Summary: You’re a CIA informant that is well acquainted with the reputation of one Javier Peña but your thoughts change when you actually have a chance meeting with him. However you’re not the only one changed by the meeting. When you’ve been compromised in your current placement, Javier comes to extract you and offers you a look into the world post-cartel work.
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.
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.
Summary: You’re new to Colombia and the Search Bloc, loaned out by the Army to help sift through the wiretaps, sat phone calls, and other communications. Everything is off to a normal start until someone starts leaving little gifts on your desk and you’re determined to figure out who it is. Carrillo is not married in this fic because I’m the author and I say so.
Author’s Note: Anon who suggested this prompt, I am forever in your debt. I hope you let me know who you are because I loved writing this. And I’m leaving it open for further one-shots if you want me to continue to add to it.
Los Regalos (Gifts)
The gifts show up on your desk randomly.
At least, you think they’re gifts. The terrible thought that they could have been just left on your desk absentmindedly and were meant for someone else crashes into your thoughts. But if that were the case, it should have stopped after you claimed the small, potted orchid as your own. And the pound of Robusta coffee with a handmade ceramic mug. A box of cocadas, which you sincerely wish you knew where those came from because they were fantastic. Today, it’s a beautiful ceramic bowl with different types of fruit in it. Most of which you have no idea what they are. Or how to eat them.
“Another gift from the secret admirer?”
You look up to see the two DEA agents that have been assigned to work with the newly formed Search Bloc come into the shared office space. It was Agent Peña that had spoken.
“Yeah,” you answer. “Although I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with some of these.” You pick up a bright pinkish-red fruit. “Like, what is this?”
“That’s a pitahaya,” Peña says. “In the US we call them dragon fruit.”
So that’s what a dragon fruit is.
“Now this one,” Peña picks up a green spiky fruit, “is a guanabana. Don’t eat the skin or the seeds inside it, they’re poisonous. Just eat the meat.”
“Good to know,” you take the fruit and put it back into the bowl. You’re still relatively new to Colombia, assigned to Centra Spike under the umbrella of the Army. Your job is to listen to phone calls made over the wiretaps and satellite phones, trying to figure out what was from the narcos and what was just common chatter. Your family thought you were running through the barrios of Bogotá and Medellín, in a flak vest and gun, shooting down sicarios and arresting drug dealers. You tried to explain to them that you live at a desk with headphones over your ears but they preferred their version of events. It made social events more interesting for them.
“You figure out who it is leaving you these things?” Agent Murphy asks.
You shake your head. “Not yet. The mystery continues.”
You thought it could be one of them since you’re an American, with the Army, and trying to get adjusted to life in a foreign country. But Murphy is married and trying to get adjusted himself and Peña doesn’t strike you as the type to bestow little gifts to a secretary that he barely knows and speaks to in passing. Which leaves the Colombian police officers that surround you. And that suspect pool is quite large.
Trujillo is a common face in this area of the office, working closely with Colonel Carrillo. And even though you’ve had personable conversations with him, they’ve remained professional and distant. And he’s been the friendliest officer you’ve interacted with so your options are very broad as to who is your secret admirer. You pick up another piece of fruit, an uchuva, a small yellow berry, and smile. Whoever it is, they’re scoring some major points with their thoughtfulness.
***
Carrillo has no idea what he’s doing.
It’s been years since he’s attempted to get a woman to notice him. The last time his eyes were set on a potential companion, her father decided that she was better suited for an officer with a higher rank and so he lost his Juliana to a then lieutenant colonel. He wonders how her father feels now that he’s a colonel and head of the specialized group tasked to track down Escobar. He hadn’t thought of pursuing a romantic entanglement since he lost her.
But then you walked in, on loan from the United States Army, to help organize the information that came flooding in from the various wiretaps and sat phone calls. You sat hours on end everyday, listening to those calls, transcribing the conversations, and deciding what was helpful and what was just everyday talk. You had been here for three weeks, new to the country, new to the job, but had dug in with a determination that he rarely saw, even from his own men.
He listens to the wiretaps too. He hears his men talk about their fear for their lives and their families. He hears them doubt what is the right thing to do. He hears them cave to their fear and help the narcos. He understands why they do it but he can’t abide by it. He sifts through his officers like farmers sift through their crop: keep the good pieces and discard the rotten ones. It’s making him distant from his emotions and his desire to be around people. He’s becoming weary of sizing up everyone he encounters to see if they’re a threat or an ally.
