Zapatos (A Mariposa Drabble) 

Pairing:Colonel Carrillo x Reader (but this is post Mariposa, after Carrillo has been killed)

Rating:PG

Summary: Trujillo tries to deal with his own grief by remembering the good times.

Author’s Note: This is kind of pseudo-epilogue for Mariposa.

Trujillo hasn’t been in your apartment in two months. 

He remembers when it used to be a weekly thing, stopping in to pick up intel, a file, or just have a drink with you and Carrillo. He had been to the apartment after your attack, letting himself in to water your plants, clean out your refrigerator from the expired food from your stay in the hospital, and making sure you had fresh food for when you were released. He brought homemade dishes from his family and some other families from Search Bloc that were aware of your existence but not identity. There had been flowers and other meals sitting outside your door from parents and students that he tended to as well. 

This is what the survivors do, he tells himself. This is what picking up the pieces looks like. This is what moving forward is supposed to be. 

This may be what surviving looks like, but all he feels is numb. 

He shouldn’t have survived that night. He should have gone down with Carrillo, his friend, his brother, his Colonel. He shouldn’t have walked away that night and he’s angry that he did. But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still here to continue the fight, continue the search for Escobar. He knows, from the few times he’s spoken to you in the hospital, that you are feeling the same way. The only way to get over the grief is to bring Escobar to justice. An eye for an eye; a life for a life. And true camaraderie is the understanding that it doesn’t matter who it is, just as long as it happens. 

So when you’re finally home, and finally allow him to come into the apartment, the first thing he does is trip over your shoes. They’re high top canvas sneakers in dingy white that are left haphazardly strewn in the entrance way of your home. Two things hit him at once: a memory and an immense wave of anger. 

“Posa!” Carrillo’s angry voice carried through the apartment causing you to jump and Trujillo to look for cover. 

You looked down at your feet, bare and toenails painted a neon orange. “Oops,” you muttered in his direction with a nervous grin. 

Within seconds one of your sandals was thrown into the kitchen. Two seconds later, the second one was thrown, bouncing off the cabinets and hitting your calf. Carrillo immediately follows behind and pointed at the sandals. 

“Posa, zapatos!” He said it like a command to a stubborn cadet. 

“I know, I know,” you replied, grabbing the shoes and slipping them on your feet. 

“Aquí hay escorpiones…” (There are scorpions here…) 

“I know…very dangerous scorpions,” you added. “And I need to wear my shoes so they don’t sting me.” 

Carrillo’s eyes were still lit with fire. “If you know that, why don’t you wear your shoes? What do you do when I’m not here?” 

“Apparently, I don’t wear my shoes and surprisingly enough, I don’t get stung by a rogue scorpion.” You gave Carrillo a self-satisfied grin despite the look of absolute fury he was still wearing. “And what do you know? Four years in Colombia and never stung” 

Trujillo loved these moments, loved being witness to the absolute, pure love you two have with each other. Carrillo’s anger was no match for your sweet personality. You at once acknowledge his anger and categorize it for what it was: concern. Which was why, in the face of his anger, you slipped your sandals on your feet and gave him a kind smile. 

“Are we happy now, Coronel?” 

It was amazing watching the anger receding from Carrillo’s face in the light of your complete and unabashed confidence. 

“I suppose,” he muttered and kissed you on the cheek. 

Trujillo bends down and picks up your sneakers, holding them in his hand and reminding himself that you’re alive, you’re walking around the apartment. You’re here. If this were a normal day, he would throw one of the shoes in your general direction and shout “Zapatos, Posa!” in his best imitation of Carrillo. And you two would laugh. 

But this is not a normal day. You’re limping around the apartment, trying to reorient yourself from weeks of being in the hospital. You’re trying to find your belongings that he’s moved in his efforts of being a good steward of his friend and her things. So instead of throwing shoes and shouting at you, he merely brings them to you and sets them down on the floor as you stand next to the refrigerator and look at the food offerings. He touches your arm so you know he’s there and when your attention is on him, he points to your shoes. 

