Specialist her first night in Medellín.” He opens the building door for you. “Do you need any help?”
“No, thank you. You’ve been more than helpful today.”
“Bueno, buenas noches entonces. Dormir bien.” (Well, good evening then. Sleep well.)
“Muchísimas gracias. Usted también.” (Thank you very much. You as well.)
You walk up the two flights of stairs until you find your apartment number and unlock the door. The place is already furnished with standard fare and is much more spacious than you thought the one bedroom apartment was going to be. You looked forward to seeing it in the daylight given the amount of windows that were in the place. You even had a small patio with a couple chairs sitting out on it.
As you sit down on the couch and turn on the television to a local news station, you start in on the bandeija paisa, which is the most amazing first bite of food you’ve had in almost twenty-four hours. The apartment is nice, the food is excellent, and the people in Search Bloc were all quite personable, even the very serious Colonel Martinez.
Maybe this assignment isn’t going to be half bad.
***
Colonel Hugo Martinez is used to that gnawing feeling of worry. He’s felt it ever since he agreed to take on the position to lead the Search Bloc. He feels it everyday for his son. And now, after a month of having you on the intel team, he feels the same way about you. And he can’t figure out how he feels about this development.
You’re not a soldier, you have not been combat trained, and yet you go out on the streets in a very unique mobile unit and a target on your American back, and he worries that one day, some second rate sicario is going to hit that target. He shouldn’t worry this much about you, but he does. And that compounds the worry, takes it to another level. Why? He isn’t this concerned about the other Americans that have been assigned to his unit. What makes you so special, what makes you stand out from everyone else?
Then he sees his son look at you with genuine warmth and respect. You’ve created a space for the younger Martinez to grow, become comfortable, and ultimately flourish. The intel division is expanding in repute and it’s starting to give the Search Bloc an edge that they didn’t have before. Grid searches only go so far. Tracking radio transmissions and conversations is helping narrow down the searches and providing more evidence and arrests. Even Morales has warmed up to you, an officer who didn’t like anyone working in his space and with his equipment, but the three of you have formed a solid unit of your own.
He tries to convince himself that you’ve become an asset to Search Bloc and he doesn’t like losing assets. He knows how much his son respects you and doesn’t want to console him about the loss of another maternal-type figure. And maybe that’s when the realization hits him. You remind him of his wife, of the event that made him a widower. He’s been through that level of loss once and doesn’t care to go through it again. So he tries to keep distance between you and him. When he needs to speak to the mobile intel unit, he typically speaks to his son to relay messages.
But then you show up without warning and a file with transcriptions of helpful information and he catches your scent, a blend of violet and orange, and he finds himself distracted with memories of a lost love and daydreams of a possible new one for twenty minutes. His son shows up with American dishes you’ve shared with him, like gumbo or chicken parmigiana, and he remembers what it’s like to eat a home cooked meal. The worst of the situation, however, are the dreams.
He has frequently dreamt of his wife since her passing, waking in the middle of the night and remembering that phantom feeling of having her in his arms. Now it’s your skin that he dreams of under his fingertips, your mouth against his, your body arching beneath his own. It’s your scent, floral and citrus, that he imagines he can smell on his sheets when he wakes in the middle of the night and reaches for a ghost. It’s frustrating, distracting, and quite frankly needs to come to an abrupt end.
The first real conversation that you two had still stands out in his mind. You told him you had only been in the Army for ten years. If you had joined after attending college, that would make you thirty-one, thirty-two at most. You were much too young for his fifty-two year old self. He would be better sending you in the direction of his twenty-three year old son. At least he would know you would protect and take care of the boy, who already whole heartedly adored you. So when he runs into his son at the restaurant by their apartments, he decides to broach the topic as they wait for their food.
“¿Cómo van las cosas en la unidad de inteligencia?” (How are things going in the intel unit?)
His son gives him a shrewd look, reading between the lines, and a slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Está bien, aunque hoy parecía un poco triste.” (She is doing fine. Although, she did seem a little sad today.)
