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the-hinky-panda · 2 years

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Mariposa: Part II

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: This is a four-part prequel to “Dustland Fairytale.” There is no Javier Pena x Reader in this fic; it is strictly a Carrillo x Reader fic. You’re a CIA informant that is trying to build the trust between the newly formed Search Bloc and the CIA/DEA. You just never imagined that falling in love with Colonel Horacio Carrillo was going to be part of the deal.

Warnings: Oh boy, lots of warnings. First 18+ only, DNI. If it was in Narcos, it will most likely be mentioned in here: gun violence, mentions of rape (what happened to Helena), characters dying, grief. Also, Carrillo is married so the relationship between him and the reader is an extramarital affair.

Tag List: @the-ginger-hedge-witch @vanemando15 @1950schick @bellestalesoffiction @frannyzooey @littleone65 @harriedandharassed

They got Gacha.

Your intel about Gacha being in Lulo had been solid. And even though Horacio had come back to you with bloodstains on his uniform and a concussion, he is alive. And Gacha is dead. Afraid of retaliation from Escobar, and with the recent assassination attempt on him, Horacio sends his family to the outskirts of Medellín with three bodyguards, hand picked from the Colombian Army.

The victory is worth celebrating and you do. The first night of his return, however, was spent getting his family to safety while you were being debriefed by the CIA. You rest well that night just knowing that everyone is safe. It’s the second night, when he returns to Bogotá, that he spends with you in the apartment. He has a place to stay thanks to the embassy but it’s too risky for you to go there. Everyone in that apartment building watches everyone else, takes note of who is coming and going.

So he comes to you, in the dangerous neighborhood where no one sees anything and certainly would never report it. He arrives dressed in civilian clothes with an overnight bag and keeps his head down just in case someone might recognize him. But no one pays him any mind and soon he’s safely locked behind your door for three days. You’re not a cook so you grab take out from a corner bar and get a bottle of Malbec wine. You tell him he’s been through enough and doesn’t deserve to battle through your attempt at making sancocho and empanadas. It earns you a rare smile from him.

He’s on a medical leave for a few days for the concussion that he suffered, but you know he will only take this time to review files, listen to wiretaps and strategize for the next strike. You compiled a couple boxes of your own files and notes to keep him busy while you were at the school. Thankful it is a Thursday night when he arrives and you just have to get through Friday before having the weekend with him. He’s back to work on Monday, as are you. There may be no rest for the wicked, but there’s also no rest for those hunting the wicked. But you insist that the files stay in their boxes for the first evening and he doesn’t, surprisingly enough, argue with you.

It’s odd, this new domesticity that you find yourselves in that first night. The Gacha raid came very close on the heels of your meeting with Escobar at the school so the last time you and Horacio had seen each other had been in the backseat of the police car. Now, whenever it rains, your mind immediately goes back to how he took you apart and put you back together with far more gentleness than you had ever thought he was capable of having. Now that he’s back in your space, the jangling nerves you felt then on that ride back into Bogota`, have come back in full strength.

You’ve missed him, even though he was only away for less than a week. It should make you feel silly, immature even, but you don’t care. This is your first time being this deep in love and the newness is exciting. He moves around your apartment like it’s his own and that ease brings much more comfort to you than it should. Even more so when, as you’re finishing the bottle of wine, he pulls you against his chest and you both are laid out on the couch. His heart beats steady under your ear, the solid planes of his chest under your hands. You breathe in the sharp tang of his cologne and cigarettes.

He’s alive, and you fight back tears of relief.

“¿Donde esta tu mente, querida?” (Where is your mind, darling?)

“Solo agradecida de que estés aquí, de que estés a salvo.” (Just thankful that you’re here, that you’re safe.)

He hums in response, his hand tracing patterns on your back. “¿No ha pasado nada esta semana? ¿Nada sospechoso?” (Nothing has happened this week? Nothing suspicious?)

“No, nada fuera de lo común.” (No, nothing out of the ordinary.)

His breathing hesitates briefly. “¿Y eso no te preocupa?” (And that doesn’t concern you?)

“I didn’t say it didn’t concern me,” you answer, smiling against the fabric of his shirt. The fact that everything has been so quiet concerns you a great deal.

