La deuda │The debt (ESP-ENG) (P3)
hive-132410·@juniorgomez·
0.000 HBDLa deuda │The debt (ESP-ENG) (P3)
<div class=text-justify> <center></center> <center></center> <center></center> Miró la noticia hasta el final, apagó el televisor, se levantó y comenzó a dar vueltas por la sala, pensando en lo que podía hacer a continuación, con la Glock 17 en la mano, asomándose por las ventanas hacia la calle, esperando la llegada de la Grand Cherokee negra en cualquier momento. Una hora después volvió a sentarse, sacó su teléfono y marcó el número de su madre. —Bendición. —Dios te bendiga, hijo. ¿Cómo estás? —Preocupado. —¿Y ahora qué? —Vendrán por mí en cualquier momento. Quería despedirme. —Dios te guarde, muchacho. No digas esas cosas. Aléjate de esa vida y busca un trabajo honrado, sabes que tu papá y yo no te educamos… —Solo quería decirte eso. Adiós. —Espera, hijo, no vayas a… Miguel colgó. Marcó el número de teléfono de Bárbara y llamó. —Hola… —Hola, Miguel, ¿qué pasó? ¿Llegaste bien a casa? —Sí, mejor de lo que esperaba, mi amor. Llegué en compañía de tu recuerdo. —Ay, gordo, tú si eres bello vale. Yo tampoco he dejado de pensar en ti. —De verdad te extraño, mi vida. —Si quieres, podemos vernos otra vez, mañana a la misma hora y en el mismo lugar… Miguel soltó una carcajada y continúo hablando con Bárbara por más de media hora, hasta que ella se despidió y colgó. Se levantó del sofá, decidido a salir aquella noche para la cancha. Comprobó por enésima vez que la Glock 17 estaba bien cargada, caminó hacia su habitación y buscó el bolsito con la mercancía. Se metió el arma en la cintura y salió a la calle. Iban a ser las ocho de la noche. <center></center> En el camino divisó varias luces de carros y motos, que parecían acercarse frenéticamente hacia él, y agarró el arma para disparar en más de una ocasión; sin embargo, todas siguieron de largo. Llegó a la cancha y se quedó de pie, a pocos metros de donde había estado su TX 200 la noche anterior. Frustrado y molesto, pensó que ya no tenía sentido el cambio de placa, papeles y pintura. El lugar estaba abarrotado. Miguel vendió en una hora lo que había vendido la noche anterior. Algunos compradores querían una bolsa fiada, con la promesa de pagar al día siguiente luego de cobrar; pero él no se dejaba engañar tan fácilmente. No había señales de la Grand Cherokee negra, como si se hubieran cansado de seguirlo. Emiliano llegó alrededor de las nueve y media. Su ropa era la misma que vestía antes de salir de casa. Parecía molesto y sorprendido al mismo tiempo. Sin bajarse de la moto ni apagar el motor, se acercó hasta donde estaba Miguel. —Tú sí que tienes bolas, chico —le dijo. —¿Qué quieres que haga? No tengo muchas opciones —replicó Miguel. —¿Supiste lo del colombiano? Miguel asintió. —Si no quieres terminar como él, hazme caso y ven conmigo. Hoy en la tarde hablé con algunas personas y me pusieron en contacto con los Osorio. Quieren proponerte un trato. Miguel observó a Emiliano con desconfianza. —¿Por qué? No les cuesta nada matarme y ya. Aquí los estoy esperando. —Necesitan gente como tú, Miguel, que no le temes a nada. —No quiero trabajar para ellos. —¿Prefieres quedarte aquí y esperar que te maten? —No se las pondré tan fácil. Emiliano suspiró y movió la cabeza de lado a lado en señal de desaprobación. —Querías que te ayudara y lo hice, ¿qué más quieres, vale? Miguel no respondió. Emiliano aceleró la moto varias veces. —¿Vas a venir o qué? —preguntó con impaciencia, por encima del ruido del tubo de escape. Miguel subió a la moto. Emiliano arrancó y manejó en dirección a Campo Carabobo. Llegó a Las Manzanas en menos de cinco minutos, cruzó varias calles hasta que estuvo frente al Centro de Diagnóstico Integral (CDI), giró a la derecha y aceleró rumbo a su destino. <center></center> Al cabo de unos minutos llegaron a una finca. No había nadie que cuidara la entrada y la hierba estaba alta, como si no fuera sido cortada desde hace meses. Atravesaron un largo camino, rodeados por árboles de mango, vigilados por la maleza, hasta que estacionaron frente a una casa de