The Debriefing

Nine

Eyes on Elena Velasquez, Manuel Santos received a call. A lieutenant was telling him that the abandoned warehouse outside of town was ready. The tools, the acid.

The neighborhood in which the building was located was largely deserted but the aide had nonetheless selected a place with thick walls. It was astonishing how loud the human voice could be when screaming. Santos wore his shooting earplugs.

The man added that it featured a pit that would be a convenient grave. The bags of quick-dry concrete had been delivered. Her body would never be discovered.

“Thank you,” Santos told him. Although his monotone voice might have detracted from the praise in anyone else, to receive any gratitude from Manual Santos, La Piedra, was a coup indeed. The man thanked him for the thank-you and they disconnected.

In front of the café, the voluptuous Elena Velasquez was leaning forward, examining her canvas.

The woman who was such a threat to the Cardozo cartel was dressed like a gypsy, a black lace blouse, cut quite low, and a dramatic red-and-black flowered skirt. Flamenco came immediately to Santos’s mind. She wore a broad-brimmed dark-green hat, sprouting a pretentious feather. Her cowboy boots were scuffed brown leather. Her glasses frames were purple.

Elena’s face was matte textured and, in places, blotched but in structure it was fashion-model beautiful. Santos could almost imagine making love to her.

He and the two men in the back seat climbed from his SUV. Santos looked up and down the street. All clear. He nodded to Garcia, who remained behind the wheel, the engine idling. The man called the other vehicle, and three of those occupants got out, two armed and one manning a heavy-duty syringe filled with propofol. The needle was thick, which resulted in a very painful injection, but it was perfect for struggling victims; a broken needle would be inconvenient.

Elena would be unconscious, hog-tied and in the back of the vehicle within seconds. Then to the warehouse. The men had drawn straws to see who would be lucky enough to carry her to the SUV — the groping, of course.

The men advanced slowly, as Elena sat back and selected a brush. She squinted then leaned toward the canvas — a landscape — and began to dab. How meticulous she was. In his passionless world, the hunger for art was perhaps the most perplexing to him. Taking pigments, mashing them with oil or plastic and spreading them on a piece of canvas.

What was the point? At least a photograph was a two-dimensional version of the truth. But painting? It was all a lie. A boring lie.

He studied the scene. Pedestrians, a dog walker, a window washer, six, no seven lunchers at Margarette, the restaurant in front of which Elena sat. Santos also noted two couples in love, oblivious to the world around them. There was an older husband and wife with a younger woman — all their faces revealed tension. Santos, who had never been married, wondered if the couple was getting divorced because he had found someone younger, and they were breaking the news to the daughter.

The men split into two groups and advanced. Santos stopped, the general, frozen like a statue, observing his operation.

La Piedra...

Santos thought of what lay ahead for Elena. He’d start on the fingers first, with the razor and acid. The pain was quite astonishing (he’d tried it on himself, just to see). In her case, though, the idea of destroying the fingers that allowed her to satisfy her passion would possibly be more effective in getting her to give up the names of anybody with the cartel who had willingly or accidentally shared information with her (they would die too, of course).

He pictured the slices, the burns... and was pleased that in his heart, his soul and possibly his dick, he felt a slight stirring at the image of her screaming in pain. Manuel Santos always held out the hope that he wasn’t forever damned.