He listens to your phone conversations too. Even though you are a US citizen, part of the deal is that any American is subject to the same transparency as the Colombian army and police force. You signed off on that waiver of privacy and so he listens to your conversations with zero guilt. That is until he realizes he has heard your voice so much that he can recognize it with as much accuracy as he can Escobar’s. That is when he realizes there is something intriguing about you.
He has your voice memorized so he moves on to studying your appearance and routine. You arrive ten minutes early every morning, dressed neatly and with care, with jeans and a nice blouse. The only thing that confuses him are the worn Converse sneakers you always wear. Jewelry is limited to simple earrings and a necklace; you don’t wear any rings on your hands or bracelets on your wrists. Your posture is straight as you sit at the dented, metal desk in the main office area.
Whenever you come across an officer that is giving information or making arrangements to receive bribes from the cartel, you would bring the file and tape to him at the end of the business day. It is the only time that you darken his door. He would take the items from you and note the sad look in your eye when they left your hand, like you were responsible for the breach of conduct. You are a lovely combination of beauty, efficiency, and empathy. And you have caught his attention. Now what?
Is there a difference between catching a criminal and catching a paramour?
He goes back to listening to the phone conversations, mostly with your sister and mother. You talk about the various things that you’ve discovered that are unique to Colombia: flowers, foods, and drinks in particular. You’ve recently started talking about books you want to read now that the newness of everything is starting to fade and you can concentrate on a hobby. You mention authors like Gabriel Garcia Marquez with his famous One Hundred Years of Solitude, but then mention how you want a more authentic social commentary and had recently bought a used copy of The Vortex by José Eustacio Rivera. If you wanted an authentic social commentary on just how greed-fueled the rubber industry was, you certainly picked a good book.
The conversation turns to family updates and he stops listening in to convince himself he’s giving you some semblance of privacy. He takes out a small notebook and makes a note to bring his copy of Las Estrellas son Negras by Arnoldo Palacios to leave on your desk tomorrow. The book isn’t uplifting in any sense of the word but it is considered to be classic, albeit an unpopular one. If you’re wanting to read something deep, and if you do end up enjoying The Vortex, then you should like Palacios’ book.
While he’s thinking about the novels, something comes to mind concerning the rubber manufacturing in the jungle. There had been some aerial shots of a possible drug lab in one of the many overgrown spaces between Medellín and Bogotá that he wanted to look over again. They weren’t on his desk any more, or any of the other desks in the room so he heads over to the file room where they’ve most likely been returned. He passes by your desk but you’re not there, maybe on your lunch break, but he notices some of the fruit is already missing.
The file room door is propped open which immediately annoys him. The room is supposed to be locked both with an old fashioned key lock and an electronic passcode, not propped open with a…shoe? He makes a disgusted noise as he kicks it out of the doorway and goes into the room. As soon the door clicks shut, someone drops a file and goes running for the door.
“No, no, no, no…”
It’s you.
And you’re missing a shoe.
“Damn it!” You hit the door with an open palm and turn towards him, ready to unleash a severe reprimand until you realize it’s him. Most of your fury dissolves into contrition as you take in a deep breath. “Buen día, coronel.” (Good day, Colonel.)
“Buen día, señorita.” (Good day, miss.) He waits to see if you’re going to say anything else but your eyes are trying to look at anywhere in the room but him. They finally settle on your feet: one still encased in the converse sneaker while the other is bare. Your toenails are painted a light pink. “Am I to understand that was your shoe holding the door open?”
“Yes, sir.”
Your formalness stings slightly until he realizes that you don’t know he’s been listening in to your conversations, gathering information, and then providing you with the little gifts on your desk. Perhaps he should stop. Perhaps you would have no interest in him whatsoever. Perhaps there is someone else, if not here in Colombia than back in the States.
Perhaps, it’s just not meant to be.
However, isn’t that what giving a gift is all about: you give with no expectation of receiving something in return?
***
You can’t believe your luck. Not only are you indefinitely locked in the file room but it is with the head of the Search Bloc, Colonel Horacio Carrillo. This also happens to be the person at the top of your suspect lists for leaving the gifts at your desk. And you’re not sure how to feel about it.