barro que parecía deshabitada. —Este es el lugar —dijo Emiliano cuando bajaron de la moto—. Aquí me desharé de ti —añadió fríamente. Miguel reaccionó con rapidez y se llevó la mano a la cintura para sacar la Glock 17; pero Emiliano había sacado la suya primero y le disparó. La bala atravesó la mano y se instaló bajo la costilla derecha. Miguel cayó de rodillas al piso. —Ni siquiera lo pienses —dijo Emiliano al ver que Miguel pretendía sacar el arma con la otra mano. Miguel desistió. Emiliano se acercó a él y le dio un golpe en la cara con la cacha del arma. Miguel terminó de caer al piso, aturdido y con un dolor tremendo que le recorría el cuerpo. Emiliano lo desarmó y observó la Glock 17 por unos segundos. —Mi primera Glock, chico. Qué nostalgia vale. Y pensar que cometí el error de regalártela para que te cuidaras las espaldas. ¿Cuántas veces la usaste, Miguel? ¿Cuántas veces la ensuciaste por tus decisiones apresuradas? Miguel no respondió. El dolor en la mano y la cara comenzaba a desorientarlo. Estaba furioso, pero carecía de fuerzas para levantarse y devolver el golpe. —¿Sabes dónde estamos? —le preguntó Emiliano abriendo los brazos de par en par, con un arma en cada mano—. Estamos en tierra de nadie. Aquí venimos los muchachos y yo a practicar tiro al blanco. Normalmente usamos alguna lacra del barrio que se ha comido la luz demasiada veces como para dejarlo seguir viviendo. —Sonrió y apuntó a Miguel con las dos armas—. Hoy la lacra eres tú, Miguel. —Vete a la mierda —espetó Miguel y escupió fuertemente al piso. Emiliano lo miró fríamente. Guardó una de las armas en el forro que tenía oculto bajo la chaqueta negra y se quedó con la otra en la mano. —Te mataré con la misma pistola que mataste al distribuidor de los Osorio. —¿Por qué? —preguntó Miguel, sentándose en la tierra, aguantando el dolor, mirando a Emiliano fijamente—. ¿Acaso no somos primos…, hermanos…, la misma gente…? —Porque te metiste con quien no debías, Miguel. Si me hubieras consultado primero antes de actuar, te hubiera dicho que mataras al colombiano en vez de aceptar su trato y hacerte enemigo de los Osorio. Ellos tienen todo tomado. No hay un solo barrio en el estado Carabobo que no esté bajo su mandato. Mueven toneladas de droga mensualmente y la distribuyen de norte a sur, este y oeste… y tú te creíste dueño del mundo con medio kilo de cocaína, ¡qué gafo eres, vale! Miguel lo miró con dureza. —Entonces mátame de una vez y sal corriendo a lamer los zapatos de esa gente. Emiliano suspiró. —No lo entiendes, Miguel. Yo te di techo y comida cuando llegaste de Caracas huyendo del gobierno porque no te dejaban vender tranquilo por allá. Comprometí mi casa y mi trabajo porque somos familia. Les dije a los Osorio que tú eras el hombre perfecto para el negocio, luego de que el último vendedor se comió la luz y no pagó a tiempo lo que debía. Te puse en contacto con el distribuidor. Te regalé una pistola. Ayudé a reparar tu moto varias veces. Incluso te presenté a Bárbara, ¿o es que no lo recuerdas? Llegaste a Barrera siendo nadie y yo te di una buena oportunidad de trabajo. Y por si fuera poco, te conseguí el porte de armas falso y la placa que me pediste para impresionar a los padres de la carajita esa. Cuidé tus espaldas desde entonces; pero tú tenías que tener más, siempre más y más, como si no fuera suficiente el terreno despejado para vender. Emiliano caminaba de lado a lado mientras hablaba, las venas de su frente palpitaban y su cara estaba roja. —¿Por qué crees que los muchachos nunca llegaron a buscarte para la cancha o en algunas de esas fiesta donde vendías? Nunca fuiste prudente o cauteloso. Te advertí más de una vez que tuvieras cuidado, que la gente habla mucho; pero no me hiciste caso. —¿Qué le dirás a nuestra familia cuando te llamen y pregunten por mí? —balbuceó Miguel, tosiendo y dejando escapar un poco de sangre por la boca. Emiliano dejó de caminar y se paró frente a él. Deslizó la corredera de la Glock 17 hacia atrás y le apuntó a la frente. —Les diré que no sé nada de ti, que te fuiste sin decir a donde ibas. Y por