8. Bogotá
bogotá
Scarlett
B ogotá is a massive, sprawling city on the roof of the world, eight and a half thousand feet above sea level; that's more than a mile and a half, for those bad at math. Like a lot of South American metropolises, it's an extraordinarily complex place. Home to ten million residents. For reference, New York City is home to twenty million; Bogotá has an area of about six hundred some square miles; NYC? 4600 square miles.
There's no metro. The streets and sidewalks are…not great. It's a dangerous place. Even getting in a cab can get you robbed. But there's a thriving nightlife. Spectacular museums. Amazing food, from hole-in-the-wall dives and greasy spoons to Michelin-starred establishments. Art. Music. Theater. Wonderful people. Horrible people. One minute, the sun is unfiltered and seems a few mere feet away, blazing mercilessly down on your roasting skull, and then you come out from the restaurant and it's fifteen degrees colder and raining. Or it's foggy for days and days, only to have the sun burn away the fog and beat down on you like a hammer on an anvil once more.
Driving through Bogotá is not for the faint of heart.
It's a great place to disappear, especially for me. For a massive white guy missing a shirt and covered in scars? Not so much.
I'm driving. Our rifles are on the floor of the second row, not exactly out of sight but within easy reach when shit hits the fan, as it inevitably will. We both are operating under the assumption that Solomon's enemies have eyes and ears all over this city, and it's only a matter of time before they catch up with us. Staying ahead of them in the jungle was one thing—the rugged terrain and lack of established roads worked both in our favor and against us: few people to worry about as collateral damage, easy to lose your pursuers if you're crafty and skillful. But on the other hand, there are only so many roads, and if you want to get anywhere other than to more hot, wet, unforgiving, brutal jungle, you are limited to those roads, and therefore, with a little logistical machination, you can easily set up choke points. We encountered three of them between our little…moment and the city. Fortunately, Sol and I are old pros, and a four-man choke point is child's play: stop, I jump out, Sol drives toward the choke point while I circle through the forest and hit them from the flank. They're focused on him, and I light 'em up— pop-pop-pop ; done.
But here in the city, anyone can be a spotter or an informant. That little old granny shopping for plantains? Follow her around the corner, and you'll see her sending a text to someone she's never met, letting them know she just saw a gringo and a Latina woman in military gear. That message gets passed along to someone higher up, and that higher-up makes a call, and then suddenly, there's a pair of cars behind you full of men with Uzis, hosing you down with .22 rounds as they zip past you.
No one even calls the cops when that happens. The homeless guy taking a shit on the curb won’t even look up.
This is what we're anticipating. Which means we have to play it smart if we want to get out of this alive. The other problem is that neither of us, Sol especially, is going to be content with merely getting out alive. Sol wants answers.
They've woken up and pissed off WindWalker. Not smart.
We wind slowly through the narrow, choked streets. Sol is hunched low in the seat, my hat on his head, brim tugged down.
"We gotta change cars and clothes," Sol says. "You need to look like a local, and I need to at least try to stand out a little less."
I nod, scanning the mirrors for any sign of a tail. We've only been in-city for thirty minutes, but lax situational awareness gets you killed every single time, so my head is on a swivel. "Clothes first," I say. "You're gonna stand out, but you at least need a shirt. Body like that is gonna draw eyes."
He just snorts. "I'm a six-foot blond, white guy."
"Who’s built like fucking Adonis and covered in burns, bullet holes, and knife scars. Plus, you move like a soldier. People around here are attuned to that in a way most Americans aren't."
Sol shoots me a wry look. "Not my first day downrange, babe."
"Yeah, but how many times have you been the prey?"
He frowns. "Hmm. Good point."
"You gotta stop thinking like this is an op and start prioritizing some semblance of anonymity. We can't just get into gunfights, and you need to stay low and keep your mouth shut. Act like you don't know a lick of Spanish."
He smirks at me. "Yes, boss."
I roll my eyes at him. "Oh, shut up."
"Told you—turns me on when you order me around."
"Not the time or place for you to think with Mr. Willy, Solomon."