He’s not your boss, per say, that would be the US Army and you’re of a low enough rank no one pays you any mind back at the Embassy so dating a local wouldn’t cause any disturbances. Lord knows Peña gets away with it all the time. But Carrillo is in charge of the special unit that you’re assisting so that throws the line of conduct into some shade. Secondly, you hardly know him. He rarely speaks about himself, his personal life, and he’s here so often you wonder if he even has a personal life. Married to a job, especially one like this, does not check any boxes on the dating checklist.
However, he is respectful to all those around him. You wouldn’t use the word kind, even though the thoughtfulness of the gifts would give you some evidence for using that word. He treats his men well, checks on them, prays through the rosary with them before particularly dangerous raids, and shares in the workload. His treatment of the Americans in the Search Bloc is the same as that of his own men. You’ve also noted that he treats the women in the office, you included, with the same expectations as his men: do your job well, he’s pleased and will let you know; do it poorly, and you can go elsewhere.
Now you wonder if that’s his current thoughts of you, missing one shoe and having just displayed an unprofessional burst of anger. You try to recenter yourself and gain some semblance of competency. “The locks are broken on the door.”
One of his eyebrows ticks up at the comment. “Both of them?”
“Yes, sir.”
He moves closer to the door and you step away from it, having a good idea what is about to come next. Sure enough, he tries kicking the door open but it doesn’t even budge. You raise a finger hesitantly to prevent him from kicking it harder and hurting himself.
“Um, the electronic lock is actually a double deadbolt.”
The kick to the door did alert someone walking past that there is an issue as someone called out on the other side. “¿Quién está ahí?” (Who’s in there?)
Carrillo yells back both his name and yours as the officer says he’s getting help for them. Your brain has stuttered to a halt and he must notice because a quizzical look crosses his face.
“What?”
“You remember my name.”
The confused look changes into something that looks akin to shame before he turns away. “I know everyone’s name in the unit. Wouldn’t be much of a leader if I didn’t.”
You suppose that is true and the thought that he knew it because he liked you dissipates. You go back a couple rows to the file that you dropped in your mad dash to try to stop the door from closing. He follows you, at a respectful distance though, but then helps pick up the spilled contents of the file. As he looks at the pictures, he laughs slightly.
“I was actually looking for these pictures,” he tells you.
“Oh, really?” You take the rest of the file over to the small window where there’s some light. They’re aerial shots of an abandoned rubber plant in the jungle. Or at least it looks abandoned. “I wanted to look at them again to see if there’s anything we missed that might give away something about it being used.”
He stands next to you in the light and looks at the pictures in his hands. “I feel like we are missing something.”
There’s no table in the room so you put the pictures down on the floor and sit down there to look at them. He does the same and soon both your heads are down, studying the pictures. You watch his hands as he drags his fingers over the photos, looking at each grainy detail for something. He isn’t wearing a wedding band.
And speaking of examining details, your eyes can’t help but drift up from his hands to the strong, exposed forearms, the shifting of his biceps under the sleeves of his green fatigues. You probably couldn’t wrap your whole hand around his upper arm but now you kind of want to try. You had to admit, as intimidating as Carrillo is, he is also quite handsome with his sharp, coffee colored eyes and straight nose.
There is a part of you that wishes he is the one that is leaving those gifts. You can’t just outright ask him, he’ll most likely deny it if you do. So you need to get it out of him without him realizing it. He’s a skilled interrogator, at least according to Peña, but you do have a slight advantage: he’s not going to expect you to be gathering information from him. Besides, you do like a challenge.
Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a couple of the uchuvas, the small orange colored berries, and pop one in your mouth. When Carrillo’s eyes flick up to yours to see what you’re doing, you hold one out to him. He takes it with a wry smile.
“Careful, we may have to ration these.”
“I have a few more.” You wait until he’s focused again on the surveillance pictures before you speak again. “You know, I would love to know where you got those cocadas. The chocolate ones in particular were wonderful.”
He hums distractedly. “There’s a bakery two blocks from here that carries them.”
Okay, that answer doesn’t confirm or deny anything. Damn. Maybe it’s not him then and the slight disappointment that settles in your stomach is surprising. You had wanted it to be him. You go back to looking at the pictures and notice something: the electrical box on the outside of the building. You shuffle through past pictures, taken a week before, and find it: evidence. It’s small, barely noticeable, but it’s there.
“Look,” you put both pictures down in front of Carrillo. “The electrical box had vines and dirt on it two weeks ago, but a week later, the vines are cut back and it’s been cleaned.”