Bárbara no te preocupes, le haré saber también que te fuiste de viaje. Y si se pone a llorar la consolaré —añadió riendo fuertemente—; sería una buena recompensa, después de todo me lo debes. Miguel quiso protestar, pero Emiliano jaló el gatillo. —¡Pam! El cuerpo de Miguel cayó al suelo. Del hueco que ahora tenía en su frente comenzó a brotar un hilillo de sangre. Emiliano guardó el arma en el otro forro que tenía ocultó bajo la chaqueta. Despojó a Miguel de la billetera, el teléfono, las llaves de la casa y el dinero de las ventas de aquella noche. Metió las cosas dentro del bolsito con la mercancía. Se colocó el bolso, subió a la moto, encendió el motor, sacó el teléfono que tenía en el bolsillo del pantalón y realizó una llamada. —El trabajo está hecho. Vengan a limpiarlo todo y no dejen ninguna evidencia. Colgó. Aceleró la moto durante unos segundos y el tubo de escape resonó por la llanura de aquel lugar. Observó el cuerpo inerte de Miguel y suspiró, no podía creer lo que había hecho. Arrancó a toda velocidad, sin frenar en los baches del camino, como si quisiera despojar su mente de la culpa que comenzaba a sentir. Poco después, en el interior del bolsito con la mercancía, el teléfono de Miguel anunció la llegada de un nuevo mensaje. Decía lo siguiente: «Mi amor, estoy muy emocionada porque cada vez falta menos para el día mi cumpleaños. Espero con ansías escapar contigo para la playa al día siguiente. Quisiera que me acompañaras mañana a comprar el traje de baño que más te guste, solo para complacerte como tú me complaces a mí, ¿te gustaría?» <center></center> <center> <sup>Si te ha gustado la historia, házmelo saber en los comentarios.</sup> <sup>Las imágenes utilizadas pertenecen a [Timothy Dykes](https://unsplash.com/photos/btOjqwIkYdw), [Dustin Tramel](https://unsplash.com/photos/ao4ZymAvoKo) y [Nicholas Ruggeri](https://unsplash.com/photos/w-4vBWOpTds), fotógrafos de [Unsplash.com](https://unsplash.com/)</sup> </center> <center></center> </div> <div class=text-justify> <center></center> <center> </center> <center></center> He watched the news to the end, turned off the TV, got up and started pacing around the room, thinking about what he could do next, Glock 17 in hand, leaning out the windows toward the street, expecting the black Grand Cherokee to arrive at any moment. An hour later he sat back down, pulled out his phone and dialed his mother's number. —Blessing. —God bless you, son. How are you? —Concerned. —What now? —They'll be coming for me any minute. I wanted to say goodbye. —God keep you, son. Don't say such things. Get away from that life and look for an honest job, you know your father and I didn't educate you.... —I just wanted to tell you that. Goodbye. —Wait, son, don't go to... Miguel hung up. He dialed Barbara's phone number and called. —Hello... —Hey, Miguel, what happened? Did you get home okay? —Yes, better than I expected, my love. I arrived in the company of your memory. —Oh, fatso, if you're beautiful, that's okay. I haven't stopped thinking about you either. —I really miss you, my life. —If you want, we can meet again, tomorrow at the same time and in the same place... Miguel burst out laughing and continued talking to Barbara for more than half an hour, until she said goodbye and hung up. He got up from the couch, determined to leave that night for the field. He checked for the umpteenth time that the Glock 17 was loaded, walked to his room and looked for the little bag with the merchandise. He tucked the gun into his waistband and went out into the street. It was about eight o'clock in the evening. <center></center> On the way he spotted several car and motorcycle lights, which seemed to be frantically approaching him, and he grabbed his gun to shoot on more than one occasion; however, they all moved on. He reached the field and stood, just a few feet from where his TX 200 had been the night before. Frustrated and annoyed, he thought there was no longer any point in changing plates, papers and paint. The place was packed. Miguel sold in an hour what he had sold the night