“Zapatos,” he said quietly. “Posa.” 

And you quietly slip them on your feet and swipe at the tears in your eyes.

Mariposa: Part IV

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x Fem!Reader

Rating:Explicit

Summary:This is a four-part prequel to “Dustland Fairytale.” There is no Javier Pena x Reader in this fic; it is strictly a Carrillo x Reader fic. You’re a CIA informant that is trying to build the trust between the newly formed Search Bloc and the CIA/DEA. You just never imagined that falling in love with Colonel Horacio Carrillo was going to be part of the deal.

Warnings: Oh boy, lots of warnings. First 18+ only, DNI. If it was in Narcos, it will most likely be mentioned in here: gun violence, mentions of rape (what happened to Helena), characters dying, grief. Also, Carrillo is married so the relationship between him and the reader is an extramarital affair. This does not have a happy ending.

Tag List: @the-ginger-hedge-witch@vanemando15@1950schick@bellestalesoffiction@frannyzooey@littleone65@harriedandharassed

You wake up in the early hours of the morning. The pale, orange light of sunrise bleeds through the curtains of the bedroom. Horacio is sound asleep on his stomach, an arm thrown out carelessly and draped over your waist. You take a few of these quiet moments to enjoy the view of this man in complete repose. All the tension that lives in his face and frame is nonexistent, and he looks ten years younger. Being able to study him this closely, you notice the threads of silver that are starting to show in his black hair. 

Your fingers barely skim across his skin so you don’t wake him up, tracing the lines of his muscles around his shoulder blade, down his bicep, over his elbow, across his forearm and finally down the back of his hand that is laid across your waist. As your fingers slide between his, you realize he’s not wearing his wedding ring. 

Guilt immediately washes over you. You’re in his home, in his bed, most likely taking up the same space as his wife. You’re an imposter, not only in your work life but now in your personal one too. It makes your stomach roil and you scramble out of the bed, barely making it to the bathroom before vomiting into the toilet. A cold, damp washcloth finds its way to the base of your neck as you lean against the wall and try to catch your breath. 

“What do you need, querida?” 

You swallow the bitter bile in your mouth. “I’m okay.” 

He hands you a glass of water and you take it, grabbing the washcloth and wiping the sweat from your face with it. You sip the water and are thankful when it stays down. Horacio takes the glass and washcloth from you before helping you up off the floor. You’re still shaky but feeling your strength coming back. 

“I’m okay,” you say with a bit more power behind it. 

“We still have a few hours, come back to bed.” 

“Let me brush my teeth first, and I’ll be there.” 

He kisses the top of your head before leaving you alone. You hear him straightening the blankets on the bed as you grab your toothbrush that he must have picked up from your apartment last night, and try to get rid of the acid taste in your mouth. That’s when you see his ring sitting on the side of the sink. When you finish, you pick up the ring, letting the cool weight of it settle in your palm. It represented a promise, a vow before God, to be faithful to one woman. And you are not that woman. You want to be, a realization that surprises you with the power behind it. But in order for that to happen, he would have to leave his family and that is not going to happen. You can’t allow that to happen. 

“Querida?” 

You walk back into the bedroom and hold the ring out to him. “Put it back on.” 

He was lying on his back but sits up when you come to stand by the bed. “What?” 

“Your ring,” you sit down on the side of the bed and hold out the gold band again. “Put your ring back on.” 

He gives you a confused look but takes the ring, setting it on the nightstand. “Querida-” 

“No,” tears are pricking at the backs of your eyes, blurring the ring as you reach for it again. “You promised me.” 

He takes it from you but holds it between his thumb and index finger. “Promised what?”

“You promised me you wouldn’t leave her. That you wouldn’t leave your family.” 