“¿Triste?” (Sad?) He tries to keep the concern out of his voice and while he may have achieved that goal, he isn’t able to keep it from his facial expression. At least not under his son’s scrutiny.
“Creo que está un poco nostálgica. Ella estaba hablando de su familia hoy.” (I think she’s a bit homesick. She was talking about her family today.)
He doesn’t like the idea of you being sad and realizes these feelings are starting to become a very serious issue. He stays on his plan to direct his son’s interests towards you. “Entonces tal vez deberías hacer algo para animarla.” (Then maybe you should do something to cheer her up.)
The younger Martinez gives his father a sharp grin and deflects the suggestion right back to him. “O deberías.” (Or you should.)
“Mijo, ella es un poco demasiado joven para mí.” (Son, she’s a little too young for me.)
“¿Cuantos años crees que ella tenga?” (How old do you think she is?)
He shrugs slightly. “Dijo que ha estado en el ejército durante diez años, quizás treinta y dos, quizás treinta y tres.” (She said she’s been in the army for ten years, so maybe thirty-two, maybe thirty-three.)
His son shakes his head. “Ha estado en el ejército durante diez años, pero trabajó en el campo de la ingeniería durante diez años antes de eso. Tiene cuarenta y dos.” (She’s been in the army for ten years but she worked in the engineering field for ten years before that. She’s forty-two.)
Forty-two? You certainly didn’t look that old. Now he wonders what made you make that change in the middle of a career?
“Papa.”
He snaps out of his musings. “¿Qué” (What?)
“Ella preguntó por tu anillo de bodas la semana pasada.” (She asked about your wedding ring last week.)
His thumb immediately goes to the band and turns it around his finger. “¿Y? ¿Qué le dijiste a ella?” (And? What did you tell her?)
“La verdad. Que mi madre falleció hace cuatro años de cáncer. Que aún la extrañabas.” (The truth. That my mother passed away from cancer four years ago. That you still missed her.) He’s quiet for a moment. “No dijo mucho después de eso, pero parecía triste. Como ella estaba hoy.” (She didn’t say much after that, but she seemed sad. Like she was today.)
This changes things. Or at least it has the potential to change things. They don’t talk much about Milena, a subject that brings up that razorblade feeling of joy and grief. So when his son decides to talk about his mother, it’s worth the sting of remembrance. Apparently you were deemed worthy enough to wander into that emotional minefield and with the look his son is giving him, he thinks that his father should take a few steps in that direction as well.
And knowing this certainly doesn’t help his situation when it comes to what to do about you. It especially doesn’t help when his son abruptly looks up and calls your name from across the busy restaurant and you suddenly appear. The younger Martinez stands up and offers you his chair. Hugo realizes that his son might be more strategic and cunning than he gives him credit for.
“Buenas noches, señora. Me estaba yendo y sintiéndome culpable por dejar a mi padre solo para cenar.” (Good evening, miss. I was just leaving and feeling guilty for leaving my father alone to eat dinner.)
He tries to glare at his son, tries to communicate that they’re going to have words about this little set up but then you sit down in the offered seat, a strained smile on your face now as well. His son gives him a satisfied nod before leaving. Hugo redirects his attention back to you. You’re dressed casually since it has been a day spent in the field. You must realize what just happened as well as you keep your purse on your lap, a canvas bag filled with fruit sitting at your feet.
“I know what this is,” you say with a slight grimace. “Your son is smart but not subtle.”
“No, subtly has never been his strong suit. I apologize for him.”
You shrug and give a faint smile. “His heart is in the right place.”
He does have to give his son that. “It usually is.”
You take a look around, your gaze falling on the exit, most likely making sure that Hugo Junior had in fact left the establishment. “Well, I suppose I should be going.”
You start to stand up, leaning over to pick up a bag of groceries you put down next to the chair, and he catches the scent of your perfume. His response is out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Why?”
