The Paper Swan(43)

El Charro.

The name jump-started Damian’s stone cold heart. He looked from the driver to Cantina Man and back again, as a sick, twisted realization hit him.

Cantina Man was El Fucking Charro.

Damian had saved the life of the man responsible for his mother’s death—one of the two men he had just sworn to take vengeance against.

“Home, Hector,” said El Charro. “We are taking Damian home.”





‘HOME’ TURNED OUT TO BE the city of Caboras, a three-hour drive from Paza del Mar. Although El Charro had many bases, he lived behind gated walls on the misty hills surrounding Caboras, and even though Damian had saved his life, he wasn’t about to invite the boy into his own home. El Charro didn’t get to the top by being sentimental.

“Keep your mouth shut and stay low until I call for you,” he said, when they were parked outside a pink three-storey building in a middle class neighborhood of the city. It looked innocuous enough, but it was one of the safe houses that the cartel ran in the city.

Damian understood. It wouldn’t do to advertise the fact that a twelve-year-old had saved El Charro. Reputations had to be maintained, machismo kept intact, and Damian was happy to play along, to wait until the perfect opportunity presented itself.

Hector, the driver, let him into a second floor apartment. The smell of marijuana was heavy in the air. A dozen young men lounged on sofas, watching TV.

“Your new compadre, everyone.” Hector introduced him to the group.

They seemed more interested in what they were watching. New recruits were on the lowest rung of the organization—disposable and barely worthy of acknowledgment.

Hector gave Damian a quick tour and settled him into a bedroom, where three others were already sleeping on mattresses, lined up in a row.

“Get some rest. Training starts tomorrow,” he said, before leaving.

Damian lay in the dark and listened to the drone of the television. He slid MaMaLu’s box under his pillow and caressed the worn edges. It wasn’t rest that Damian craved. It was something much, much darker. Damian was going to train hard. He was going to learn everything El Charro could teach him, and then he was going to use that very knowledge to destroy him.



It wasn’t long before El Charro summoned Damian. News of the attempt on his life had sparked rumors and El Charro was itching to send a message to his enemies.

“You are going to accompany this boy to church,” said El Charro, as they drove through the urban sprawl of concrete and glass that was Caboras.

Damian looked at the boy sitting between him and El Charro. He looked about nine or ten and he was staring ahead vacantly. His hands were wrapped tightly around a canvas bag, like he was carrying a fragile baby.

“You know what to do.” El Charro turned to him when they stopped outside a church. They had driven about four hours to get there.

The boy looked out the window, at the tall spires that framed the entrance and nodded.

“Damian, you wait for him by the door,” said El Charro.

Damian got out and followed the boy up the wide, rounded steps to the church. It was only when he was at the entrance that he noticed the trail of blood dripping from the canvas bag the boy was holding. He stopped at the door, like he’d been instructed.

People were gathered inside for a funeral. There was a framed photograph of a middle-aged man in the front, propped up beside the coffin.

‘In Loving Memory of Alfredo Ruben Zamora’, it said.

His widow and children were sniffling in the front row. A priest was speaking to the congregation. They all paused when the boy walked in. He opened the canvas bag and sent something rolling down the aisle.

It was a few seconds before the screaming started, a few seconds before Damian realized that it was the severed head of the man they were holding the funeral for.

“For my parents,” said the boy, before turning around.

Damian caught a glimpse of a bloody ‘C’ carved on the dead man’s forehead.

“El Charro!” He heard someone say as he followed the boy out.

They got in the car, and the boy wiped his stained, red hands on his shirt. No one said a word on the way back.

“Damian,” said El Charro, when they returned to the safe house. “Take him inside. He will be working for me.”

“What’s his name?” asked Damian, as the boy opened the door and let himself out.

“Rafael. He is Juan Pablo and Camila’s son.”