His confusion slowly transitions to sadness. With a defeated sigh, he slides the ring back on his finger. It doesn’t bring you any kind of peace like you had hoped. It only reminds you that this, the house, husband, and family is not yours. All it does is reinforce the knowledge that you’re on borrowed time and the relationship was doomed the minute it started. You thought you had gone into this with eyes open to the parameters of having an affair, but you didn’t expect to fall so hard for this man. Even eight months apart from each other couldn’t diminish your feelings for him. You want your lives to always be entwined together. 

“Hey,” he tugs you towards him, pulling you close into his side. His hands smooth over the skin of your arms that is exposed from the short sleeves of his borrowed t-shirt. He buries his nose in your hair, his lips brushing your ear. “I know what I promised, what you made me promise. But-“ 

“No, no buts.” 

“Shh, listen to me, querida.” He wraps his arms around your waist and lets out a deep sigh. “I don’t know if she is going to want to come back to Colombia.” 

“What?” 

“She…loves Madrid. She and the kids are safer there, she feels safer.” 

“But that doesn’t mean-“ 

“My son let slip that one of the bodyguards assigned to them comes by quite often, bringing flowers, stays the night.” His tone is one of resignation with the slightest touch of sadness. 

“I’m sorry.” 

He’s quiet for a moment before pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck. “If she has found the same happiness I have, then I can’t fault her for that. She deserves an easier life than what I have offered her. And they all are safe there. That peace of mind is priceless.” 

You remember what he had said before, how his wife is not made for war. And that is a detriment and a distraction when you exist in a war zone. “Your kids-” 

“I’d rather they be safe in another country than become casualties here.” He pulls you down with him, resting his head next to yours on the pillow. “So, maybe…” 

“Maybe” is a dangerous word. “Maybe” means there’s hope, a possibility, that what you want, what you desire, could actually be attainable. “Maybe” means a chance to be seen in public, not having to hide from prying eyes. The judgment will be there, you’re sure, as people will blame you for the split, but as long as Horacio doesn’t, you can handle everyone else. So maybe you would no longer be a liar and imposter, you could actually regain some truth to your life and your reputation. Your fingers trace over his cheekbones. 

“Okay, maybe.” 

***

They have to get Escobar. 

You have to be kept safe. 

That is the only mantra he has right now. Get Escobar. Protect you. It is that simple. He hadn’t lied when he told you about Juliana’s quick integration into Madrid culture. The house was on a quiet street, the neighbors didn’t mind the bodyguards, and Juliana didn’t mind one of the bodyguards at all. The kids were excited about attending a school that offered music classes and a first-class futból team. They had, for the first time in a long time, a calm life. 

Just as Juliana was not made for war, he was not made for peace. Madrid was filled with annoyances, meetings, social events, and boredom. He missed the strategizing, the hunting, the capture of targets, and the raids. He missed the adrenaline rush of chasing the narcos and now that he’s back, he’s more determined than ever to see a bullet in Escobar’s head. Then next, Cali. 

First step, stop the spotters from preventing the police movement throughout Medellín. They mark out the blocks where the radio transmissions came from when the convoy went into Barrio Escobar, and hit the streets and houses on those particular blocks. They round up five of the boys and take them to a back alley. If they want a taste for what it is to be a sicario, he will give it to them. He does notice when Trujillo shines the light on their faces, they do end up getting Diego Juarez. 

“¿Se trata de esa profesora?” (Is this about the teacher?)

Horacio stops in front of him. “¿Qué le pasó a una profesora?” (What happened to the teacher?) 

Diego shakes his head. “Supongo que no fue nada.” (Guess it was nothing.) 

For a sixteen year old boy, on his knees, and facing a group of cops, to show this level of indifference puts a spike in fear in Horacio. Not so much for himself, but for you. This is the kid that sits in your classroom day in and day out, looking for an opportunity to harm you. You were spared this time. Next time, you may not be so lucky. He needs to scare the kid straight. And if he can’t…well, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. 

“¿Sabes quién soy?” (Do you know who I am?) He takes a few more paces in front of the boys. “Mi nombre es Coronel Horacio Carrillo.” (My name is Colonel Horacio Corrillo.) 

