4
"Father?"
Roberta looked behind him.
A kid stood there, tall for his age, with jet black hair and handsome, Latino features. He looked at Roberta and smiled. "Good morning, Sister," he politely greeted.
Roberta felt her heart twisting in knots. "I…" she managed to say.
"Diego, this is Sister Rosalita," Jefe introduced. "She is the new nun sent here in Santa Monica."
Diego help up his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sister," he said cheerfully.
Roberta needed all the energy on her body to hold his hand. She looked at his eyes and saw a vision of the past. When the boy smiled, her blood turned to ice.
"Nice to meet you, Diego," Roberta stammered. "You're father was right, you are a very nice boy."
"Thank you, Sister." Diego turned to Jefe. "Father, can I play outside?"
"Yeah but just get back before the sun sets. It's dangerous outside."
"I will, Father." Diego ran off.
Roberta stepped forward. She felt a hand on her shoulder. "Not now, Rosalita," Jefe said tenderly.
Roberta nodded, tears streaming down her eyes.
"I'll show you your room."
Ten years ago
Fifteen year old Rosalita Cisneros stood without expression as the coffins of her family were lowered in the ground. The mourners were all over the small rural cemetery. The Cisneros family, especially its patriarch Juan Carlos, is well-regarded as kind and generous. They used to own the biggest hacienda in Santa Maria, but in contrast to most rich hacienderos, they gave away the lands freely to poor farmers. Juan Carlos Cisneros was known as champion of the poor, he fought for their rights.
And he paid for it with his life and the life of his family.
Many farmers deeply mourned the brutal death of the Cisneros family. They were executed in cold blood in their own house. Only the youngest daughter, Rosalita and a baby boy survived the massacre, miraculously unscathed even thought hundreds of bullets riddled the house and its occupants.
Rosalita hugged her baby son as the coffins were finally set on the bottom of the pits. She showed no emotion. But the mourners could see her eyes burning in anger. It was too much suffering for a fifteen year old mother to bear. As loose soil was being dumped on the graves, she turned around to a man behind him.
"Jefe," she said softly. "I trust you. You are like my second father. You have to do a huge favor for me."
"What is that, Rosalita?"
She passed the baby boy to Jefe's arms. "I want you to take care of Diego. Take him to Santa Monica. Get him as far away from this place as possible."
Jefe took the boy. "Why Rosalita?"
"There is something that I need to do." Rosalita glanced behind.
Three men stood under a mango tree. They're dressed in military fatigues and red berets, but Jefe knew they are not soldiers. They are officers from the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia—Ejército del Pueblo, known as FARC. The largest rebel group in Colombia and possibly the largest Marxist-Leninist guerilla group in the world, FARC is very dangerous and considered as a terrorist group. They also control most of the manufacturing of Colombia's largest export: cocaine. Drug sales allow FARC to recruit and trained thousands of guerillas and equipped them with state-of-the-art weapon systems. Despite their reputation, many poor peasants look up to them as saviors from greedy capitalist that take advantage of their lands.
"You are joining the FARC?" Jefe said in shocked.
"This is the only way to avenge my family," Rosalita said.
"Rosalita…you are still young, there is still a bright future ahead of you."
Rosalita shook her head. "I made up my mind, Jefe."
Jefe knew that once a Cisneros made up his or her mind, there is no changing it. "I see. Then God be with you, Rosalita."
Diego cried on Jefe's arms, as if sensing he will never see his mother again.
Rosalita drew a pistol from her pocket. It was a Colt .45 belonging to her father. She removed the magazine, thumbing the bullets out. The shells fell on the grave, knocking on the wooden coffins with solid sounds. "Rosalita is dead, Jefe. From now on, my name is Roberta."
Present time
Jefe opened the door of a room on the second floor. It was quite spacious, with a large Spanish style bed and wooden cabinets. "This is used to be my daughter Angelica's room, but since she is working in Bogota, you can use this for a while."
Roberta sat on the bed.
Jefe closed and locked the door. "I wanna show you something." He lifted the bed sheets and pulled out a long, wooden chest. He motions Roberta to open it.
Roberta lifted the lid. Inside the case are a collection of weapons. Two Colt Commander .45 caliber pistols lay side by side, a Franchi SPAS-12 police shotgun with a folding stock and a 20-inch machete. Roberta also found a box of .45 ACP ammo but only a few .12 gauge shotgun shells.
"These are all in combat condition," Jefe remarked. "I made sure of it."
Roberta didn't answer. She unsheathed the machete, examining it like a master craftsman. She nodded in satisfaction and resheathed the blade, replacing it on the case. "I didn't come here to kill anyone, Jefe," she said. "I came here for my son."
Jefe didn't say a word, but he looks disappointed. "But if you need these, they are just under your bed."
"Thanks, Jefe," Roberta replied, shutting the case close.