He taps my bicep with the back of his hand and points. "There. Clothes."
It's a bodega-style storefront opening directly onto the road, racks of brightly colored clothing of all sizes and styles jammed into every available square of wall space, from handmade indigenous-style garb to tourist trash with poorly translated English sayings and bad brand-name knockoffs.
He grabs my hand before I can exit. "If you buy me something stupid and make me look like some kind of gringo tourist, I'm gonna be pissed the fuck off, Scar."
I grin. "Would I do that?"
He stares, blank and droll. “Remember Quetzaltenango?"
I roll my eyes and blow an annoyed raspberry. "I fuckin told you, it was all they had, asshole. It was either the Hawaiian shirt in a double XL or a white T-shirt with a quetzal on it in extra small."
"I find that hard to believe."
"Whose fault is it your luggage got blown up?" I ask. "Certainly not mine. I didn't get made, you did. I didn't get in a high-speed car chase, you did."
"The car chase wasn't the fucking problem," he grumbles. "It was the motherfucking RPG that ended it."
"Oh, you mean the RPG that almost caused an international incident? That RPG?"
"Fuck off. I didn't shoot the damn thing at myself, you know."
"You splashed a mark in the middle of our hotel foyer in broad daylight. With an unsuppressed weapon."
"I wasn't issued a fucking suppressor, Scarlett."
“Oh, I'm sorry, I must have mistaken you for a professional." I grin at him.
He doesn’t seem to think it's funny, though. "I still don't know how that fuckstick ID'd me. And what was I supposed to do? He shot first!"
"Okay, Han Solo."
"Fuck you. Han shot first. Everyone knows that. I did not shoot first in that situation."
I just laugh. "Sit tight, babe. I'll see what I can find for us. Try not to get in trouble, yeah?"
He holds up his hands and then crosses his arms over his chest. "Sitting here. Minding my own fucking business. Just hurry up. The bullet holes in this thing ain’t exactly my idea of incognito."
“Yeah, yeah," I say. "Just sit tight and don’t start any shit."
I leave the engine running and jog across the street. The little shop is empty except for the proprietor, an elderly woman with a lot of wrinkles and not enough teeth. She ignores me completely as I flip through the racks, looking for suitable options for both of us. Sol is easy enough—a baggy pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized black T-shirt with FBI in big white block iron-on letters. He's gonna hate it, and it'll be funny. But it is the best option in terms of size. It's just not going to be his idea of incognito. It's also just a temporary solution to get him out of his filthy, blood-stained blue jeans that could probably walk away on their own at this point. We can hit a mall later and get him real clothing. For myself, the options are more limited. Bikinis, scoop neck T-shirts, sundresses, khaki booty shorts, tank tops…goddammit.
I opt for the least awful option for myself, pay in Colombian Pesos, and get back to Sol.
I toss the bag on his lap as I slide behind the wheel. "Slim pickin's again," I say. "But it'll do for now."
Sol holds up the shirt I got him, eyebrow arched at me. "Really?"
"I mean, it's not CIA?" I say, snickering. "And trust me, my options were even worse."
He starts pawing through to see, but I snatch the bag from him and toss it in the back. "Nope. You're gonna have to be surprised."
His arched eyebrow communicates wry amusement. "Well, now I'm curious."
I roll my eyes. "You'll see soon enough. We need to ditch this ride and find a room somewhere."
I pull away from the curb, and we spend another half an hour wandering the city at random—I'm looking for something, and I'll know it when I see it. We get into a gnarly barrio on the far northern outskirts, the kind of place even I would hesitate to enter even in broad daylight. If you don't live here, you don't belong here. And we definitely don't belong here. But I have a plan.
There.
A handful of young men are clustered around their parked cars, the hoods and trunks open, rap music bumping. Smoke billows, bottles are passed. I park a good twenty feet away and turn to Sol.
"Stay here, stay low, and trust me."
He eyes me. "I don't like the sound of that."
I grin. "I've got this, babe."
He shakes his head, returning my grin. "Fine. But if shit goes sideways, I'm jumping in."
“You won't need to."
"This isn't another flash-and-shoot plan, is it?" he asks.
