The Paper Swan(45)

Regardless of how they got there, everyone had a role to play. Damian, Rafael, and some of the other boys were training to be sicarios—hitmen. Sicarios were the foot soldiers of the cartel, responsible for carrying out assassinations, kidnappings, theft, extortion, and defending the territory from rival groups and Mexican militia.

Caboras was the perfect ground for the temporary training camps that the cartel set up, in dust-whipped squatter’s domains, scattered among the urban sprawl of concrete and metal. Here, young men and women practiced in live firing ranges and combat training courses, that were then abandoned or used intermittently. An elite few, who showed promise and had a steady hand, progressed to special facilities where they learned how to work with explosives. Damian fit the criteria perfectly. Years of folding paper into the sharpest creases, and creating intricate shapes and forms, made him a natural for making and diffusing bombs. He learned the difference between C-4 and TNT and gunpowder and fireworks; he learned about blast radius and circuit boards and timers and triggers.

Damian took some of the questions home with him. He was wrestling with the calculations when Rafael found him.

“I’ll be right back,” said Damian.

When he returned with the calculator, Rafael had filled in all the numbers. Damian double-checked.

“How the hell did you do that?” he asked. Every single one was correct.

“In my head.”

Damian looked at him incredulously.

“I like math,” Rafael replied. “It kept me busy when my parents were at the cantina.”

“How about this one?” Damian pointed to another question.

Rafael smiled. He was happy there was something he could do to impress Damian. The two boys put their heads together and worked through the rest of the calculations.



The recruits started getting real-life tasks to complete: follow an informer, steal a car, rob a store. Every time they succeeded, they were rewarded with money, drugs, alcohol, clothes and weapons. Those who got caught were carted to prison, became victims of vigilante justice, or ended up bleeding in the gutters. If they made it back, they were shamed.

Damian knew the real test would come when they were summoned to El Charro’s ranch, in a desolate location near the mountains. That was where the men were separated from the boys, where El Charro either allowed you into his inner circle, or cut you off. While everyone carried on like there was no tomorrow, Damian prepared for that day. He had to get into that inner circle, destroy El Charro and then get out. On his days off, Damian disappeared. He bought a panga and a fishing rod, and spent hours on the water; he learned how to tie knots and how to read the sky and the water. Damian loved the solitude of the ocean. It was vast and endless and merciless—like the hole where his heart used to beat. Sometimes when he closed his eyes and lay back in his small canoe, he could hear the sound of MaMaLu’s voice in the wind and the waves.

One day, when Damian returned from his trip, he found Rafael curled up in a corner. Damian felt his blood boil at the sight of his beaten and bruised body. Rafael was not like the other boys. The memory of his parents’ death still terrorized him. It instilled in him a deep fear of firearms. He flinched every time he heard a gunshot, and he hated himself for it. The other boys bullied and ridiculed him, calling him a faggot and a coward.

“Who did this?” Damian asked Manuel, the little boy who sat with Rafael, trying to make him feel better.

“It doesn’t matter.” Rafael refused to name the boys who had beaten him up, but after that, wherever Damian went, he took Rafael with him. If someone wanted to get to Rafael, they had to go through Damian.

The comandante was not happy when he found out that Damian was taking Rafael on his assignments, and accompanying Rafael on his. He was Comandante 19. Eighteen comandantes had died before him. Twice he warned Damian. When Damian persisted, he pulled out his gun and confronted him. Damian walked up to Comandante 19’s gun and butted his forehead against the barrel.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Make my day.”

Everyone stopped to witness the face-off. Everyone knew the comandante always won. If you don’t listen, you don’t live. They held their breath.

“Dirty Harry,” said Comandante 19. “The f*cker is quoting Dirty Harry.” He started laughing and looked around. “Are you kidding me?” he said when no one responded. “My favorite gringo movie and this loser’s the only one who’s seen it?”

He waved them away and subjected Damian to extra drills until the sun came up. After that, everyone left Damian and Rafael alone. Damian suspected El Charro had something to do with it. He either had a soft spot for Damian, or he was grooming him for something bigger.