He sighs but you can feel a low, short rumble that’s a whisper of a laugh. His hand slides under your shirt, skimming across your lower back. “Do you want me to send someone to the school? To keep an eye on things?”

“No,” you don’t hesitate with your answer. “That would look suspicious, a police officer hanging around the school so soon after Escobar’s visit and Gacha’s death.” You can almost hear him thinking, trying to set up some kind of protection for you without raising alarms. You pat his chest. “You can assign bodyguards to your family but not me. I’m better trained to deal with threats than they are though. I’ll be fine.”

“¿Promesa?” (Promise?)

“Promesa.”

“Bueno.” (Good.)

He starts to sit up and you lean up to make it easier for him. He’s still sore and stiff from the grenade that had gone off close enough to lay him out on the sand, rupture an eardrum, and leave a shrapnel injury to the side of his head. But when he raises up, he blindly grabs at the back of the couch and you, his eyes snapping closed as the color drains from his face. You grab a hold of his shoulders to steady him and after a few moments, his coloring comes back but his eyes stay closed.

“¿Mareado?” (Dizzy?)

“Sí.” (Yes.)

You wait until his head tips forward and lands against your collarbone. You gently drag your fingers through his hair, careful of the abrasion that is scabbing over, until the tension in his shoulders disappears. “Who would have thought your hearing was so important?”

The tension comes back immediately. “Mierda. Las escuchas telefónicas.” (Fuck. The wiretaps.)

“Puedo ayudar escuchando esos. De hecho, ya he empezado.” (I can help with listening to those. In fact, I’ve already started.)

He lifts his head and presses his lips against yours, brief and full of gratitude. “¿La CIA tiene más agentes como tú?” (Does the CIA have more agents like you?)

“Si lo hacen, no te los presentaré,” you grin down at him. (If they do, I’m not introducing them to you.)

“Nadie puede remplazarte.” (No one can replace you.)

This is the part where you struggle. The sincerity that drips from his words hits in such an uncomfortable manner and you don’t know why. So you gently pull his mouth up to yours and kiss the truth from his lips. You live your life under a cloak of lies and maybe that is why his unashamed honesty settles oddly in your stomach. But then you remember that his wife thinks that he’s alone in the apartment that the US Embassy has gifted him for when he remains in Bogota` for business. Despite how much you treasure his uprightness, he is just as much a liar as you. But even liars can speak the truth to each other.

“Te amo, Horacio.” (I love you, Horacio.) You whisper it directly into his mouth, a secret between just the two of you, never to escape to the outside world.

“Te amo, mi corazón.” (I love you, my sweetheart.)

You don’t deserve this. Or at least you don’t think you do. This good man with his coffee colored eyes and straight nose and morals claiming his admiration and love for you is a dream that you’ve somehow been gifted. But dreams fade and eventually end so you intend to enjoy this for as long as it will last. You run your fingers through his dark hair, disrupting the neatness before kissing him again. He tastes of wine and cigarettes when your tongue sneaks between his lips. His hands cradle your face, spanning your entire jawline with gentle pressure to hold you in place as he returns the kiss with enough passion to make you thankful you’re sitting down.

One of his hands slips away from your face and starts to unbutton your blouse. As soon as the last button is undone, you shrug it off your shoulders and let it fall to the floor. His hand skims along your ribcage and over the swell of your breast, fingers tracing the lace pattern of your bra. His mouth leaves yours only to continue kissing down your neck and nip at your collarbone.

“Tan hermosa. Tan encantadora.” (So beautiful. So lovely.)

Your breath catches as he unclasps the bra and slides the straps off your shoulders. You don’t have a chance to say anything before he’s drawn one of your nipples into his mouth while his thumb finds the other one. This man is going to kill you, you’re certain of it.

You were no stranger to sex as a tool; you don’t live the life you do without it. Greasing palms was just one way you convinced people to see your side of things and when that didn’t work, getting on your knees usually did. You certainly weren’t proud of it but it was a necessary evil in some circumstances. That’s not to say that there weren’t times when pleasure and satisfaction occurred but they were rare. That is the way it goes when you’re doing all the work to get a payoff. But this, sex with genuine desire and passion, this is something completely different.

“¿Querida?” (Sweetheart?)

It takes you a minute to get your mouth to work. “¿Qué?” (What?)