I roll my eyes. "No, Solomon, it’s not. It's a ‘go over there and make a deal’ situation. No flashing or shooting required. Hopefully."
I make sure my pistol is loose in the holster at my thigh, though, and peel off a roll of high-value pesos and American hundreds.
I exit the Range Rover and saunter toward them. The idle chatter, playful shoving, and raucous laughter silences as I approach, and several hands go to grips at waistbands. I keep my hands out and visible, away from my gun.
"Hey, guys," I say in Spanish. "Got a minute?"
No one answers, but no one shoots, either.
I stop some six feet away, hands visible, posture loose and relaxed. I gesture at the SUV. "Need a different car. Trade plus cash."
One of the young men steps forward, assessing me both as a female and as a threat. "Is it hot?"
"Yeah, but I promise, no cops are looking for it."
"Then who?"
"Not the cops."
He peers past me at Solomon in the passenger seat. "Who's he?"
"My boyfriend."
He smirks. "You got an American boyfriend?"
I just shrug.
"I can be your boyfriend." He gives me a leering wink.
Careful to keep my hand away from my gun, I reach into my pocket and pull out the roll of American currency. “I need a car. Something that won't take a shit and that no one is looking for."
He eyes my gun and then me again, this time with a long, raking scan of my body. "What if I don't want money?"
I keep my gaze cool, expressionless. "I'm not part of the deal, kid. You wouldn't last ten minutes with me anyway."
His friends all laugh, and even he grins at me. "Maybe I would. But I don't mean you."
"Do you have a car?"
He shrugs. "I might."
"Get it. When I see it, we can make a deal."
"I want a gun."
I just laugh. “I’m not giving you my gun."
Another shrug. "Then no car."
I sigh. "I might have something else for you, though." I jerk my head for him to follow me.
I make a point of not looking back, even though my neck prickles. This could turn on us at any moment. Guys like this are predators; they can smell fear.
He follows me, and Sol watches us approach, eyebrows knotted. The windows are open, so I murmur in English: "Stay cool. It's under control."
"What are you doing?" Sol demands.
"Making a deal. Shut the fuck up."
I go to the rear driver's side door, yank it open, and indicate for the guy to take a look: there are two AKs, the Dragunov rifle, several handguns, and a very battered Vietnam-era M16.
"I keep the rifle and one AK and our supplies. You keep the rest of the guns and the car."
"Scar—" Sol cuts in.
"Shut—the fuck—up," I snap.
The guy glances at me, and then Sol. "American no like give me the guns, hey?" he says in surprisingly passable English.
"Ignore him. You're making the deal with me." I hold his eyes. “That's a lot of hardware, my friend." I stick to Spanish.
He nods slowly. "I think I don't want to know where you got these."
“No, you don't. Good news for you is the previous owners won't be coming looking for them any time soon."
He eyes the mud on the tires and rocker panels. "Some bad men out there." He eyes me. "Some people even we don't fuck with."
I shrug. "They won't be interested in you. Anyone comes asking about an American and a lady like me, you tell them the truth. You tell them where we came from, where we went, anything they want to know. They want us, not you."
"I don't like answering questions." His eyes are hard, cold.
I shrug. "Then don't. I don't give a fuck, kid. I need a car, that's it. You want my advice, take the deal. But get rid of the car and the guns fast."
He nods. "Okay. Deal. Wait here." He goes back to his friends and they circle up, confer quietly for a moment, and then our dealmaker jogs away.
Sol sighs at me. "We're giving guns to thugs, now?"
I laugh. “That's rich, coming from you. We supported an operation that brought fucking cases full of hardware to people who make these kids look like angels, Sol. Don’t go developing a conscience, now."
"I was following orders."
"So was I. But you and I both knew some of the shit we did was shady as fuck, Sol. Don’t bullshit me with the whole ‘I was just following orders.' We destabilized a whole fucking regime. Innocent people fucking died because we were ‘ just following orders .’”
He looks away. "And I got out."
“And I've got no out, Solomon," I snap. "Unless your boss wants to take me on and brand me, too."
