Chapter Twenty-Nine: Gematria (The Killing Name)
Chapter title taken from the Slipknot song.
This is a flashback chapter, taking place immediately after Mothers of the Disappeared.
El Salvador, December 1997
The crackling of fire burned my cheeks, the cinders rotting my nose. A public bus was forced on its side, engulfed in flames, the cries of women, men, and children screaming for their lives, reaching through the windows. My heart dropped to my stomach. I thought this was an assassination attempt, not mass murder. We had been given little information before Apparating. I glanced over to Jorge who was already making his way to the bus, and back to Katerina who was already gone. The deafening stutter of gunshots rang past my ears; I sprinted to the bus, shouting water spells to diminish the fire as others dragged bodies out one by one but it was hardly any use, the rebels were ready to retaliate. A clammy hand grabbed my arm, causing me to jump and draw my wand. Ernesto, face inked in ashes with his second-hand gun was motioning for me to follow him. Being born and raised in El Salvador he was skilled with a gun. I followed him around the chaos and behind the burning bus. I cast a Shield Charm on us both, tiptoeing to a short grove of trees, crouching to our knees behind a thick tree trunk.
"Over there," his crooked fingers pointed to a string of young, heavily-tattooed men hurling bullets and spells at passerby. Ernesto lifted his gun, taking aim as I cast protective spells around us, rendering us invisible to everyone else. The pop-pop-pop of his gun shot straight to the men, dropping to the ground like flies. Ernesto had impeccable aim. I never dared hurl a spell so far away, I'd kill an innocent or even worse, we'd be dead. My back rested against the other side of the tree trunk, watching our surroundings. Riots like those didn't start out of thin air, someone must have planted a seed to grow the weed. I knew our people would find a name, and once he was known I would have to look for him. I was essentially a sicario-a hit man.
The whizzing of a bullet grazed the hair on my ears. "Shit," I had said, dragging Ernesto behind the tree as his gun spit more bullets. "They saw where the bullets were coming from. They know we're here." Bits of bark exploded by my face as I hurled a jinx at our attackers who were sprinting in our direction. Four large men with throwing knives and machetes spotted us near the tree, their eyes hungry for a massacre.
"Run!" I shouted to Ernesto who needed no warning as he was already gone. I stood my ground as the men approached the tree. "Bombarda maxima!"
I jumped into a nearby bush as the tree exploded, knocking shreds of bark deep into their skulls. My head snapped into the direction of the remains of the bus. Jorge had his fingers in his mouth, whistling-that was our cue to head to the safe zone. I held my breath, grabbed onto Ernesto's arm and Apparated, my ears ringing melodies from the deafening roar of the swarm of bullets.
I paused in a slight panic, looking for Katerina. We were in a cabin in the mountains away from the majority of the population, dozens of wounded and mutilated bodies littered in cots. She and the other medics were busy pouring potions and herbs onto wounds, muttering healing spells. I observed her as she magicked a wound to stitch itself back together, all the while holding the patient's hand and patting his head. She was so innocent, so unlike me. I don't know how she was my friend. At times I envied her-how she was still lively and pure after all that she had seen and been through never ceased to amaze me.
"Why did that happen?" I asked Jorge as he walked over to us. "There were dozens of people in there and most of them were elderly and kids!" My breathing was still rapid from the prior events, my eyes still taking in the bloodied bodies around us.
"Jose Figueroa," Jorge shoved a faded photograph into my hands. "The desgraciado probably threatened someone and still decided to be a piece of shit."
I observed the photograph of a fairly young man, a light-skinned Latino with an upturned nose and thick brows with a smile that could clear the room.
"That's your target. Find him, seduce him, do whatever to get to him."
I raised my brow at seduce. "What's my disguise?"
"Young woman, mid-twenties. Your name is Amada Ortiz." He shuffled through a sack of clothing, tossing out a denim mini skirt, platform sandals, hoop earrings and a tube top. "He's a regular at one of the bars nearby. You and Ernesto are going to track him for a few days. Learn his habits, see what he likes."
