Wrangling the dogs under Pablo's iron grip was a bloodier task than many. Many had tried to flee rather than be caught by the men that Carrillo similarly commanded under his stern hand and instead left crimson footprints leading to their grave ; and Horacio was more than happy to help put them there. Their choices were slim and cruel — come with Carrillo and spend the rest of their bitter lives being tortured, go and meet with Pablo ; with a nose like a bloodhound, would be able to smell the gunpowder smell left behind and stained by any encounter with the police force ; and get put to a swift death. The last option would be a somber, one last walk to the early grave. The bullets in their backs would have either Carrillo's or Escobar's names etched into them ; but at that point, did it matter? Was there any pride in going out either way? The young men promised their families riches and gold — SPECTACULAR EMERALDS AND SILVER NECKLACES — but instead left them with blood-stained shards of glass that gave a lousy resemblance to the diamonds they were promised.
Colonel Carrillo and Pablo Escobar were,
violent murderers. They both frothed at bared teeth at even the slightest chance to end a life ; blood coursed through their veins in an irritating itch until they felt somebody else's. Our man in green here had a safety net ; PATRIOTISM. He did this for his country. His people. His town, his soil. That made up for the stray bullets that found their ways into young kids heads, didn't it? That always brushed away those files of misconduct off those embassy desks.
Criminals like Pacho didn't have such luxuries of seeing things through black and white paperwork ; rather close-up in all its violent glory. Perhaps that's why he looked at Carrillo with just as much disdain in his golden eyes than Horacio did for the criminals that landed in his net. Pacho made no such distinction between the two. They were one and the same. Bold-faced killers, only one wore the medals of his country proudly while he did so.
The cool glass under his callused fingertips soothed the beading sweat on his skin ; at this time of night, the muggy air really set into these small-town bars who turned off their air-conditioning to save it for the day. Furrowed brow speckled with jewels of dew, Horacio tilted his head back to throw down the rest of his whiskey into the back of his throat before lazily pushing his discarded glass towards the ashtray. ❛ I'm letting you live under the condition that you give me worthwhile information on a weekly basis. I'm not asking how much personal time you spend with Pablo, ❜ Car spoke in a heavy voice, accent seeping into every word he spoke.
He tugged out another long cigarette,
before offering the pack to the other.
❛ Who, when and where you spend your time is none of my business, chupamedias. Do you understand me? ❜
Ah, but he'd told him this before, no? Many-a times, many-a places. It never seemed to sit quite right with Pacho, if those bright, golden-boy eyes were an obvious indicator. There was barely a second to react before Carrillo reached across their small, shared table with a swift movement, thick fingers wrapping around Pacho's hand to keep it pinned to the table. Before he put the cigarette to his lips, Horacio brought it close to the other's warm skin and pressed the sizzling end into the back of his palm. The embers seeped into Pacho's skin ; flesh burning in a cruel reminder before the colonel finally let go. His cigarette scented with burnt human flesh, he bought it to his lips anyway.
Can't make a big scene about it though, can we? One wrong move and those soldiers that followed Carrillo around like lost dogs will have their guns pressed to your head faster than you can say coño.
The older of the pair seemed unfazed ; an ugly cry to the calluses of war.
❛ You're only useful to me when you have information to give. ❜
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