“Tenemos que mover esto al dormitorio.” (We need to move this to the bedroom.)

“¿Por qué?” (Why?) You whine and start tugging at his polo shirt, trying to get it over his head. Your hands are shaking with desire and the material keeps slipping through your fingers. He lets you fumble for a couple tries before pulling it off himself with a short laugh.

“Porque no te follaré en el sofá como una adolescente cachonda.” (Because I won’t fuck you on the couch like a horny teenager.) He drags his tongue along the underside of your breast and then wraps it around your nipple again, sucking hard before releasing it with an audible pop. “¿Qué tipo de invitado sería si hiciera eso?” (What kind of a houseguest would I be if I did that?)

You’re trembling, that’s how turned on you are at the moment. Your underwear is completely soaked and knowing he’s about sixty seconds away from stripping you down and seeing just what he’s done to you gives you every reason to continue with a fast and quick encounter here on the couch. But even with lust filled eyes, pupils blown almost completely black, there is still sincerity in the look he gives you, and it decimates you.

He’s going to ruin you.

And you’re going to let him.

You knew if he weren’t injured, he would have you in his arms, carrying you back to the bedroom. There would be no question about getting you into bed, he would just put you there. But with a ruptured eardrum and vertigo occurring every time he stands up, he probably doesn’t want to risk dropping you. So you stand and take his hand, pulling him down the short hallway to your bedroom.

Your room is not anything special and now that he’s in your personal space, your nerves come back. The room is not large by any stretch of the imagination: a dresser, full size bed and a nightstand on each side of the bed. It’s obvious which side of the bed is yours as that nightstand has a stack of books, a notebook, pen, and bottle of water. The other nightstand is empty except for a lamp. The quilt on the bed you had picked up from a local thrift shop and that’s where he maneuvers you to sit. He pushes you back so you lay down, propped up on your elbows as you watch him kneel at the foot of the bed. He presses open mouth kisses across your stomach as his fingers unbutton your jeans, drag the zipper down and pull them and your underwear down your legs.

You expect him to join you on the bed, to take you quick and fast like he had in the back of the car. But he stays kneeling on the floor, his long fingers dancing up the bare skin of your legs that has been revealed. His mouth finds the side of your knee and starts to travel along the inside of your thigh. You watch as his mouth soon closes around your hip bone and you feel him suck on the skin, marking you there. One of his fingers slides through your folds and slips easily into you, your back arching.

He grins against your hip, near the bruise he’s just made on the thin skin. “Mucho mejor cuando hay espacio para… esparcirse.” (So much better when there’s room to…spread out.)

His free hand gently pushes your legs further open as his mouth moves to where his finger is already inside of you. Realizing what he is about to do, you sit up and push yourself halfway up the bed in a panic.

“What,” you’re panting, “what are you doing?”

He blinks confused and almost black eyes at you. “I was about to-”

“I know, but,” you take a deep breath. “You don’t have to though.”

His fingers curl around your calf. “And if I want to, querida?”

That thought had never occurred to you. You had always thought men just did it out of obligation. Surely it wasn’t enjoyable to them. Was it? No one had ever offered before now. He smiles at your confusion and indecision and then tugs you back down to the end of the bed.

“If you want me to stop, I will,” he tells you. “At any time. ¿Lo entiendes?” (Do you understand?)

You swallow thickly and nod your head. “Okay. Yes.”

He smiles against the inside of your thigh. “ Necesitas relajarte, querida.” (You need to relax, sweetheart.)

Well, that is easier said than done but you do your best to at least release the tension in your leg muscles. His finger slides into you again and you close your eyes, concentrating at the slow but steady motion. Your hands fist into the folds of the quilt when his tongue drags through your folds and passes lightly over your clit. The only thing that keeps your legs from slamming shut is that he has a head injury and you don’t want to hurt him more than he already is. His tongue takes a second flat swipe, applying more pressure this time, and a moan erupts from your throat. There is no way you’re going to last for much longer. A second finger is added, curling like it would around a gun trigger and you almost lose it right then.

“Está bien, cariño. Déjalo ir,” he whispers against you. (It’s okay, darling. Let go.)