The other four boys are starting to look scared. The smallest, youngest one is already crying. There’s hope for that one. The other three are just wary. 

“La semana pasada, 30 policías fueron asesinados.” (Last week, 30 police officers were murdered.) 

“Esos cerdos probablemente se lo merecían.” (Those pigs probably deserved it.) Diego turns his head and looks directly at Horacio. Diego’s mouth moves to say something else but thinks better of it and remains silent. 

“Muchos de ellos eran mis amigos.” (Many of them were my friends.) He can’t let his mind go to the thought of you absentmindedly drinking that acid. One sip and it would have been a death sentence. You wouldn’t have even had time to call for help. He’s seen it done before, the smallest amount of the acid burning all the way down the esophagus and all you can do is watch the person gasp what little air they can pull in until it’s just not enough. The death is painful, excruciating, and the thought of it happening to you scares him much deeper than he ever thought possible.  

“Una persona encaramada en los tejados, guiando a los asesinos con radios, son ellos mismos asesinos. Espero que después de este encuentro, reconsideres trabajar con alguien que piensa que está por encima de la ley.” (A person perched on rooftops, guiding murderers with radios, are assassins themselves. I hope after this encounter, you’ll reconsider working with someone who thinks he’s above the law.)  

Horacio stops in front of Diego again. This is what radicalization looks like, he tells himself. There is no shame or remorse in the boy’s eyes. If he had another opportunity to guide sicarios in the killing of cops, or giving a teacher acid to drink, he would do it again without hesitation. He would get better at it though. He is intelligent and determined to make his Patrón proud which makes him as dangerous as any sicario on the streets. Horacio is going to give him one last chance to redeem himself, one last chance to show an ounce of remorse, and show himself to not be a threat to his men, to you. He pulls his revolver and cocks it. 

Diego scoffs. “¿Qué? ¿Se supone que debo cagarme en los pantalones de miedo? (What? Am I supposed to shit my pants in fear?) 

“No.” Horacio raises the gun and eliminates the threat. 

***

You’ve run home early Sunday morning to pick up a few things, get some papers graded, before having a late lunch with Horacio. He had called around three in the morning to let you know the spotter round up had been a success and after he filled out some paperwork and got some planning done for the next step, he would come by your apartment. It was six by the time you unlocked your front door and did a quick sweep of the apartment. Nothing looked out of place so you unpacked the overnight bag and the small bag of groceries you picked up on your way from his place to yours. 

You put the pregnancy test box on the sink in your bathroom and stared down at it. Yesterday’s early morning throwing up session repeated itself this morning and it got you thinking. You were still on the pill so the chances of it happening are fairly slim but now that the idea is in your mind, you won’t be able to put it to rest until you take the test and it comes up negative. The first time you have to pee since being home, you do it on the testing stick and leave it on the side of the sink. 

As you’re making coffee, your phone rings. No one ever calls you on the landline, especially not at 8 on a Sunday morning. You answer it with hesitant curiosity. 

“Profesora, lamento mucho informarle que uno de sus alumnos, Diego Juárez, fue asesinado anoche.” (Professor, I’m very sorry to inform you that one of your students, Diego Juarez, was killed last night.)

Shock steals your voice momentarily. “¿Cómo?” (How?) 

“Le dispararon. Parece una ejecución.” (He was shot. It looks like an execution.) The principal sighs. “Siento mucho daros esta noticia esta mañana.” (I am very sorry to deliver this news to you this morning.) 

“No, yo entiendo. Gracias.” (No, I understand. Thank you.) 

You hang up the phone and run for the bathroom to throw up for the second time that morning. You had already thrown up your breakfast the first round of vomiting so this time is just acid. Standing up from the floor, you grab a water glass from the sink counter and rinse your mouth out with some tap water. Your eyes land on the pregnancy test and see, clear as day, two lines staring up at you. Positive. You sweep the test into the trash can and determine to pick up another test later on today from another pharmacy. 

