The call to El Charro’s ranch came a year later. By then, only a handful of the original recruits remained. Comandante 19 put them all in a pick-up truck and drove them to the mountains at dawn. Damian knew it wasn’t just a ranch—it was also an execution site where El Charro disposed of his enemies.
The boys were corralled into a sweltering, hot room with bare walls and a cement floor. The stench was nauseating. A dozen men and women were being held captive: members of rival gangs, informers, deserters, people who had stolen from the cartel or owed money and couldn’t pay back. Some had been kidnapped and were being held for ransom. They all reeked of fear and blood and sweat.
“Who is going to be the next sicario?” El Charro greeted the recruits who had just got off the truck.
“You?” He put his gun under a boy’s chin and forced it up.
“You?” He walked over to the next one. “Or are you going to end up in there today?” He pointed to the black garbage bags that had been placed by each recruit’s feet. “Let’s see, shall we?”
He put a shiny blade in the boy’s hand and pointed to one of the prisoners. “Bring me his ear, Eduardo.”
Eduardo walked up to the man, who was tied to a chair. His face was pock-marked with cigarette burns that were still healing over.
“What are you waiting for?” El Charro waved his gun.
“Which one do you want?” asked Eduardo. “The left ear or the right?”
El Charro’s laughter mingled with the man’s whimpers. “I like you, Eduardo.” He surveyed the prisoner, tilting his head one way then another. “I’ll take the left one.”
Eduardo delivered. El Charro held up the man’s ear while his screams filled the room. “And that’s how it’s done.” he said, parading the mutilated ear before the rest of the boys. Eduardo took a seat beside Comandante 19.
One by one, El Charro tested the recruits. He gave them hammers to smash knees, acid to burn skin, buckets and rags for water torture. For those two hours, the small gray room in the isolated mountains turned into a hellish initiation ceremony. El Charro stole the souls of each and every one of those boys. He was the devil and he was forging them in fire and blood and brimstone.
When he got to the boy standing next to Rafael, he handed him a loaded gun.
“That one.” He pointed to a woman who was curled up on the floor, terrorized by the wailing and screaming around her.
The boy pointed the gun, but couldn’t bring himself to shoot. He tried again as she squirmed on the ground, her wrists tied behind her back.
“El Charro—” said the boy.
Before he could say another word, El Charro shot him point blank in the chest. He tumbled sideways and fell on the woman. El Charro walked over to the body, removed the tip of his cane and stamped a blood red ‘C’ on him. Comandante 19 dragged his body away and stuffed it into a garbage bag.
“You.” El Charro handed the gun to Rafael. It was still warm from the other boy’s fingers. “Finish her off.”
Rafael stepped forward.
“Por favor,” the woman pleaded.
Rafael raised the gun and took aim. Beads of sweat formed on his brow.
Damian clenched his fists. He knew Rafael was reliving the horror of Juan Pablo and Camila’s deaths. He knew there was no protecting Rafael from this one.
“I can’t.” Rafael lowered the gun.
Damian was torn. A part of him wanted Rafael to shoot, to save his own life, and the other part was relieved. Rafael had stood up to the darkness. El Charro had not been able to corrupt him.
“Damian.” El Charro took the gun from Rafael and gave it to him. “Shoot the boy.” He waved his cane at Rafael.
Damian went deathly still.