"Fine. But I'm not wearing those stupid earrings. I'm not getting my ears ripped out."
After spending a few days staking out the bar, my face and body were Transfigured for my new identity. Polyjuice Potion wasn't an option, because if something went awry and it became whose hair we used they'd be dead in a heartbeat. We never involved innocent people.
"Vamonos," Ernesto slapped his brotherly hand on my shoulder. "Ramirez is coming too. We'll be at the bar with a couple drinks and we'll be able to hear everything that's being said." He closed the gap between us, looking into my eyes. "You need to get an admission from him. That'll be your go ahead." I nodded as he squeezed my shoulder. "Let's get this hijo de puta." He nodded to Ramirez, a feeble looking campesino only two inches taller than me. He didn't look like much, but he knew his way around any firearm, machetes, and his wand. Being underestimated was his greatest strength.
As the two men Apparated, I lagged behind seventeen minutes. My heart accelerated as I mentally reviewed my plan. Jose Figueroa is everything I despise in a person-arrogant, wealthy, violent, and with a disregard for human life.
Jorge pocketed his stop watch, giving me his curt nod. "Go."
Without hesitation I Apparated to our safe point, secluded from the main paved road, the humidity drenching my skin. It didn't matter that it was December, the tropical jungle always weeped.
Blaring cumbia rang through the speakers, the dim lights accentuating the grisly mood. Scantily clad women were pounced on men as I looked around for my target: he was in the corner drowning in tequila with two men close by. His bodyguards.
I straightened my back, completely ignoring Ernesto and Ramirez who were chatting up the locals. I walked slowly, letting my hips sway as I felt his stare. I paced by him, smiling coyly, ordering a tequila on the rocks. I thanked the bartender, sipping my drink at the counter, Jose and his men steps away.
The heavy scent of liquor and expensive cologne drowned my nostrils. He jerked his head to the bodyguards, who slumped themselves to nearby stools. Figueroa took my hand, pressing it against his lips. "Hola bella. Are you here alone?"
I nodded, raising the corners of my mouth. "Not anymore."
His lip quivered into a smirk as he chinked his glass against mine. "Salud."
I faked a sip, watching the man who was responsible for the death of dozens slurp the liquor. I slipped a dash of ground manchineel leaves-the most poisonous tree in the world- to his drink while he spat orders to his guards, accentuating his drunken state. It wouldn't kill him. I only gave him enough to irritate his throat.
A sweaty, musky hand crawled down my back as I clenched my jaw in annoyance. I hate physical touch from men. They always want something. But I can't let Figueroa see that. Instead I smiled, tugging at his polished leather belt. His breath reeked of hard alcohol, fogging my dry eyes as I internally grimaced at his decrepit hand touching my skin.
His scorching hand caressed my cheek. "Have you ever been here before?" he asked in his distinct Salvadoran accent. He came from money.
I shook my head as he caressed my thigh and I explained I had friends in the area but I was from Ahuachapan. "You don't want your friends to join us?" I nodded to his bodyguards once the bartender only gave us two drinks. "They look interesting."
Figueroa shook his head. "They watch my surroundings for me." To my perplexed expression he added, "People love to come up to me to converse with me."
I raised my brow innocently. "Are you a politician? Or famous?"
He grinned a devious smile, taking a calculated sip of his drink, his pinky ring flashing in the dim light. "A little bit of both."
"You sound like an interesting man," I said, my head cocked to the side, my fingers grazing his belt loop.
"I'm sure you're quite interesting yourself." His voice was low, inches from my face.
I shrugged a shoulder, matching his grin. "My dad grew up on a farm and my mom ran a restaurant with her family." Not a lie - my dad was the second oldest of nine children and helped run the family farm after his father was killed in a car accident. My mother learned her cooking skills helping with the family restaurant, the fourth of seven children.
"La hija de un campesino." The daughter of a peasant. "What do you do now?"