Right now, you need to talk to Horacio. You can’t call the phone in the Search Bloc since they’re all wiretapped which means you’ll have to go down there yourself. Grabbing a sweater, you head downstairs and manage to snag a cab to take you over to the police station. By the time you’re climbing the stairs to go into the building, you’re breathing like you’ve run all the way there. Your hands are shaking when you tell the receptionist that you need to speak with Colonel Carrillo immediately concerning one of your students. Trujillo passes through the bullpen and sees you standing there so he waves you past the reception area. 

“¿Qué pasa, hermana?” (What’s wrong, sister?) 

“Alguien mató a uno de mis estudiantes.” (Someone killed one of my students.) 

Trujillo’s concern changes quickly to close-lipped resignation. “Come on. He wanted to tell you himself.” 

“He knew?” Your mind is reeling. You had spoken with him on the sat phone this morning. Why didn’t he tell you then? And if he knew of the death, then the horrible thought crosses your mind, was he there? Was he the one who pulled the trigger? Your stomach turns again. 

Trujillo leads you to the office and knocks on the door before opening it. When Horacio sees it’s you, a brief look of concern crosses his face before motioning for you to come into the room. Trujillo closes the blinds before leaving the office. Horacio stays behind the large wooden desk as you take up position across from him. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks you. 

“Diego Juarez.” 

Horacio sighs and sits down in the large leather chair behind the desk. “Yes.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me he had been killed?” 

“I wanted to tell you in person.” 

You swallow down your nervousness. “Why?” 

He leans back in the chair. “Because I wanted to assure you that you were right. He was one of the spotters, and one of the recruiters. He is most likely the one who put the acid in your water bottle.” 

“‘Most likely the one?’” You cross your arms across your chest and keep your voice quiet. “That doesn’t sound like solid evidence. Certainly not enough to shoot him.” 

“He was definitely one of the spotters. And as such, he is responsible for the death of over thirty officers.” 

“So were the other boys that you rounded up. Why did they get their lives spared?” 

He starts to answer but stops himself. “What is this really about?” 

“You executed a teenage boy in a back alley. I want to know why you felt that extreme measure was necessary.” 

“I stopped a viable threat to you and everyone else in Medellín. And I only had to use one bullet to do it.” He releases a frustrated sigh. “That boy had zero remorse for what he had done. I couldn’t let him try again to get at you or my men.” 

“You’re making him sound like he was a sicario.” 

“He was well on his way to becoming one.” 

“So you executed him for something he hadn’t done yet.” 

“He did though! He made an attempt on your life!” 

“You only think it was him!” 

He brings his hand down on the desk with enough force to jar the tumbler of whiskey. It startles you but you stand your ground. You’ve seen him angry plenty of times before but the anger had never been directed to you. And the more you study his face, the more you realize it’s not anger. 

“You’re afraid.” 

“Of course I’m afraid. Aren’t you?” 

Everyday. Every damn day you’re afraid that Trujillo or another one of the officers is going to come tell you that the cartel finally killed him. You understand that fear but you fight it. You trust his training and planning and strategizing. You trust his brain and his reflexes. He thought he was rescuing you, swooping in to save the day, but you see it as his lack of trust in your abilities to keep yourself safe. You trust him more than he trusts you. “Yes, I am. But I don’t let it make decisions for me.”

Your comment smarts, you can see it in his demeanor. “I forget sometimes, after all this time, you’re still a gringa.” 

You know you should turn around and leave without saying anything. You’re both angry and frustrated and nothing good is going to come of this conversation if it continues. But you think of Diego’s parents getting the news that their son isn’t coming back home, his sister who is two grades below him at school and looks to him to keep the bullies away. So you do open your mouth. “And after all this time of chasing narcos, you’re starting to become like them.” 

“This is war and concessions are made.” 

“Well, this is one concession I can’t agree with, Horacio.” 

“Querida-” 

“No.” You shake your head and move towards the door. “I’ll be in touch if I hear anything.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“Home.” You open the door and walk out of the office. “Alone.” 