"You don't need a brand, Scarlett." His eyes search me.
"No?"
A shake of his head. "Nope. Just need me."
"You?"
“Me. Or, us, to be specific." A shrug. "And the willingness to forsake everything you have, everyone you know, and everything you once were."
"So I can join the club…but only as your little woman, is that it?" I growl.
He laughs. "If you wanna look at it like that."
"Fuck that. I'll take the brand, Sol. That's my way in."
"Not up to me, but I'll talk to Inez."
"You can't talk to the boss directly?" I ask.
"Nope. Don't know the first thing about him. I don’t know his name, where he comes from, what his end goal is, where he got his money, nothing. Never laid eyes on him. Never heard his voice. For all I know, he doesn't exist. All I've got is Inez's word for it, and that's always been good enough for me. I'm loyal to him because he's kept his side of the deal. Gave me a new lease on life, and for that, I'm loyal."
I sigh, frowning. "Weird. It's a weird situation, Sol."
A shrug. "Yeah, I guess. But we take orders from mystery men in DC all the time, right? Some suit in the Pentagon or wherever decides some drug lord needs to be taken out, and they send us. How do we know he's a drug lord? We don’t. We follow orders and take the word of our superiors. This is no different. Only the orders are ‘keep your head down and be cool,’ not put bullets in people's fucking skulls."
I laugh. "Well, when you put it that way…" I roll my shoulder and sigh. "If I’m giving everything up for you, I want the fucking brand. I'll do it for you, but I'll do it with you. As your equal."
"And like I said, that’s not my decision. But I get you, and I’ll make that clear to Inez." He smiles at me. "It'll be good, babe. Promise."
A few minutes later, a small red Toyota pickup appears, and our guy slides out, tucking a handgun in the waistband at the small of his back. We make short work of transferring our supplies to the bed, and we shoulder our rifles.
"Anyone looking for the truck?" I ask.
The young man shakes his head. "No, it's clean."
I shake his hand. "Remember, the people after us are bad-bad. Don't fuck with them. It's not worth it."
He just grins savagely. "They don't wanna fuck with us, either.” He gestures around.
I follow his gesture—in every window and doorway and shadow around us, there's a face watching, and I assume each of them is armed and just waiting for us to pose a threat. We'd be lit up in a split second.
I nod. "Just be careful. We appreciate the business."
He jerks his chin up at me and turns away—we're dismissed. Sol climbs into the passenger seat, and I take the wheel.
"Now we need to get off the street and find somewhere to get some rest," Sol says. "And maybe some hot food."
I smirk at him. "Anything else you need, princess? A massage and a latte?"
"Well, since you're offering, I'll take a six-pack of Corona, a porterhouse steak, and a blowjob." He grins at me, winking.
I roll my eyes. "Yeah, I'll get right on that. I can maybe figure out one of the three."
For the next hour, we weave slowly around the outskirts of the city, watching for signs of a shadow or pursuit.
Sol glances at me. "You have any contacts here?"
I shrug. "Nope. Used to, but he was the unfortunate recipient of a Colombian Necktie."
"Eventually, I'll need a phone so I can contact Inez." He's been keeping his head down, slunk low in the seat, brim tugged as far down as possible. Even so, people on the street notice him and whisper. "We gotta get off the streets, Scar," he repeats. “I’m getting noticed."
"Working on it," I mumble.
He frowns. "So far, all we've done is cruise through increasingly shitty barrios."
I glare at him. "You wanna drive?"
"Just saying."
"Well, just say less. This ain't fuckin' amateur hour, Sol. I know what the fuck I'm doing."
In truth, I have a bad feeling. A pit in my stomach. Rising hackles.
I glance at Sol. "Tell me you feel it, too."
Instead of answering, he checks the load of his rifle mag, pulls the charging handle, and then checks and racks his pistol.
"Hold the wheel," I say.
He keeps us going straight while I check my firearms and get them ready for action. We both set spare mags for long and short guns near to hand.
