“Tell me, my friend, have we met before?”
I look at him, genuinely trying to remember him… but I don’t. “Not that I know of,” I say, shrugging.
“Hmmm. You look familiar to me… tell me, what is it that you do for a living?”
My eyes narrow as I try to figure this whole thing out. Does he know me? Is he playing with me? Am I in any immediate danger here?
“I own a bar in Texas,” I reply after a moment, deciding there’s no harm in being honest.
He laughs. “Excellent. A businessman, like myself. But, please, indulge me… what did you do before you owned a bar in Texas?”
Now I’m suspicious. I look at him again, doing my best to remember him from somewhere, but the throbbing in my skull is making thinking difficult.
“Why the interest in my life story?” I ask, evasively.
His smile fades slightly. “Because I like to know who’s trespassing in my domain.”
I relax into the chair a little, casually glancing at the armed men in the room. There’s a palpable tension in the room now, and I know I’m not getting out of here by fighting.
“Okay,” I say. “My name is Adrian Hell… I’m—”
The guy claps his hands and laughs, looking around for an audience. He shakes his finger at me, as if he knew all along who I was, he was just waiting for me to admit it.
“I knew you looked familiar!” he exclaims. “An old friend of mine hired you once, many years ago.”
I smile uncomfortably. “Huh… small world.”
“I’m Carlos Vega — welcome to my humble home.” He gestures to the room around us, which is anything but humble. “What brings you to Colombia, my friend?”
I shrug. “It’s a long story…”
Vega turns and looks at one of his men, saying something I don’t understand. The guy disappears, returning moments later with two bottles of beer, dripping in condensation. He hands me one and his boss the other.
“Drink — tell me,” Vega says.
I’m not one to turn down a free beer, even if it is for breakfast, so I take a long, refreshing swig and explain — as vaguely as possible — what I’m doing in Colombia.
“My plane was hijacked by a small military unit and re-directed to the airstrip where your men found me. I was flying back from New York, where I’d been working a contract. I’ve retired, but it was a favor for an old friend, so I felt obliged, y’know. Anyway, my target managed to escape, annoyingly. I was heading home to plan my next approach. These soldiers accused me of stealing something from the U.S. government — which I hadn’t. We argued, and then they killed their own leader and blew up my plane, leaving me for dead.”
Finishing his beer and putting the bottle carefully down on the glass table, Vega regards me silently for a moment before replying.
“That is… quite a story, my friend,” he says. “Tell me, why would they think you’d stolen something if you hadn’t?”
I shrug. “You got me.”
“It’s just they don’t sound like the kind of people who would make a mistake about such things… they must’ve been pretty certain you were their man, no?”
I try to play things as innocently as I can.
“Maybe there’s more to my contract than I realize?” I say, as if discussing the situation with a colleague. “My friend that I’m doing the job for has always been somewhat questionable, as far as his business dealings are concerned.”
Vega is silent for a few moments, and then he stands and smiles. “Well, my friend, you can relax. You are my guest here, and I will help you as much as I can.”
Taking my cue, I stand also, extending my hand, which he shakes.
“I appreciate that, Carlos, thank you,” I say. “I don’t suppose you’ve got my bag, have you? I could do with making a call, and my phone’s in there.”
“But of course,” he says, nodding at another of his men, who leaves the room without a word. “Though I must warn you, there are eyes everywhere here, and I have a jamming system in place, stopping any signal coming into my house. Your phone will not work here, Adrian Hell.”
“Bit extreme, isn’t it?”
“I simply value my privacy.”
The man returns holding my bag, which he hands to me. I throw it over my shoulder and notice immediately it’s a lot lighter than I remember. Vega must’ve seen the look of confusion on my face, as he holds his hands up and smiles.
“My apologies,” he says. “We did search through your belongings, purely as a security measure. Your weapons have been confiscated while you’re a guest in my house. I have no issue returning them to you when you leave.”
I give him a curt, understanding nod. “That’s fair enough,” I reply, although I’m quietly annoyed that I don’t have my guns close to hand. There’s something not quite right here, but I can’t put my finger on it. But typically, in my limited experience of such things, men who live in Colombia in big houses surrounded my armed bodyguards aren’t usually this friendly toward strangers…
He smiles. “Come, my friend, let me show you around.”
He places his right hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me toward the door on the left, facing the chair I woke up in. I’ll play along for now. Besides, I don’t really have much choice — I’m unarmed, completely surrounded, and cut off from the outside world. I just hope an opportunity presents itself soon for me to get the hell out of Dodge.
We walk out of the room side by side. His men don’t follow us, and as we walk down a wide hallway, I can see why. Vega has men everywhere. Large windows fill the right hand wall, offering a stunning view of the ocean, as well as the forestry on the property. On the left wall, opposite, there are various doors — all closed with a man stationed outside, holding an AK-47 loosely at their side.
“You get much trouble in these parts?” I ask, gesturing to the men as we pass.
“Not so much nowadays,” he confesses. “But one must keep up appearances all the same. I run a very profitable business here, Adrian. And sometimes people get jealous of what they don’t have, you understand?”
“I do,” I reply, nodding slowly.
We walk into another large living room, which looks as equally opulent as the last one. Four bikini-clad women sit huddled together on a large, brown leather sofa in the middle of the room. There’s a rectangular block of silver foil on the table in front of them, sliced open with a knife — the cocaine spilling out of it. The women are all laughing and look up as we enter.
“Ladies, I want you to meet my guest,” says Vega, walking over to them and gesturing to me. “This is Adrian Hell.”
They all look over at me, smile and wave coyly, and then whisper among themselves, giggling and glancing back at me. I want to say they’re checking me out, but they’re speaking so fast, and so Spanish, I honestly have no clue what they’re saying. I wave reluctantly at them.
“Hi, ladies,” I say.
There are no armed men in this room, but there are three large floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side, offering a great view of the gardens at the back of the house. I’m aware that Vega is saying something to me, but I’ve zoned out — too busy looking out the window and piecing everything together…
The armed guards, the women, the drugs, the remote location and lavish house…
Given what I know of modern-day politics, I can’t see how this is possible, but I’m almost certain Carlos Vega is a cartel drug lord.
I thought all the cartels had shut down, or turned into legitimate businesses, following President Cunningham’s economic revolution… Why on earth would a cartel still be operating in Colombia, like it was the good ol’ days? They can’t possibly be making any money, as the main source of income from any cartel was cocaine, and nowadays you can buy that over the counter from the local Seven-Eleven… But Vega’s clearly doing very well for himself. How’s he making money?