"Whatever I can to make sure I don't live like they did." I laughed dryly. "I'm a student but shuttling money back and forth between here and there is a hassle and is rarely ever enough."
Figueroa eyed me, a miniscule seed planted in his brain. "From what? Bartending?"
I nod. "It's the only job I can find that fits my schedule and gives me enough time to study."
He finished his whiskey, rocking the glass back and forth in his hand. "There are other ways to make money, you know."
"I don't have any ideas," I laughed loudly.
He continued to eye me, finally setting his glass down, facing me. "You are gorgeous and smart, surely you can think of something."
I grinned, eyeing his lips as he hooked his finger into the belt loop of my skirt. "Do you have any ideas?"
His teeth flickered in the low light, revealing a broad grin. "Come upstairs with me." I extended my hand as he led me to the rusted door in the back of the bar. I clung onto his disgusting hands as we walked upstairs into a wood-paneled room, occupied by two men and a woman. Figueroa snapped his fingers as the group almost knocked heads as they glanced up at us, white and grey powder snowflaked onto their noses. One last snort and they departed, leaving us alone.
I positioned myself on the couch next to him, rubbing his arm. It was frustrating how attractive he was, a reminder that that made it easier for him to get whatever he wanted. Frustrating because he was a deadly combination of looks, wealth, power, intellect, and charm. All used for evil. Figueroa coughed, likely from the manchineel.
"Is this another bar?" I asked glancing around, noting the thick walls, fully stocked bar, and absence of windows.
"VIP lounge," he grinned as he poured us another drink, my eyes fixating on the decanter and glass to ensure he didn't slip anything in. "Completely soundproof."
Perfect. "So you are important," I said crossing my legs, the side of my foot grazing his jeans.
He devilish smile broadened. "People listen to me." He raised his glass to me, other hand grazing my thigh as my insides squirmed.
I batted my big eyes, head to the side. "What do you mean?"
His head popped up from the glass table, flecks of the powder falling from his nose, a lock of dark hair skimming his eyebrow before he smoothed it back in place. "I make people rich."
"I'm listening."
This made him grin. "A pretty girl like you could easily make a few thousand between every run from here to Ahuachapan."
"Como?"
"You don't get stopped by police much do you?" he asked casually, lighting a cigar. I shook my head, and he pointed his lips to the residue of the white and grey powder on the table. "Do you know what that is?" I knew full well what it was, but again shook my head. "This is pure cocaine, with uhh-a few special ingredients." Armadillo bile and powdered borage. "A combination of ecstasy and psychedelics, all the while being clear headed enough you remain safe. No bad trips. The perfect drug."
A drug manufactured in Colombia and brewed with expert potion makers, smuggled through Central America into Mexico and the United States. No reported deaths and the Muggles hadn't been able to detect it, therefore the cartels and drug smugglers were quickly becoming wealthy.
"A happy drug," I said simply.
"A happy drug," he grinned, leaning back and taking a puff from his cigar. "If I can guarantee that you can move this without getting caught, would you do it?"
"I don't believe in guarantees," I said with a small smile.
He raised the corner of his mouth. "I have ways to guarantee your safety and that you won't get caught."
Drug mules were often charmed to go undetected by the Muggle police, eventually cursed to stay with the maras. The Dark Magic would cause them to swallow their tongues and suffocate if they tried to rat them out.
"And how much—"
"Five thousand dollars for every kilo you move."
"Wow," I nodded in surprise, hearing Ernesto's voice whistling, "Puchica," in my ear, aware of every word being said. "That's generous."
"Enticing, que no?" He leaned his smoke smothered breath closer to my own. "What do you say?"
"I'm interested," I said as he brushed his hand on my knee.
Figueroa grinned dryly, pouring himself another drink as he locked his tongue between his teeth, crows feet protruding. "Good. I'll show you everything you need to know."
"I can't wait," I say with a sip of my own drink, swallowing quickly. "Is that how people know you? Because of your supply?"
"Not exactly," he said slowly. "I have several businesses around the country and beyond."
