Bogota, Colombia

I arrived in Bogota around 10:00 a.m. It was, and still remains, a beautiful metropolis in the middle of the Andes Mountains more than 8,000 ft. above sea level. 

The city with its magnificent landscapes and people and culture, were always welcoming to me. I had fallen in love with it more than 20 years before I landed. I wondered how I could be so captivated in spirit if I had never been born there. The country always felt like home and its magic and allure was second nature to me.

Julio was waiting for me at the airport. He had arranged a search at customs with a Coronel from the army so everything would run smoothly.

The first thing he told me was that the owner of the merchandise wanted to meet with me at a ranch tucked away deep in the mountains.

I instinctively didn’t like the idea. Owing half a million dollars was reason enough to be kidnapped, or worse, tortured until the debt was paid. Something Colombians in this business are experts at is called “Amarrar” (to tie together to a debt until it is paid in full). Either way, the situation was bad. No matter what, I ran the risk of getting killed even after paying the money. The cartel usually resorted to ending ones life to ensure that no one sought revenge.

Julio convinced me that everything would be ok and I believed him.

We drove passed rivers, mountains and valleys, until we reached a little town called Melgar. Our growling stomachs forced us to eat there before continuing the path to my inevitable death.

Two hours later, we were in Ibague, a city that served as a bridge to the secret ranch in the middle of nowhere.

We parked in front of a tall wall where two guys armed with automatic weapons greeted us. They knew Julio so they opened the gate to let us in.

“El jefe (the boss) is on his way so please make your-selves at home.” A huge man with a deep voice said as he guided us to a splendid swimming pool surrounded by an equally lavish gazebo.

Not long after, Mr. Frank Mantilla arrived with four of his bodyguards. In his 40’s, the man they called “boss” garnished a grey silk scarf around his neck and an American cowboy hat. His look was serious and piercing. After Julio greeted him, he sat down with me.

I explained what had happened in great detail, observing his body language and hoping to get so much as a flinch to know what kind of man he was, and what destiny he held for me. But the man was immobile. He just sat there and listened while polishing a diamond ring he wore on his right pinky finger.

After all was said and done, he got up and signaled Julio to follow him to a private room.

The message he left with him was that I had 48 hours to come up with the money, or else.

Escape

At Houston Airport, everyone looked suspicious to me. I rode the underground train to the concourse that would take me to Mc McAllen, Texas, a border city in-between Reynosa, Mexico. 

It was completely empty and at a stop, a tall man entered and sat next to me. I wondered why he’d do such a thing considering the multitude of abandoned seats.

I was really paranoid. My hands were sweating and my nerves were on edge. The train stopped and the man got off. Minutes later I boarded the plane. A slight sense of relief came over me as soon as it took off into the semi-cloudless air. Soon I’d be in new territory and away from prying eyes.

WELCOME TO MEXICO the airport sign read. I felt exalted this time, especially because I knew the danger was over. Customs ran smoothly and I was treated with more than the usual courtesy given my condition. A police officer hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take me to a hotel. I was tired of walking on crutches and the thought of sinking into a nice clean bed greatly appealed to me.

The next day I woke up to a breakfast spread of “Chilaquiles,” (a typical Mexican dish made of corn tortillas that are cut into quarters and lightly fried and then smothered with green or red salsa or mole over the top) and “Huevos Rancheros” (scrambled eggs with picante sauce, tomatoes and onions).

Not long after, I got ready and called my wife in Cancun.

I remember the tremble in her voice as soon as she was able to speak.

“What did you do…?” she asked, greeting me with panic instead of the warmth I expected.

She explained that a slew of police officers were following her everywhere she went. I immediately hung up and started to feel my heart climb my throat. I didn’t excuse myself or even offered a brief tale of what had occurred. I just left her to come up with her own conclusions.

There was no way I was going to Cancun. I called certain friends in Culiacan, a city known to have some of the most reputable drug traffickers, and they arranged my escape aboard a private plane to Colombia. A few hours later I was in Bogota.