“There it is,” he says with a satisfied smile. “Evidence to support a raid. Well done.”
You can’t help the wide smile that erupts across your face.
A voice from the door shouts to you two. “¿Coronel?” (Colonel?)
“Sí.”(Yes.)
“Deberíamos sacarte en veinte minutos.” (We should have you out in twenty minutes.)
“Gracias, Trujillo.” (Thank you, Trujillo.)
You start gathering up the pictures and put them back into the folder, handing the collected papers and pictures to Carrillo. He takes it with a small smile.
“I wonder what other mysteries we could solve in the next twenty minutes,” he says looking around at the boxes of files surrounding you both.
You sit back against the shelf behind you. “I actually have a mystery that I would like to solve.”
He nods, his facial features schooled behind a mask of indifference. “Okay.”
The question about the cocadas didn’t reveal anything so you try another approach. “I think someone is listening in on my calls.”
“That’s expected when you work in this unit.”
“Oh, I understand that. That’s not what bothers me.” You specifically use the word “bothers” to make it sound like it’s making you uncomfortable. Knowing how much he respects those who work in the unit, the thought of his actions making anyone uncomfortable will not sit well with him. And judging from the small frown and minute shifting he’s done, you’re right.
“What is bothering you then?”
He sounds so disappointed when he asks that question, you want to hug him and tell him that you know it’s him and to please not stop because it’s the sweetest thing that anyone has ever done for you. So you choose your next words even more carefully.
“I’m bothered by the fact that I can’t thank them for their thoughtfulness. Whoever is listening to my conversations is picking up on the things that I want to see, like the orchid, or try, like the fruit and the coffee. I’m particularly excited to see what book appears tomorrow.” You pause for a moment. “Do you have a favorite book, Colonel Carrillo?”
His face is still smooth of emotion. “I do.”
“What’s the title?”
“I guess you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow when I put it on your desk.”
“So it is you.”
“It is.” He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “If you would like me stop-”
“No,” you cut him off. “Please don’t. It’s very nice, very kind.”
“As are you.” He sits up straighter. “Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner tonight?”
“I would love that. I’m going to have to ask my boss if I can leave a little early and he’s kind of a stickler for the job coming first though.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “Let me chat with him. I’m sure we can work something out.”
“I don’t know, he can be quite a hard ass.”
“So I’ve heard.”
You both laugh quietly when the sound of a power drill comes from the door. Most likely they’re trying to dismantle the keypad to manually disengage the deadbolts. Carrillo stands up and reaches down to help you to your feet. Your hand slides easily into his as he tugs you upright. For the briefest moment you think he’s going to kiss you, he’s standing so close and your hands are still clasped together. But then the keypad drops heavily to the floor and startles you both back to the present. Your hands untangle, he picks up the file from the floor, and you both put your professional masks back in place.
“Would seven be a good time for you tonight?” he asks quietly.
“Yes, that would be perfect.”
“I’ll meet you outside your apartment.”
You can’t help but grin at the thought but quickly tamper down the butterflies in your stomach as the deadbolt lock pops and the door swings open. Carrillo motions for you to go first and as you do, Murphy hands you your sneaker.
“Cinderella.”
“Thank you, Agent Murphy.”
Carrillo nods to Trujillo. “See if we can get that fixed before the year is out.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Peña has a downright devious look on his face as he studies yours. “So…what happened?”
You put your shoe back on, leaning down the tie the laces. “We did what you were supposed to be doing…working.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious,” you point to Carrillo’s office. “We found evidence for a raid at an old rubber factory in the jungle. Go.”
He shrugs before moving off in the office’s direction. “I want details.”
“There are no details, asshole.” Well, no details yet at least.
Murphy shakes his head. “Come on, Javi, it’s Carrillo. Can you picture him dating anyone, let alone picking out orchids and sweets?”
“I guess you’re right.” Peña pauses before walking into the office and points at Trujillo who just passed in front of him.
You shrug your shoulders in a “maybe” response, throwing Trujillo under the speculation bus. You’ve just reached your desk when Carrillo comes to his office door to close it and calls over to you.
“Why don’t you head home a little early?”
“Are you sure?”
He gives you a slightly stern look that says “I thought we discussed this already?”
“Thank you, sir.” You pick up the bowl of fruit before heading out the door to get ready for dinner. You need to make sure there’s some cleared space for tomorrow’s offering.
