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careful with your inventory. That is what he calls it, ‘El Capo’s inventory.’”
    “So if there is no waste of my inventory, what am I to conclude?”
    “One of the workers is stealing from you? Not Miguel. Miguel is too …”
    But his voice trailed off. It had to be Miguel. The workers operated naked in the refinery, so they left with nothing. Miguel controlled the keys, the guns, and the guards.
    Francisco wondered how he had not seen it. This was his first lesson in how friendship can blind others to your actions and how you can be blinded if you allow yourself to be.
    Pablo watched the waves of recognition ripple across Francisco’s face and felt a swelling of pride. Pablo handed Francisco a pistol.
    “A fish rots from its head. Miguel is the head of the refinery, and if this rot continues, it will eat us alive. Take care of him and whoever you think is helping him. Better to kill too many than too few.” Pablo then nodded to a bodyguard, who would drive Francisco back to the refinery.
    The ride to the refinery took an hour bouncing across unpaved trails. Francisco thought about his risks in the confrontation. Who was helping Miguel? There was one other Panamanian in the operation, a guard who Francisco had noticed talking animatedly, yet in hushed tones, with Miguel on more than one occasion; he had thought nothing of it at the time. Now, he decided the guard was the accomplice and would have to die with Miguel.
    At the refinery, Francisco found the guard on duty. He walked straight up to him and put a bullet in the side of his head before anyone realized he was carrying a pistol. When Miguel ran into the room to investigate the sound, he found Francisco kneeling beside his bleeding confidant. He ran and kneeled beside Francisco.
    “Oh no. Francisco, there is so much blood. Do you know what happened?”
    Miguel looked frantically into Francisco’s eyes and, seeing the determination, backed away. But not fast or far enough. The pistol kicked in Francisco’s teenage hands as he unloaded the cartridge into his friend.

    IT WAS HARD for Francisco to believe so much time had passed. Pablo had been dead for over twenty years. Francisco’s older brother a few months longer. In El Capo’s death, a Colombian pulled the trigger, but the
norteamericanos
told him where to stand. The circumstances around his brother’s death, long a mystery, were recently illuminated to show that a
norteamericano
actually pulled that trigger.
    How to use this new information weighed greatly on Francisco’s mind. He, like the leader of the country, had blood on his own hands and had killed many people’s brothers and uncles. Blood followed power and wealth. Now, with the treaty’s new freedoms, opportunities were opening, there would be new alignments with new partners and, inevitably, new pursuers. A message from a timeless memory of the wrongs they suffered would serve his family well. Exacting revenge against the
norteamericanos
in their homes was no longer a daydream but a bloody message to deliver that would provide protection.
    Today, as always, Francisco wore linen pants and a white guayabera and moved briskly and gracefully. By sight, those observing him could intuit half of his life accurately. Strong swimmer. Amateur car racer. Playboy. Although the government officials claimed to never know his location, he was often photographed with young starlets, whose gowns seemed on the verge of dropping to the floor. If those observing him only heard his name, they would know the other half of his life. Most then averted their eyes to not catch his notice. Even the young thrill seekers filled with machismo treaded silently. There was a saying in Cartagena and Bogotá:
“Si los de Medellín aman
tanto a los Escobar, el resto del mundo les tiene miedo.”
The fear the Escobars inspired outside Medellín provided a level of safety that Francisco appreciated. His trip to the United States should write the next chapter in his