ROTTING SMELL OF WICKEDNESS

Pacheco immediately jumped in, “I told you…you should never wear those glasses, they make you look like a cop”.

Elvis needed no further convincing so he removed his glasses. Even though I still felt a bit unnerved, I attributed this to my paranoia and just brushed it off.

Days went on before Elvis and I warmed up to each other, each doing our part to make the other comfortable.

He was a wonderful host, regularly taking me out to dinner and “hooking” me up with female companions.

On one such occasion, he introduced me to Linda, a beautiful 20-year-old brunette who became my “go-to” whenever the others weren’t available.

Meanwhile, Dario sent for two “mules”—a plain looking young couple, each with one kilo of cocaine in their stomachs—to arrive in Santo Domingo.

Pacheco escorted them from the airport to their hotel which they couldn’t retrieve from until the cocaine-filled capsules were released from their bodies. It had taken them three days to shit them out.

To Dario, this was typical. But for me, it was disgusting.

When Pacheco received the 2 kilos, he asked Dario and me to go with him to one of the worst ghettos called “El Mercado De La 42” (market of the 42^nd),” a terrible place where drugs were the common daily bread.

The routine consisted of a guy by the name of “Quita Tennis” (translates into gym shoe thief) who would receive the merchandise and disseminate it among his crew. They used to call him “Quita Tennis” because at gun-point he would steal brand name gym shoes from his victims. He was notorious for his sinister thievery in that congested ghetto.

Days later, Dario asked me if I could “hook” him up with a kilo of cocaine from Colombia to Spain since he had a “mule” ready to make the trip and he didn’t want to lose the opportunity.

I made my usual calls and set everything up under the condition that Dario pay me as soon as we arrived in Colombia.

In Spain, his people couldn’t sell the kilo. According to Dario, they complained about it being of poor quality.

Unconvinced and unwilling to accept the failed attempt since I knew the kilo was golden, I decided to send a friend of mine from Russia to Madrid so he could retrieve it and sell it in Moscow.

Of course, Dario was nowhere to be found and the guy was forced to return empty-handed.

I started to grow restless because Dario was proving to be irresponsible and a bad partner. All of a sudden he lacked professionalism but since we were into something bigger, I ignored my gut and just let it go.

During the course of my stay in that hot but beautiful island, strange things continued to unfold.

According to Pacheco, Dario had to travel back to Colombia to send another “mule” to Santo Domingo who turned up to be the same guy who had traveled to Spain.

Once I confronted him, he informed me that the deal went through perfectly and that he had gotten paid in full.

That was it. The lie pushed me to the edge. I couldn’t contain my irritability anymore. Something nasty was brewing and I could feel it invading my senses.

Dario’s wickedness had been lurking but now, little by little, it was starting to come to light. He was playing with my money, my business, and I would put a stop to it.

 

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.