"But you're so young," I said in awe. He was approaching thirty, enough time to build himself a small empire.
"You flatter me," his eyes flickered a smile. "I have been fortunate to have many well-connected friends and colleagues that help me." When I raised a my brow, he continued, "Even the maras listen to me." I did a poor job of hiding my shock. "Not to worry, I'm not a bandillero, I just am acquainted with some former members." He rolled the collars on his sleeves, showing clean skin. The gang members were notorious for their tattoos.
I nodded my understanding. "Were they the ones behind that bus fire?" I already knew the answer, that he was behind it, but I needed to hear it from him. I needed him to tell me what he'd done.
"That's the speculation," he said averting his gaze.
"So many children and elderly died. It's so sad," I continued in my same tone, eyeing him.
"They won't be missed." He puffed out a cloud of smoke. "Most had no family and they'll be dumped into a mass grave." Seeing my expression, he added, "Someone probably didn't pay their extortion fees to the maras and they punished the whole village." A likely possibility-the gangs extorted nearly every household and business, forcing them to pay hefty weekly or monthly fees for "protection" otherwise they will be kidnapped, tortured, or killed. Not that it made a difference in most cases. The maras do what they want and offer no protection.
"I can't believe it's come to this," I said crossing my other leg. "Pay them for protection or die, or pay them and someone else can't and die anyway." I sighed delicately. "That's no way to live."
"God bless the United States for deporting the American made gang here for them to continue their havoc here," he raised his glass, the beads of a rosary peeking through his shirt. "How old are you, nena?"
"Eighteen." Close enough to my real age. They like them young.
He whistled, leaning back into the couch. "Almost makes me feel bad for taking advantage of you."
"You're not taking advantage of me," I scowled. "I want to know everything." I touched his knee lightly. "I think you're fascinating."
Figueroa's eyes scanned mine, his teeth grazing his bottom lip. "Even the bad parts?"
"Those are the best parts," I whispered wide-eyed in awe, peering into his coffee colored eyes, damning myself for being lousy at Legilimency.
He pulled me closer to him, so he was only inches from my face. "In time, corazon." I spotted a slender wand near his right arm, my brow furrowing in confusion.
"Ah, you found my secret," he said in a low voice, revealing his wand. "This is how I get everything done."
"What do you mean?" I asked perplexed.
"Magic, mi amor," he said simply.
"Show me."
He grinned, pointing to a glass vase and Transfiguring it into a glass rose, handing it to me. "Wow," I breathed. "It's beautiful." He looked satisfied at my expression. I've been Transfiguring glass since I was twelve.
"You can really hurt someone with all this magic can't you?"
His mouth breathed another chuckle as his glass chinked against his teeth. "Of course I can. It happens all the time."
I cocked my head to the side, indicating my curiosity as he shrugged nonchalantly. "Magic does a lot of good. But it can cause a lot of damage too." He tucked his wand away, puffing another cloud of smoke.
"Like what?"
He took in another long breath of cigar. "You're not ready to hear all of that. You won't ever look at me the same."
"That's impossible," I teased, scooting closer to him so our knees touched, looking like a giddy schoolgirl.
He let out another puff, eyes still locked on me. "I'm sure you want to hear about the coyotes and how people are smuggled north." He lifted my chin with three of his fingers. "That's a story for another night." His hand gripped my thigh as he leaned away with a mischievous grin.
"Dime mas," I cooed, anchoring his hand on my thigh. "Tell me more."
"You're too young for me, nena," he said not fighting me.
"We can be friends," I whispered. "Close friends."
He closed the gap between us, noting my fixation on his wand. He jerked himself away, shoving me onto the couch. "It won't work for you," he snarled, drawing it like a sword.
"What are you-"
"It only works for me. Do you not understand what can be done with this?"
"I was just looking at it-"
A flash of red light collided with the glass table, forcing me to shield my face with my arms. "You want to see more?" He growled, waving his arm, the entire stocked bar crushed in his anger, shards of glass and liquor dripping to the floor.