“Oh come on,” you give him a nervous smile. “It’s not like you asked me to dinner. I’m sure you have better things-”
“I don’t.” He has no idea what he’s doing right now. He just knows he doesn’t want you to leave, almost as if his mind is begging for more sensory details to fill in the gaps in the dreams. “Besides,” he gives you half a smile, “we can put dinner on his tab.”
You seem to consider it for a moment, weigh the options of staying or going. “In that case,” you sit back down, “I’ll order lunch for tomorrow too.”
He actually feels relieved when you pick up the menu and place your order. However you only order dinner, not following through with the lunch threat. He needs to figure out what to do about you and this is as good a time as ever. Other than that first night of you being in Medellín, he hasn’t really had a full on conversation with you. He’s seen you in passing, exchanged pleasantries, but most of what he’s learned about you has come from his son.
What he knows for certain is that you’re highly intelligent, logical, and caring. You were stubborn in your own way, particularly when it came to fighting the US embassy for needed equipment. He had been present for the phone call you made to your commanding officer asking for more up to date equipment claiming they were asking you to paint the Sistine Chapel with a box of crayons. Two new RDF machines arrived three days later at the Search Bloc headquarters. He missed how you managed to get the new antenna for the van and he’s been trying to figure that out for the last two weeks.
He’s not sure if it’s your personality that makes you so attractive or if it is your physical attributes. You look so different from Melina, almost the exact opposite. You look American, with your jeans, linen blouses, and messy hair. But despite the casual air, you are altogether lovely in your appearance. He is, without any further doubt, smitten with you. But is that enough to venture beyond pleasant conversations and professional interest?
There is also the reality that your thoughts may have no place for him at all, that he doesn’t inhabit your dreams like you do his. However, if that were the case, his son wouldn’t have shoved you both into this awkward situation. So there must have been something said between you and him that led the younger Martinez to this plan. Hugo decides to take an angled course of questioning to see if he can pull any information from you to see if there is any chance that this could be more than a professional relationship.
“My son raised a mild concern,” he begins, which immediately grabs your attention. “He tells me you were not yourself today.”
You nod slightly with a sad smile. “Yes, today was the anniversary of a death. It’s the first time I’ve been out of the country and not able to visit the gravesite so there were some quiet moments in the van today. I told him not to worry about it and thought he would understand.” You look like you’re going to continue speaking but then decide better of it and snap your mouth shut.
“He gets that from his mother.”
You give him an incredulous look. “Yes, I’m sure it comes from only his mother. Speaking of which, he did tell me about her. I’m very sorry for your loss. The way he described her to me, she sounded like an incredibly kind and compassionate woman.”
“She was. We couldn’t have asked for a better wife and mother.” He clears his throat. “If I may ask about the death you suffered?”
“It was my fiancé. Eleven years ago now, he was killed in a motorcycle accident.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“He’s the reason I joined the Army though. He was a specialist in communications and firmly believed in the necessity of staying on the cutting edge of technology. When he died, I wanted to do something to keep his memory going so I enlisted.” You smile. “And now I’m helping track down Pablo fucking Escobar.”
He can’t help but return your smile. “I’m sure he would be very proud of you and your work.”
“You remind me of him,” you say quickly. “He was a very good and kind man.”
“And you do remind me of my wife. She was also very good and kind. My son does take after her and that is why he most likely has come to admire you as much as he does.”
You duck your head, like you’re trying to hide your facial expression. “Thank you. That, that means a lot.”
When the food comes, he takes the opportunity to change the subject to lighter topics, such as how you’re enjoying Colombia. You brighten up considerably at the divergence. You love the people and the food, particularly the coffee (saddened by the imminent return to the States and having to drink something called “Folgers”), but you’re not exactly pleased with the heat and humidity. It occurs to him that even though he knows you’re from the US, he doesn’t know where. Your accent is different from both Peña’s and Murphy’s so he asks about your origins.
“I’m actually from Monterey, California. It’s south of San Francisco and along the coast. Beautiful, beautiful place in the States.”