before. Some of the buyers wanted a guaranteed purse, with the promise to pay the next day after getting paid; but he was not so easily fooled. There was no sign of the black Grand Cherokee, as if they were tired of following him. Emiliano arrived around nine thirty. His clothes were the same as the ones he wore before leaving home. He looked annoyed and surprised at the same time. Without getting off the motorcycle or turning off the engine, he approached Miguel. —You've got some balls, kid —he said. —What do you want me to do? I don't have many options —replied Miguel. —Did you hear about the Colombian? Miguel nodded. —If you don't want to end up like him, listen to me and come with me. Today in the afternoon I talked to some people and they put me in touch with the Osorios. They want to make you a deal. Miguel looked at Emiliano with distrust. —Why? It doesn't cost them anything to just kill me. I'm waiting for them here. —They need people like you, Miguel, who are not afraid of anything. —I don't want to work for them. —Would you rather stay here and wait to be killed? —I won't make it that easy for them. Emiliano sighed and shook his head from side to side in disapproval. —You wanted me to help you and I did, what more do you want? Miguel did not respond. Emiliano accelerated the motorcycle several times. —Are you coming or what? —he asked impatiently, over the noise of the exhaust pipe. Miguel got on the motorcycle. Emiliano started and drove in the direction of Campo Carabobo. He arrived at Las Manzanas in less than five minutes, crossed several streets until he was in front of the Centro de Diagnóstico Integral (CDI), turned right and accelerated towards his destination. <center></center> After a few minutes they arrived at a farm. There was no one to guard the entrance and the grass was tall, as if it had not been cut for months. They crossed a long road, surrounded by mango trees, watched by the undergrowth, until they parked in front of a mud house that looked uninhabited. —This is the place —said Emiliano when they got off the motorcycle—. I'll get rid of you here —he added coldly. Miguel reacted quickly and put his hand to his waist to pull out his Glock 17; but Emiliano had pulled out his first and shot him. The bullet went through his hand and settled under his right rib. Miguel fell to his knees on the floor. —Don't even think about it —said Emiliano when he saw that Miguel was trying to pull out the gun with his other hand. Miguel gave up. Emiliano approached him and hit him in the face with the handle of the gun. Miguel ended up falling to the floor, stunned and with a tremendous pain running through his body. Emiliano disarmed him and looked at the Glock 17 for a few seconds. —My first Glock, kid. What a nostalgia it is. And to think I made the mistake of giving it to you to watch your back. How many times did you use it, Miguel? How many times did you dirty it because of your hasty decisions? Miguel did not respond. The pain in his hand and face was beginning to disorient him. He was furious, but lacked the strength to get up and strike back. —Do you know where we are? —asked Emiliano, opening his arms wide, with a gun in each hand—. We are in no man's land. Here the boys and I come here for target practice. We usually use some scum from the neighborhood who has eaten the light too many times to let him go on living. —He smiled and pointed both guns at Miguel—. Today the scum is you, Miguel. —Fuck you —Miguel said and spat loudly on the floor. Emiliano looked at him coldly. He kept one of the weapons in the lining he had hidden under his black jacket and kept the other in his hand. —I will kill you with the same gun you killed the Osorio dealer. —Why? —asked Miguel, sitting down on the ground, holding his pain, staring at Emiliano—. Aren't we cousins..., brothers..., the same people...? —Because you messed with the wrong people, Miguel. If you had consulted me first before acting, I would have told you to kill the Colombian instead of accepting his deal and making enemies with the