I kept my arms above my head. "I'm sorry I-"
"You don't want to know what I do to people with this." His voice was low, taking meticulous steps towards me. "I make them listen to me."
"Like torturing them and killing them for not doing what you and the maras want?" I asked, arms slowly dropping to my sides.
His lips curled into a snarl. "Yes, amongst other things."
I could hear Ernesto's fist pounding on the table. "Yes! Get that hijo de puta!"
"Let me guess, and they can't defend themselves?" My voice was calm but my heart was thudding against my chest. "Kids? Women? Innocent people? What kind of person does that?"
Figueroa lifted his chin, wand drawn at me. "You don't sound so enthusiastic anymore."
"I'm still curious," I continued in my soothing voice. "Do I look scared to you?"
He paused, chin still lifted. "They're low-lives. Poor people. Nothing to lose. No one will miss them."
"They're doing all they can to get a better life," I retorted, keeping my wand hidden behind my forearm. "They're born poor and they die poor unless they get lucky or leave to another country in hopes of breaking the cycle." He laughed at my little speech. "And you're taking advantage of them and exploiting them to make yourself money."
"It's all part of the game, love," he breathed, taking another step closer to me. "It's not for the weak of heart."
I smiled, drawing my wand, shooting a spell to the door, melting it shut so neither of us could escape.
His jaw dropped, and a tense, exaggerated moment crossed between us, wands drawn like swords, sparks beginning to flame. Figueroa threw his wand back, hurling a jinx at me. I dodged it, shooting a jet of red light that missed him by inches. Glass shattered my eardrums as another table demolished as I saw him make a run for the door.
"Stupefy!" Figueroa landed face first onto the wooded floor.
I screamed-Figueroa had charmed the shards of glass to raise before my eyes, aiming for me. I fell onto the ground in the fetal position, hundreds of shards penetrating my back and sides and arms and torso, blood scathing through my clothes, gushing crimson. His footsteps jerked my eyes open, making his way to me with a deathly look on his face.
Like a slash of a knife, I split his cheek split open exposing his teeth, his eyes blazing fire. "You perra." He raised his arm, wiping his bloody nose with the other, ready to strike. I backed up into the wall, wincing and clutching my side. "Crucio!"
My body smashed into the ground like a corpse, flailing like a fish out of water; my nerves felt as if they were on fire, accentuated by the holes in my torso. Figueroa chuckled, darting around the room for an escape. I screamed, crying out in pain waiting-begging-for the curse to stop. I couldn't let him run away. I groaned, rolling to my stomach breathing heavy, my heart beating through my chest. I couldn't see him. But there was no way he could have escaped. There were no windows. I held my breath, hoping to slow my raggedy breathing. "Revealio," I whispered, and then I spotted him: behind the bar, hiding like the coward he was. I crawled on all fours, creeping behind him as we both calculated our next move. My shoulder brushed against the chipped wood, giving me away but Figueroa instead bolted in the opposite direction. I seized my moment: I twirled my wand like a lasso, a whip protruding out of it, wrapping around his neck. I jerked it to the ground, bashing his head, blood rupturing through his skin.
"Expelliarmus!" I cried as his wand flew out of his hands. I kicked it away into the corner as he yelled obscenities in my direction. I raised the whip again, slashing his torso, my heart swelling as he cried in pain.
"YA BASTA!" He was bleeding sweat, his chest speckled blushing maroon. "I get it I get it-just tell me what you want from me." His voice was unnaturally high, the desperation clear. "We can make this go away—"
"I don't want your money," I sneered. "I want you to pay for what you've done to so many innocent people. Starting with the people from the bus, and the woman the other day who left here scared after you assaulted her."
His eyes gleamed in panic. "You're a cop? But you're—"
I shook my head. "I work with them. I hunt people like you." I stepped closer to him, my wand at his throat. His heartbeat echoed through my wand into my arm. We stared at each other, daring the other to speak.