Two days later you’re standing in your bathroom staring down at three positive pregnancy tests when you hear Horacio’s name over the television. You leave the bathroom and go back into the living room to see Valeria Velez interviewing a ten year old boy, David. He is telling the story of how his friend was shot by Colonel Carrillo and then he was given a bullet to give to Pablo Escobar. That part Horacio had conveniently left out of his account to you. 

What a fucking mess you’re in now. But honestly, how did you expect it to turn out? 

***

By God, you had to be the most stubborn woman he has ever met. He’s tried calling you and you don’t pick up the phone, the landline or the sat phone. He’s gone by your apartment and you refuse to come to the door. He even goes to the school but you manage to evade him there too. This dance of distance between the two of you is infuriating. 

Fuck, he misses you so much. 

Horacio pours this aggression into the hunting and tracking down of sicarios in Medellín. They do countless raids, seize kilos of cocaine and stockpiles of weapons. He stands in front of the press with the prizes and hopes against all hope that you see the broadcasts. He knows you saw the interview with David, the kid he gave the bullet to because even though you are not speaking to him, you do still speak to Trujillo. 

“I guess it took two bullets, not one, that night.” 

That was your one and only message to him. He found addresses and names penned in your neat handwriting slid under his office door or in the mailbox at his home. Those were the addresses of the raids. Using the news media to showcase the success of the raids was his way of telling you he was still listening, still needed you. 

He did understand why you were so upset with him, although he would have done the same thing over again. You were tough, better equipped for the cartel run streets than Juliana was, but there were parts of your heart that were still too soft, too compassionate. You believed in second chances with almost a religious fervor, something he hopes will work in his favor. Eventually. But then he gets a message, not from you, but from one of the wiretaps, that strikes absolute terror in his heart. 

“El gato está cazando la mariposa.” (The cat is hunting the butterfly.) 

Gato, one of Pablo’s top sicarios. How your code name came to be leaked out there is a mystery that he sets Trujillo on figuring out and dealing with the source. Trujillo thinks of you as a little sister, and as a man who has lost two siblings already to the fight against Escobar, he is not willing to see a third go the same way. So when Trujillo tells him “it’s done,” Horacio asks no questions. 

He starts staking out your apartment. He sits in an unmarked car and watches the light come on in your apartment and sits there until it turns off. He walks a two block perimeter of the building to make sure everything is as quiet as it seems. But one night, he waits for your light to come on but it doesn’t. It’s almost nine at night and your apartment is still dark, no sign of movement. He gets out of the car and starts his two block beat. 

That’s when he catches sight of you. Your form is unmistakable in the darkness. Your shoulders are hunched, your head down and all he wants to do is wrap his arms around you. He has missed feeling you against him so much his chest aches at the memories. He knows you’re attuned to your surroundings so he follows you at a distance that wouldn’t set off any alarms. But he’s so tempted to cross that boundary, get you to notice him again. He’ll apologize for the rest of his days, on his knees, if it means you would speak to him again, invade his space, his home, and his bed in the same way you’ve invaded his mind. 

He hears voices coming from up ahead and sees you talking to two men who are standing at the mouth of the alley. He’s too far away to hear what is being said but he knows your body language well enough to know that you’re not comfortable with the interaction so he picks up his pace. The streetlight is out when an altercation happens between the three of you and you drop. He pulls his gun and breaks into a run. The two men are arguing when one grabs something from the other and there’s two gunshots that reverberate down the alleyway. Horacio lifts his weapon and fires two shots at them. It startles them and they sprint out to the main street. He finds you on the ground, trying to press your shaking, blood covered hands over your stomach. 

Another person turns the corner and Horacio raises his gun but quickly lowers it when he sees Trujillo. His mind barely registers that Trujillo lives in this area and most likely heard the shots. He tells Trujillo where his car is parked and Trujillo runs in that direction. He takes his jacket off and kneels down next to you, pressing it into your stomach. There’s so much blood it’s difficult to tell what type of wounds they are. 