Osorios. They have everything taken over. There is not a single neighborhood in the state of Carabobo that is not under their rule. They move tons of drugs monthly and distribute them from north to south, east and west... and you thought you owned the world with half a kilo of cocaine, what an idiot you are! Miguel looked at him sternly. —Then kill me at once and run out and lick those people's shoes. Emiliano sighed. —You don't understand, Miguel. I gave you a roof and food when you came from Caracas fleeing from the government because they wouldn't let you sell in peace over there. I compromised my house and my work because we are family. I told the Osorios that you were the perfect man for the business, after the last salesman ate the light and did not pay on time what he owed. I put you in touch with the distributor. I gave you a pistol. I helped repair your bike several times. I even introduced you to Barbara, or don't you remember? You came to Barrera as a nobody and I gave you a good job opportunity. And if that wasn't enough, I got you the fake gun carry and the badge you asked for to impress that little girl's parents. I've had your back ever since; but you had to have more, always more and more, as if the clear land to sell wasn't enough. Emiliano paced from side to side as he spoke, the veins in his forehead throbbed and his face was red. —Why do you think the guys never came looking for you on the court or at some of those parties where you sold? You were never prudent or cautious. I warned you more than once to be careful, that people talk a lot; but you didn't listen to me. —-What will you tell our family when they call you and ask for me? —Miguel babbled, coughing and letting a little blood escape from his mouth. Emiliano stopped walking and stood in front of him. He slid the slide of the Glock 17 back and pointed it at his forehead. —I will tell them that I don't know anything about you, that you left without saying where you were going. And don't worry about Barbara, I'll also let her know that you went on a trip. And if she starts crying I'll console her —he added, laughing loudly—; it would be a good reward, after all you owe me. Miguel wanted to protest, but Emiliano pulled the trigger. —Pam! Miguel's body fell to the ground. A trickle of blood began to flow from the hole in his forehead. Emiliano put the gun in the other lining he had hidden under his jacket. He stripped Miguel of his wallet, phone, house keys and the money from that night's sales. He stuffed the items into the small bag with the merchandise. He put on the bag, got on the motorcycle, started the engine, took out the phone he had in his pants pocket and made a call. —The job is done. Come clean it all up and leave no evidence behind. He hung up. He accelerated the motorcycle for a few seconds and the exhaust resounded across the plain of that place. He looked at Miguel's inert body and sighed, he could not believe what he had done. He started up at full speed, without braking on the bumps in the road, as if he wanted to clear his mind of the guilt he was beginning to feel. Shortly after, inside the bag with the merchandise, Miguel's phone announced the arrival of a new message. It read: "My love, I'm so excited because my birthday is getting closer and closer. I am looking forward to escaping with you to the beach the next day. I would like you to come with me tomorrow to buy the swimsuit you like the most, just to please you as you please me, would you like that?" <center></center> <center> <sup>If you liked the story, let me know in the comments.</sup> <sup>The images used belong to [Timothy Dykes](https://unsplash.com/photos/btOjqwIkYdw), [Dustin Tramel](https://unsplash.com/photos/ao4ZymAvoKo) and [Nicholas Ruggeri](https://unsplash.com/photos/w-4vBWOpTds), photographers from [Unsplash.com](https://unsplash.com/)</sup> <sup>Translated with [www.DeepL.com/Translator](https://www.deepl.com/translator#es/en/) (free version)</sup> </center> <center></center> </div> </div>
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