#Helena........is this what y ou wanted.....................be honest asl;dfkjas;dflajsdfj

[ashlingnarcos]

Carrillo and Pacho for your random pairing challenge, just because I can’t imagine it at all but it’ll be so hot😆

@purplesong1028: 💛sorry for the wait!

Pacho’s new to the Cali cartel and looking to take out a mid-level enemy, and with this being one of his first missions afield, he wants to prove himself to Gilberto and Miguel and Chepe. He’s young, Medellín is new territory to him, and he’s ready for adventure.

Carrillo’s commanding his own unit for the first time, and as the oldest son of a fearsome Santanderean general, he wants to prove himself, so he’s going off the books with a friend to rustle up some information. He’s young, Medellín is new territory to him, and he’s ready for adventure.

They are, of course, hunting the same man.

Carrillo doesn’t know that yet.

Gay bar, dancing. Carrillo sticks out like a sore thumb; the man can’t dance. But he’s convincing enough in the manner of a guy new to it all that he’s generally accepted as a harmless buffoon, rather than some type of threat.

The guy goes into a back room. Carrillo simply follows the man after a few seconds, looking like he knows what he’s doing for the first time in a while. He has the guy’s hands zip tied and hauls him towards the door, intending to take him to a hideout for questioning. There’s a scraping sound, and he catches a glimpse of someone following him, but isn’t able to see in time before the person darts behind a door, so he just focuses on getting out of there faster.

Right outside the back door, someone knocks the gun out of his hands and goes after him with a knife. Swift savage slashes, he’s blocking it with his forearms, and finally pins the man down and breaks his arm.

In the meantime, Carrillo’s buddy has pulled up in their getaway car and is wrestling the captive into it: let’s go, let’s go. Carrillo runs—it will only take a couple seconds—

Mistake.

From over Carrillo’s left shoulder come two whistling shots; he watches his captive’s head explode into a bloody mess, then his friend’s. Turns.

The man is smiling, his right arm hanging at a bad angle, his left hand steady on the gun. He can shoot nearly as well with his left hand as he can with his right. He can do most anything.

And Carrillo, who had not recognized him earlier, sees that smile and remembers—this man, earlier, he had danced with this man and thought nothing of him. This man had even introduced himself: Pacho. Something bursts in Carrillo’s gut—shame, probably, he thinks.

He does not know it, but when they danced, Pacho didn’t know who Carrillo was, didn’t care, and neither of them were particularly interested in each other, only in staying close to the target. He’ll never know it. In this moment, Carrillo only thinks that Pacho must have known all along and all along been grinning at him, on the inside, much as he’s grinning now, with a raw animal satisfaction.

It’s shame, isn’t it. This man’s hands on his hips. It’s.

At the time, it had been nothing, but now, knowing the man as an enemy, it’s no longer that simple.

Carrillo stands up straight, holds himself still. His arms are ribboned in blood from the knife fight; his blood drips onto the back alley dirt. Friday night in Medellín is never quiet, but for some reason he can’t hear it.

The smile melts off Pacho’s face, and he raises the gun again, quite deliberately. The bullet nicks Carrillo’s head; barely any blood. He didn’t flinch. Pacho appears to consider this.

It’s too long a distance to run. Any other man, and Carrillo would be charging full tilt at him right now, more than willing to take a few bullets scattered across his chest, his stomach, just for that brief shining moment he’d have with his hands around the throat—but he knows, now, that Pacho would have him down easily as blinking, headshot inevitable. So he stands there, and Pacho considers him, and then Pacho shoots.

Carrillo’s on the ground. Silent, still. Biting down so hard on nothing that he all but fractures his own jaw. It was a bullet through the arm—his right arm. Now they match, though not quite. A bullet’s worse than a clean break. And that’s not counting the two bodies in the car. But Carrillo himself isn’t dead, and he isn’t going to die anytime soon, either. He looks up.

Pacho is gone.

Medellín is too big a city; the night sky above is completely starless.

Carrillo looks again. Pacho is still gone.