Between his mouth on your clit and his fingers hitting a spot that has always eluded your own fingers, you follow his command and fall apart. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, when you feel him move onto the bed, hovering over you and pressing his lips against your still racing pulse on your neck. You try to help him pull back the covers on the bed as you both slide under the sheet and quilt. At some point he must have removed the rest of his clothing as you feel him, hard and leaking, pressed up against your stomach.

The light buzz of your orgasm is still under your skin as you wrap your hand around him but he intercepts you and brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss to your palm. It gives you a sense of pride to know that you have this effect on him, this stoic soldier who lives a life of perfect control. You roll over to open the drawer in your nightstand and retrieve a condom, open the packet and hand it to him. After he rolls it on, he pulls you under him and his weight presses you into the mattress.

For someone who is solid muscle and strength, he is incredibly gentle with you as he slides into you. The orgasm that you’ve already experienced helps with accommodating him and the slight pain from the first time you did this is nonexistent this time. The soft mattress under you could also help with that since it’s not a hard bench seat in the back of a Jeep. He mouths at the line of your jaw as he moves against you, inside of you. When he runs out of jawline, he pants in your ear.

“Te sientes tan bien, hermosa niña.” (You feel so good, beautiful girl.)

Your fingers press into the roiling muscles around his shoulder blades as you feel a second orgasm building. “Por favor, no pares.” (Please, don’t stop.)

He huffs a laugh against your cheek before claiming your mouth with his. His hand finds your hip and pulls it up over his waist, sliding deeper than before. Your head falls back against the pillow with a loud enough moan you’re certain the neighbors are going to complain about tomorrow morning. His mouth goes back to your jaw and his hand covers one of your breasts. It feels like he’s everywhere and you want to stay in this moment for as long as possible. But his lips find your ear, his breath hot and humid.

“Joder, eres perfecta.” (Fuck, you’re perfect.)

You try to find words to respond, you really do, but this just feels too good to split your concentration between speaking and enjoying what he is doing to you. All you can manage are breathy whines as you bury your face against his neck.

“Ven por mí, querida,” he murmurs against your cheek. “Ven por mí, mi pequeña mariposa.” (Come for me, my darling. Come for me, my little butterfly.)

My little butterfly. That is what pushes you over the edge as you fall for a second time. You know his use of your codename is an acknowledgement of your accomplishments as an informant. He places value on you as an agent, not just another woman to fuck for information. You feel the steady rhythm of his hips stutter as he comes as well, gasping into the space between your neck and shoulder. When he catches his breath, he rolls off of you and settles on his back next to you.

“¿Todas las americanas saben follar así de bien?” (Do all American women know how to fuck this well?)

“Ay, no.” You sigh dramatically and turn to look at him. “¿Todos los colombianos saben cómo complacer así de bien a una mujer?” (Alas, no. Do all Colombian men know how to please a woman this well?)

“No. Soy el único.” (No. I’m the only one.)

You laugh lightly. “Pues que suerte tengo de ser tu gringo elegido.” (Well, how lucky I am to be your chosen gringo.)

There is a flash of something that passes across his eyes when you say that but you don’t catch it before it’s gone. He grabs your hand and presses it to his chest. “Eres simplemente increíble. Te amo mucho.” (You are just incredible. I love you so much.)

The seriousness in the delivery of the words stops your breathing for a moment. Things like that have been said to you during moments like this and they were always meaningless. They were dropped, along with a kiss on the forehead, before clothing was picked up from the floor and life continued as normal. But this man holds your hand to his heart and your eyes to his and the honesty in the sentiment is an expensive gift you never asked for and have no idea what to do with now that it’s your hands. So you blink back tears and fall into the safety of humor.

“Apuesto a que le dices a todas tus informantes eso.” (I bet you tell all your informants that.)

“No, estás pensando en Peña.” (No, you’re thinking of Peña.)

You laugh and he does too, a beautiful, lighthearted sound that sounds so precious from such a serious man. In that moment you know, as a solid fact, that he has completely ruined you. How could anyone compare to this complex man? You know the next words you utter will seal your fate completely and yet you say them with zero hesitation.

“Te amo mucho, Horacio.” (I love you so much, Horatio.)