“‘Racio?” 

He pushes one hand firmly against your stomach and uses his other to brush the hair away from your face. “Yeah, querida. I’m here.” 

Your eyes are wide and glassy. You’re in shock. He takes your hands and pushes them against the bunched up jacket. “Push down, querida. Can you do that?” 

You nod once and he picks you up from the ground. When he turns around, Trujillo pulls up to the curb and opens the backdoor. Horacio slides into the backseat, keeping you on his lap as Trujillo speeds through the streets towards the nearest hospital. Your head lolls against his neck and he can feel you murmuring something but he can’t make it out. He turns his head and is able to catch it. 

“Sorry…baby.” 

He presses his lips against your forehead. “I’m sorry, querida. So very sorry.” 

You keep repeating the same words over and over again, his name thrown in sporadically. He holds you as tight as he can, not knowing if you’re going to survive this attack, and if you do, he doesn’t know if you’ll ever want him back. He whispers apologies and “I love you”s that overlap with your mantra. Trujillo must have used the sat phone to alert the hospital that they were coming because when they arrive, there’s a stretcher waiting for them at the curb. He presses one last kiss to your cheek before handing you off to the medical team and watching you disappear behind closed doors. And suddenly, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

Trujillo tugs at his arm until Horacio follows him down one of the hallways of the hospital. He turns into a room and it smells of incense, smoke, and wood. The chapel. Trujillo sits in one of the pews; Horacio sits beside him. Trujillo fishes around in his jacket pocket and pulls out his rosary but he doesn’t start his prayers, he just keeps it in his hand, his thumb moving over the raised image of Christ on the cross. 

“Entré aquí mientras esperaba noticias sobre mi padre. Y mis hermanos.” (I came in here while I waited for news on my father. And my brothers.) 

“¿De dónde venía ella esta noche?” (Where was she coming from tonight?) 

“Cena con mi familia. Me ofrecí a acompañarla de regreso…” (Dinner with my family. I offered to walk her back…” 

Horacio feels a slight tug of a smile. “Ella es terca.” (She is stubborn.) 

“Como una mula.” (Like a mule.) 

And may that stubbornness save you now. Trujillo starts his prayers but Horacio just sits in silence. He’s afraid if he prays, it won’t go anywhere anyway so it’s best to keep his silence. Trujillo is on his fourth round of the rosary when a nurse finds them. 

Four stab wounds. Two gunshot wounds. Life flight to Bogotá. You’re already on your way. There’s nothing else for him to do. The nurse does give him a confused look. 

“Ella dijo que un gato le hizo esto. ¿Eso significa algo para usted?” (She said that a cat did this to her. Does that mean anything to you?)

Yes, yes it does mean something to him. He and Trujillo leave the hospital and go straight to the Search Bloc to start looking for Gato. He places a call to Murphy, remembering that his wife works as a nurse in Bogotá. Murphy is more than helpful in recruiting his wife’s help in keeping an eye on you and reporting back on your condition. Now, they just need to find Gato. 

It takes them two days and some help from Peña’s CI, to bust a coke lab in the jungle. One of the most prized captures is Gato himself. Once he’s in custody, Trujillo has a hand on him the entire time until he’s loaded in the helicopter. Horacio and Trujillo share a look. There is no way Gato is going to step foot in Bogotá and Horacio makes sure of it. He tries calling the hospital room where you’re recovering from the emergency hysterectomy that had to be done to stop the bleeding from the wounds, but Connie Murphy answers the phone and takes the message. They’re keeping you in a drug daze as you recover so he has yet to speak with you directly even though Connie said you have asked about him a couple times. There’s hope that the rift between you two can be repaired. 

So when he receives word that Escobar is going to be meeting with his accountant, he jumps on the information. What a better gift to present to you than Escobar’s capture and death? What a better way to start the next phase of your lives, together as partners both at work and at home? This gives him even more hope as he gears up and heads out with his men. He passes by Trujillo on his way out to the convoy and he nods to him. 