We’re crawling down a rutted dirt road between old, crumbling brick buildings that open directly on the road, which is muddy from the recent splat of rain that just ended. A couple of younger women, wet and bedraggled and annoyed, barely glance at us as we pass them. On our left, an elderly face appears in a second-story window, cell phone held to his ear, his eyes following us. A moment later, he slams the shutters closed.
A beige sedan crosses the street a hundred yards ahead—the driver's eyes pin us as he crosses, and he whips a cell phone up, hits a speed dial contact, and puts it to his ear.
"Shit, shit, shit," I mumble. "They're onto us."
"No shit." Sol leans forward, rifle held tight to his torso, the butt up near his right ear, barrel between his knees. "Turn here." He indicates an intersection coming up.
I hang a sharp right and gun the motor; mud sprays and we lurch forward, the back end slewing and fishtailing before I let off the accelerator long enough for the tires to catch. I turn left at the next intersection, left again, and a third time, coming back to the road we'd been on originally, where I stop.
A truck much like ours rolls past, the bed stuffed with armed men. One of them spots us, whacking the roof of the cab and shouting.
"Switch with me," I snap.
I shove the door open as Sol does the same, and we sprint around the car in what has been called, for reasons I've never understood, a Chinese fire drill; it just sounds racist in ways I can't quite pinpoint. Sol shoves his rifle between the door and his seat, jerks the shifter into gear, and takes off in reverse.
I sit in the open window, ass on the sill, rifle aimed over the cab. I crack off a trio of quick shots, putting one through the engine blocks, dropping one of the shooters in the bed with a headshot, and missing totally with the third, the round cracking into the side of a building.
"Pulling around," Sol says. "Hang on."
I slip back down to the seat and grab the oh-shit handle as he slams on the brakes, whips the steering wheel around, shoves the shifter into first, and then nails the accelerator again, pulling off a clean J-turn.
Once more, I lean out the window, now aiming behind us as rounds whizz overhead, missing wildly. I don’t bother trying to aim at anyone, instead pouring a layer of suppressing fire at them. I manage to wing one and hole the engine block again, which is now spewing smoke and steam.
"Nice shooting," Sol says, grinning at me. "Saw that headshot."
I grin back. "That one was lucky."
Sol turns at random, driving as fast as possible, jamming on the brakes at the last second and gunning it halfway through the turn, putting as much distance between us and the erstwhile pursuit as possible.
"Head south," I tell Sol. "Toward city center. We need to disappear, and we can't out here."
"Then why have we spent the last hour trolling the outskirts?" he asks.
I roll my eyes. “You’ve been gone too long. We had to pull them out of hiding. See what their reaction time is between spotting us and putting men on our six."
I can tell he's pissed at himself for missing that. "Fuck," he snarls. "Should've thought of that myself."
I reach out and pat his thigh. "You're a bouncer, now, Sol. Those instincts need to stay honed or you lose them. You're with me, babe. We're good."
Sol meanders indirectly south into the center of Bogotá; the buildings get nicer and newer, the roads are paved, and traffic is thicker, with nicer cars and more pedestrians on the sidewalks.
"There," I say after a good twenty minutes of random turns. "A hostel."
He spots what I've seen—a sign advertising rooms for rent with private, off-street parking. Sol circles the block twice before pulling into the lot and parking the truck in a spot not easily visible from the road.
There's a tattered gray wool blanket shoved behind the passenger seat and the rear wall of the cab, which we use to hide the rifles, keeping our pistols in our waistbands hidden behind our shirts. Sol carries the cooler with our food and the carton of water, following me to the clerk's desk.
I get us a room; Sol waits behind me, head down while I negotiate. Our room is a third-floor corner, with a single twin bed. The windows are filmy with grime, and the floors are somewhat less than clean, but an examination of the bedding assures me we won't get bedbugs, at least.
I point at the bed. "You rest. You're still healing. I'm gonna change and find us food."
He rolls his eyes at me but sits on the edge of the bed and removes his boots and socks with a relieved sigh. "A real fucking bed."
I strip down to my skivvies and pull on the outfit I got myself.
"Not a fucking word," I snap at Sol, whose eyes are wide.
Khaki booty shorts at least a size too small, leaving the lower third of my ass cheeks hanging out, with a tight scoop neck T-shirt.