***

You had warned him before the unit left for the raid on the Copacabana farm. Your intel, along with other intel, all pointed to Copacabana farm as being the location where the journalist Diana Turbay is being held but there is something off about it. That and the fact that this raid didn’t go through all the legal red tape checks adds to the precariousness of the situation.

Be careful. Those were the last words you said to him over the sat phone before he left the Search Bloc headquarters.

“Careful of what?”

“I don’t know,” you told him. “I just have a feeling, something is going to go south.”

“Female intinuation?” he had quipped.

“Something like that. Just-”

“Be careful. I know.”

And he had hung up the phone, you turned on the news, and waited. It only takes a couple hours before the breaking news alert flashes across your screen and that pit in your stomach grows. You sit down, knees pulled to your chest, and your heart sinks when you hear the news.

Diana Turbay is found dead in a cabinet during an unauthorized raid on the Copacabana Farm. The Columbian police are blamed for firing the shot that killed her.

You haven’t heard from Horacio for almost a week after the news breaks. He’s being watched, scrutinized for the mishap. You keep your ear to the ground, as it’s your job, but you listen specifically for his name. The people of Bogotá want someone to blame. Diana’s mother blames the President. The people blame the Army. And based on his silence, Horacio blames himself.

You desperately want to contact him but you need to have intel before doing that and the students at the school have been silent, trying to process the death of a well-loved and respected journalist. You have to remind yourself multiple times that this is not a normal relationship. You can’t just pick up the phone and check on him. You hope his wife is able to offer some kind of comfort to him during this time as you’re reduced to sleepless nights and empty wine bottles waiting for an opportunity to speak to him again.

It’s a Saturday night and you’re grading essays when there’s a knock at your door. You’re not expecting anyone so you pick up your gun and hold it down at your side while checking through the peephole. You almost don’t recognize him, standing in front of your door, head hung low, and shoulders hunched. You flip the locks as quickly as possible and open the door. He’s over the threshold before you can even get words to leave your mouth.

“Horac-”

His mouth is on yours before you finish his name. He takes the gun out of your hand and drops it back on the end table near the door before backing you up against the nearest wall. His kiss is full of violence and passion. His teeth sink down on your lower lip and you yelp at the sting of pain. It’s enough to break whatever spell has come over him and he breaks away, resting his forehead against yours. He smells of whiskey, cigarettes, and rain.

“Te he extrañado mucho, cariño.” (I’ve missed you so much, darling.)

You smooth your hands over his clean shaven face, his neck, and the lapels of his jacket. “I’ve missed you too.” And you have, so much it hurts.

“Lo siento. Debería haberte escuchado. Yo debería…” (I’m sorry. I should have listened to you. I should have…)

You press your lips to his to stop his rambling. “It’s okay.”

“I fucked up.”

His forehead falls against your shoulder and you hold him tightly against you. Those three words he just uttered were a hundred times more intimate than any “I love you” whispered between you two. And now you know what pressure has bent the steel in him: guilt. Your analytical mind kicks into high gear. For him to feel this much guilt means he must have been in the room when it happened. That it may very well have been his bullet that penetrated through the cabinet and took Turbay’s life.

You desperately want to remind him that she wouldn’t have been in that cabinet, in the cocaine lab, if it hadn’t been for Escobar kidnapping her. That he didn’t know where her captors had hidden her. Captors, by the way, were armed and firing off shots that were killing the men under his command. But you know those words will bring no solace to his grieving heart, so you swallow them down.

“¿Qué necesitas, mi amor?” (What do you need, my love?)

“Tú. Solo tu.” (You. Just you.)

“Cuanto tiempo te puedes quedar?” (How long can you stay?)

“Vuelvo a Medellín mañana por la mañana.” (I go back to Medellín tomorrow morning.)

You have him for the night. “Ven entonces.” (Come on then.)

He leans back from you, reaching out and locking the multiple locks on your door while you go to the kitchen. You now keep a bottle of aguardiente on hand for his visits and pour him a glass, setting it on the table for him.

“¿Has comido?” (Have you eaten?)

“Yes,” he answers immediately.

“Is that an honest yes or a ‘I don’t want to risk your cooking’ yes? Because Trujillo said the plantains I made were good.”

A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he raises the glass of alcohol to his lips. “Trujillo lies.”

You smack his arm and it draws a slight smile from him, the first crack in the mask of grief. “You’re sure you’re not hungry?”