“Para ‘posa,” Trujillo says as he passes. (For ‘posa.)

Horacio smiles. “Para Mariposa.” (For the butterfly.) 

He doesn’t realize that a heart full of hope also means eyes tend to close to the reality of the world around him. He doesn’t realize it’s an ambush until it’s too late. 

***

You’re still in the hospital when Trujillo comes to visit. The sun is shining in full strength when he comes into your room. You’re going to be discharged tomorrow. Stechner has been in and out, posing as your Uncle Bill, and you will be released to him. You’re still on too many drugs for your liking but it does blur the edges of the grief you’re feeling over the loss of your ten week old baby and the fact that you can never carry another one. For someone who believes in second chances so strongly, it is a difficult reality to grasp. 

You have a hard time interpreting the look on his face. There’s relief but something else. Something he’s hiding from you. You notice the wounds on his face next, little cuts and lacerations. Something’s happened. You look to the door of the room, wondering if Horacio is going to follow him through. You haven’t seen any news, either from the television or newspaper; Stechner’s made sure of that for some reason. 

“They got him, Posa.” 

Your drugged mind processes the statement for a couple seconds and you feel relief. “We got him? We got Escobar?” 

Trujillo shakes his head. “No, hermana. We didn’t.” 

You repeat the first thing he said to you back in your mind. They got him. If “him” isn’t Escobar, then…”No.” 

He sighs and sits on the side of the hospital bed. A nurse is standing in the doorway, on call, to patch the wounds from this news. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t…I was too far…” 

“No, no.” You don’t really know what you’re saying no to at this point. No, you don’t want to believe that Horacio is gone. No, you don’t want more grief on top of what you’re already trying to make sense of. No, it certainly wasn’t Trujillo’s fault. This explains why they’ve kept the news and papers out of your reach. Colonel Carrillo’s death at the hands of Pablo Escobar is sure to be all the news outlets are talking about right now. “How?” 

“It was an ambush. Bad…” he pauses and struggles to finish the sentence. “Bad intel. We got her though, Peña and I. She’s going to fix this.” 

She can’t bring Horacio back so how is she going to fix it? You find you don’t care. “When?” 

“Two nights ago. I wanted to have good news for you, that we got the person responsible for it.” 

You laugh and shake your head. “The person responsible for it is Escobar. We need to get that motherfucker.” 

“We will.” 

The tears start to burn the back of your eyes now that the shock is beginning to melt away and the gaping hole of loss is slowly coming into focus. Trujillo hugs you as gently as he can, an awkward embrace around stitches, bandages, and IV lines. 

“Lo siento, hermana.” (I’m sorry, sister.) 

“I want Escobar’s head.” 

Trujillo nods. “You’ll get it, ‘Posa. I promise.” 

***

It takes a year. 

You’ve recovered physically from the ordeal and are back working as a teacher in Bogotá, but it is a more upscale school. The Cali cartel do like the nicer things in life, which is good for you. Stechner shifted you from the Medellín cartel to Cali, trying to put as much distance between you and your grief. You still worked closely with Search Bloc, handing intel to Trujillo mostly, but you had met Colonel Hugo Martinez a couple times. He is Carrillo’s opposite in almost every sense of the word but he’s a kind, quiet man who respects your position. 

It’s December 2nd when Trujillo calls from Medellín on a sat phone. 

“We got him this time, ‘Posa.” 

You cried for two days. 

A few days later, you come home from teaching and see an envelope has been slid under your door. You pick it up and break the seal. There’s a dark lock of hair, curled with threads of gray resting in the envelope with a note in Trujillo’s scrawled handwriting. 

This is the best I could do to bring you his head. May you have some peace, sister.

I am two scenes away from being done with Mariposa. And I apologize for the nuke of sadness I’m about to unleash on everyone.

It’s bad folks.

Nymphalid in her updated costume!