“And your family is still there?”
“Mostly. My older brother is a cop in San Jose which is not far from Monterey at all. My parents still live in the suburbs of San Francisco. Both my fiancé and I went to Presidio of Monterey which was the Army base there.” You then proceed to tell him of this little town called Carmel-by-the-Sea with its fairytale-esque cottages along the rugged shoreline of the ocean. There is magic in your description and cadence that he almost forgets where he is. You then turn the tables on him. “You’re not from Medellín, are you?”
“No, I’m not. I was born in Moniquirá, a small town in the middle of nowhere. There were farms for sugar cane, coffee, and corn mostly. When I graduated from the Army I moved to Bogotá and have been there since.”
“When Escobar is caught, you think you’ll go back to Bogotá?”
“I would like to, yes.” He in turn tells you about the wonders of Bogotá, the art museums, street food, and parks found in the city. You seem just as enraptured as he had been with Carmel. “How much of Bogotá did you see?”
You grimace. “The airport. They literally shuffled me from the baggage claim back out to the tarmac for the flight down here.”
He scoffs, bold with the relaxing effects of wine. “I will show you around the wonders of Bogotá.”
“I’d like that.”
He’s surprised at your comfortable acceptance of the invitation. Maybe, just maybe, you do entertain soft thoughts about him. He tries to drag the night out as long as he can but you tell him that the intel unit is planning to go out tomorrow morning to pick up any early morning chatter. He’s not ready to release you, he wants to continue asking you questions about your life, likes, dislikes, dreams, what he could do to keep you in Colombia and by his side for the rest of his life. There is such a comfortableness that he feels in your presence that he hasn’t felt since Melina. His son adores you and he does as well. He wants to ask you to stay but swallows down the words and instead asks to walk you to your apartment.
You agree with a smile.
He pays for both your meals, taking pity on his son, and escorts you out of the restaurant. You enter the door code to open the main door to the apartment building, one that he knows himself given his son is one floor above you, and he trails after you as you climb the flight of stairs to your second floor apartment. You unlock your door but then fiddle with the keys.
“Would you like to come in?”
He shakes his head. “No, thank you. I know you have to get up early tomorrow.”
You nod once, a tight lipped smile on your face. “Right. Thank you, for tonight though. It was very nice.”
He blames the wine, his son, and the entire universe for what he does next. He leans forward and presses his lips to yours. Your scent of violets and oranges fills his senses and he knows he will never be able to smell one of those particular scents without thinking of you. You’re so warm, fitting perfectly in his arms and against his chest. The palm of his hand fits perfectly in the small of your back. And then the most amazing thing happens and you kiss him back. Your fingers press into his biceps as your tongue drags along the seam of his lips and he eagerly grants you access to his mouth. The moan that you release is pure sin and he loses his mind in that moment, pressing you against the door of your apartment. When you lean your head back and break the physical connection between your mouths, some of his common sense returns.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in?” you ask him, your voice low and breathless.
Oh, he wants to come in; come in and stay, never leaving your side. Fuck the hunt for Escobar, fuck the stress and pressure from the politicians to bring in this one man that has been a thorn in the side of Colombia for years. He just wants you, your soft skin, intoxicating scent, and compassionate heart. He wants to feel you underneath him as he claims you as his own, marks you with his mouth and hands. He wants to wake up tomorrow morning with you, solid and warm, in his arms.
But he can’t, not now. Not yet. So he steps back, puts distance between you but presses his lips to your forehead. “Not tonight, querida.”
You hum in understanding. “I always have Morales and your son over for dinner on Sunday night but Morales can’t make it this Sunday. Would you like to join us?”
His hands are still holding you close to him, not ready to let you go. “I would.”
“Good.” You smile up at him, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. You’re so beautiful it hurts.
He kisses you once more, briefly, before forcing his hands to release you from their grasp. He knows the dreams are coming in full force this evening and for once, he’s going to welcome them.