“Yes, I am sure.”

You turn the kitchen light off and pick up your wineglass from the table with your discarded grading. “Shower?”

The shadows of grief cloud over his eyes again. “With you?”

“I think that can be arranged,” you smile gently at him. The weekend he had spent with you saw both of you in the shower multiple times. The fact that he asks to join you is telling of just how damaged he is at the moment.

He follows you silently back to your bedroom. Neither one of you speaks as you strip and duck into the warm stream of water in the shower. It’s a small space, with old terracotta tiles lining the walls and floor, and very little light. There’s enough space for the two of you but little else, which is perfect for the situation. It doesn’t take hardly any time at all for his hands to find the curve of your hip and pull you back against him. He buries his face against the side of your neck, his one hand sliding against your wet skin to wrap around your ribcage. You’ve noticed he does this quite often, holding your side, the rows of your ribs expanding against his palm.

“Why do you do that?” you ask him.

“Hm. Do what?”

“You always touch my ribs.” He starts to move his hand away but you quickly hold his hand there. “I didn’t say I minded it. I was just curious.”

The sigh he releases is shaky. “I like feeling you breathe. It reminds me…” he lays his face between your shoulder blades. “It reminds me you’re still alive.”

You can hear the rest of the words without him saying them. It reminds me you’re still alive when so many others are not. You feel hot drops of water hit your back and you realize they are tears. You don’t dare turn around, allowing him this solace. Secrecy is just another language that you are fluent in understanding so you allow him his grief. You let him do what he needs to to cope with the botched mission.

When the tears subside, his mouth finds that sensitive spot behind your ear. Your heart rate quickens and his lips slide down to close around your pulse. You let him press your chest against the cold tile as he nudges your legs apart and takes you from behind with no warning. It’s a fast and brutal pace, the roughest he’s ever been with you. One hand is wrapped around your hip, pulling you back as he thrusts forward while his other hand has a fist full of your hair at the base of your neck. All you can do is plant your feet and pant against the tile. You’re on the pill, he knows that, so when he does speak, in a voice that you barely recognize from the raw emotion in it, your answer is swift.

“May I?”

“Please, yes.”

And he comes immediately inside of you with a sharp snap of his hips. You rest your forehead against the shower wall as he drapes himself over your back and you feel him drip out of you. He murmurs soft apologies against your damp skin but you don’t know if they’re for you or the ghosts that follow him. When both of you catch your breath, you quickly clean yourselves and rinse the soap from your still heated skin.

He turns off the water and grabs a towel, wrapping it around your body and kissing you apologetically, gently. You do the same for him, taking a second towel and slowly drying him off from head to foot. When you’re done, you stand in front of him and kiss him slowly, reassuring him everything is fine, or at least going to be. You can tell he wants to start apologizing again so you stop him with another brief kiss.

“You said you wanted someone who could understand you, understand this part of your life.”

He nods tiredly. “I did.”

You give him a small smile and reach up to run your fingers through his damp hair. “And I do.”

***

Follow the mistress.

That had been your advice to him when he asked you for ideas on how to get to Gustavo, Pablo’s cousin. Nevermind the fact that the answer came when you both were stripped bare, skin damp, and tangled in your sheets. The irony is not lost on him. This is out of the sphere of your intel, students aren’t interested in the affairs of adults so Horacio has to take it to the people who would be interested. Thankfully, the Ochoas were already being set up quite nicely with reduced prison sentences so when asked where their sister would be meeting Gustavo for their tryst, they eagerly gave up the hotel location.

Time is running out. Soon Pablo would be “in custody” living in his custom built prison and if any justice is to be delivered, Search Bloc needed to get their hands on him before he surrendered. There had been too much blood spilt, too many families with missing members, for Pablo to live out the rest of his days in a prison of his making. So he gathers members of those who had personal stakes in the take down of both Pablo and Gustavo and they did just what you had suggested: follow the mistress.

And it works. Sort of.

They pick up Gustavo and bring him to the abandoned building in Medellín. Horatio tries to reason with him, get him to give up Pablo but Gustavo is stubborn. And loyal to a fucking fault. So when Horacio allows his men to start the first round of the beating, he steps back and waits for ten minutes. He has to keep his hands clean on this one. His superiors are watching him, knowing he’s about to pull some underhanded shit in a desperate attempt to get Pablo before he becomes untouchable.