"I've heard of you," he said attempting to swallow his dry saliva. "You're the one who's killed my men with the Fire Lasso Curse."
"They deserved what I did to them."
He grinned mischievously, his voice barely audible. "Doing this doesn't make you any better than me."
I grinned, matching his. "You're wrong. I don't hurt innocent people." I raised my wand, his eyes snapping shut in fear, my heart thundering in excitement.
"Mortem suffocant." His jaw unhinged obtusely, a violent breath vacuumed out, his eyes forced open for the last time, a small puff of air floating between us.
I took a step back, astonished at what I had done. I sucked the air out of his lungs, watched him choke on his last breath.
"Lista," I said knowing Ernesto and Ramirez were nearby. My head jerked in the direction of the door, now melting into the wooden floor.
Ernesto ran towards me, grimacing at the wounds on my torso and Figueroa's lifeless body. "Dios te bendiga," he said making the sign of the cross. "We need to get you to the medics. As for this son of a bitch," he pointed his lips to Figueroa. "We need to dump his body somewhere."
"I'll do it," Ramirez chimed in. "The maras need to know he's gone."
I dropped my wand, my head heavy, collapsing onto Ernesto, my chest aching. Ernesto's faint voice mumbled something to me, the room disappearing as we landed back in the jungle of Apaneca. He carried me onto a cot, Katerina's frantic cries approaching me. She lifted my shirt, gasping at the oozing holes. I grasped Ernesto's hand, preparing myself for the painful healing process.
Katerina dabbed ointments onto my skin, muttering incantations in Qʼeqchiʼ, the language of the ancient Mayas, my wounds beginning to sew themselves, leaving faint pink scars. The pain was still fresh, my body wincing with every stitch.
"She's lucky they didn't hit her face," Katerina muttered as more bodies hovered over me. "Most of these will heal fine but the ones on her hands were deeper and scarred the bone. Those will always be there."
I groaned, opening my eyes upon hearing a new voice, a priest, chanting prayers in Spanish to the cot next to me, a young woman sobbing onto the small unmoving body. "Que paso allí?"
Katerina's lips thinned. "The little girl had a bullet lodged in her neck. I couldn't save her." Her voice quivered as tears streamed from her eyes onto my skin. "I should've done more—"
"You can't save them all," I said taking her hand.
Katerina sobbed, clasping her hands around mine. "She was three years old." She wiped her face with her arm. "What kind of person does this?"
We looked over to the woman and her child, hearts panging in guilt. No parent should go through watching their child die. "We're doing what we can."
Katerina nodded, Ernesto offering a hand of comfort. "I know," she said wiping her tears. "We're trying."
I gave her a small smile, laying completely on my back. I waved my wand, Transfiguring my area of the ceiling so I could look at the stars, Figueroa's last words ringing in my ears. This was what I had lived for, hurting people like Figueroa. After what happened with him, when I was a teenager, what I let him do to me, this was the only thing that made me feel alive again. It made me feel powerful because I was the one in control now. But sometimes...sometimes I'd think that it wasn't all for the greater good. It's a never ending battle. Sometimes I thought it was an excuse for being angry all the time. At what point did I become as bad as them?
I sighed, clutching my chest, staring into the deep blue sky and searching the sea of stars for answers. But there were none. The night sky was as dead as my soul, as lifeless as the pair of eyes next to mine.
So that is a day in the life of Rosalind the sicario, a time in her life she is careful to talk about. I'd like to point out that some of the things mentioned in this chapter have actually occurred, such as the MS-13 being an American born gang, people fleeing the country for the United States, the extortion of the gang to the locals, and even the bus fire. In 2010 men on motorcycles intercepted a bus, doused it in gasoline, and set it on fire with the passengers inside. Qʼeqchiʼ is a real language as well, spoken by the Q'eqchi Mayas of Guatemala, Belize, and El Salvador. As always, thank you for reading! The next chapter brings our story back to the present.
Next chapter: Suffocating Under Words of Sorrow