"It was this or a fucking dress." I wiggle my hips and tug at the hem of the shorts, vainly trying to cover more of my ass.
He shrugs. "You picked the place, babe."
"I fucking know," I growl. "Who the hell dresses like this, anyway? Jesus."
He grins. "Hey, I’m not hating the view."
I sigh, pushing and pulling at my boobs. "I almost have cleavage in this stupid shirt."
"If you had a better bra, you would have cleavage," he points out.
"Helpful, Sol, thanks," I deadpan. "I had no idea how boobs work. What would I do without you?"
"I mean, even out of uniform, you don't typically go for this kind of look," he says, which is as tactfully as he could have phrased that particular sentiment.
“Slutty, you mean?"
He snorts. "This is several degrees away from slutty, babe. Just sayin’.”
I turn my ass to him and give the undersides of my butt a tap with both hands. "Oh, really? Do tell."
He rolls his eyes. "Okay, it's a little slutty."
"I'm a fucking top-tier operator, not some two-bit trollop trolling for rich dick at a nightclub."
Sol cackles at this. "Hate to break it to you, babe, but if you were a two-bit trollop trolling for rich dick at a nightclub, you wouldn’t be wearing that."
I frown. "Oh? Then what would I be wearing?"
"A little black or red dress. Lots of cleavage, more ass hanging out, and the highest heels possible."
"You're an expert in this, are you?"
He grins. "I work at a nightclub frequented by rich dicks and two-bit trollops, Scarlett. So yeah, I kinda am."
"Think I'd snag a rich dick?" I ask, unable to help my curiosity.
Sol blinks at me. "How'm I supposed to answer that, babe?"
"Truthfully. If I was a honey trap…"
"Scar, c'mon."
I grin at him. "Too pussy to answer?"
He rolls his eyes. "No. But you're shit-stirring. That's not the kind of agent you are."
"No shit, Sherlock."
"Then don’t ask dumb fuckin' questions. You're not that girl, babe. You wanted to, sure, you could flirt your way into pretty much anyone’s bed. You'd hate every second of it, though."
I tug at the shorts again. "Fuck, this is so uncomfortable. I’ve never understood dressing like this."
Sol just laughs. "Well, you look hot."
I toss the bag at him. "Your turn."
He peels out of his jeans, and we both laugh when he can, in fact, stand them up on end.
Now stark naked, he steps into the baggy gray sweatpants, which I’d assumed would be too big for him. I seem to have underestimated his size, though, because while they hang to his heels, they cling to his massive thighs.
And his cock. Each step makes it sway and bounce behind the gray cotton.
I grin at him. "I approve."
"I bet you do," he mumbles.
“Hot men in gray sweatpants is a whole thing, and you could be the poster boy for it," I say. "Not that your ego needs any help."
He pulls the shirt on, which doesn't do much for my raging libido—it stretches around his chest and arms, only serving to highlight the sculpted perfection of his body.
He swaggers over to me, putting his body against mine. His hands cup my ass and pull me to him, his lips grazing mine. "Keep looking at me like that, Scar. See what happens."
"Threaten me with a good time, why don't you," I murmur back.
"Food, Scarlett. Hot food."
"Then let go of my ass."
He does, and I back out of his hold, shoving my gun into my waistband. Sol barks a laugh. "Not exactly hiding it with that shirt, honey."
I shrug. "I'm not going out there unarmed, so unless you have a smaller one somewhere that I don't know about, this is what it is."
I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the knob, glancing back at him. "I feel you staring at my ass, Sol."
"What can I say? Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave."
I cackle at this. "That old line? Really?”
"Old but good, babe."
"Yeah, like you."
He splutters indignantly. "Old? The fuck you say."
I wink at him. “Teasing, Sol. Just teasing."
"Get out of here," he says, waving me onward with a flip of both hands. "Before I tie you to the bed and have my wicked away with you."
"One, I'd like to see you try to tie me up. Two, a threat is supposed to be a deterrent, not a temptation."
On that note, I head out and down to street level in search of a hot meal.