But there’s another reason why he stands back and allows his men to deliver the beating. It’s a reason that causes him to light a cigarette to help calm his nerves as he watches the spectacle in front of him. It should be him tied to that chair. It should be him getting the shit knocked out of him. He was responsible for just as many deaths as Gustavo. The men that served under him that lost their lives on the streets, in raids, in random attacks and bombings. There was Diana Turbay. He is certain it was his bullet that missed her attacker and went through the cabinet door.

But not only is their blood on his hands, but he too is an adulterer now. That he has a harder time feeling remorse for and he wonders if he’s starting to cross the line of becoming one of the monsters that he is hunting. He justifies his time with you as not being that black of a sin because it doesn’t take away anything from his family. His wife and kids live in Medellín; you’re stationed in Bogotá. You, with your talent for information, remind him frequently of appointments, birthdays, even his anniversary, when work threatens to take over his mind. Your dedication to his family and their well-being stuns him every time it is mentioned.

His wife is not made for this life. They were so young and naive when they married. She thought she was getting a police officer, maybe a lieutenant, who would patrol the streets of Medellín and always be home in time for dinner. She did not expect to be married to the Colonel tasked with hunting down Pablo Escobar and the Medellín cartel. She did not sign on for weeks of him being gone chasing leads, being shot at almost daily, and having to live with bodyguards stationed at their home and the children’s school. But she endures it, for him and the life they’re trying to keep from crumbling around them.

But you, you are made for this life. You lack the timidity, the fragility of Juliana. You are still kind, compassionate but it has an edge to it. You know when you can use it and when you need to be unforgiving. You had cleaned away more blood and gunpowder than Juliana had ever had a chance to see because he protected her from it. Maybe, if he had allowed her to experience it along with him, she wouldn’t hide behind him every time the doorbell rang. But he hadn’t and now he is nothing more than the solid, protective wall between her and the outside world.

When he had returned after Turbay’s death, he had been wracked with guilt and shame. Juliana comforted him as best she could but she didn’t know all the details. How could he admit to her that it was all his fault? He woke up in the middle of the night two days after it happened, shaking and sweating from a nightmare of Diana Turbay pointing a finger at him with the bullet hole in her head, blood covering half her face. Juliana had wrapped her arms around him, soothed him like she had done to their children countless times. But when he had kissed her, hands desperately trying to push aside the fabric of her nightgown to feel as much of her skin as he could, she had disentangled herself from him.

Let me get you something to drink. We both need to get back to sleep. Horacio has a fútbol game tomorrow evening.

And she had kissed him chastely on the lips before heading into the kitchen to fix tea for them both. That was why he blew through your door as soon as it was open. Why he had taken you so roughly in the shower and you had just allowed him to do so. He had tried to make it up to you, laying you down in the bed and spending almost half an hour with his head between your legs, before you were begging for him to stop and let you breathe.

You meant what you said when you told him that you understand this side of his life. That night had proven it. When he woke from a nightmare that night, he had reached for you and you reached back. When he tugged at the oversized t-shirt you wear to bed, you pulled it off immediately. When he moved you on top of him, you guided his cock inside of you and let him set the pace, steady but unhurried. He watched your face as you came in the weak, early morning light that had filtered in through the curtains. When you dropped down onto his chest, his fingers threaded through your hair, holding you to his chest. He has heard you refer to yourself many times as a professional liar but you have only spoken the truth to him.

He’s the liar.

Ten minutes is up and he goes back to Gustavo, giving him a second chance to give up Pablo. Gustavo, bloodied and beaten, rains down threats and curses on all of them, their families, their wives…their mistresses. He gives the order for them to finish him off. He knows it’s an order given out of fear, out of the desire to protect you in one of the only ways he can.

Eliminate the threat.

He has the body dropped off in the Sabaneta area, left on the side of the road. It sends a message but the response is not what Horacio expects.

Pablo surrenders, imprisoned in his fortress.

The Search Bloc is officially disbanded.

Horatio and his family are transferred to Madrid.

You are left in Bogotá, defenseless and alone.

Pablo Escobar wins.

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