Playa Agua, Isla Margarita, Venezuela

The street was a dead end. Sand, dustbins, concrete walls at least twelve feet high. Too high. Barbed wire and broken glass on top. No one around, nowhere to hide. A dead end. 

The boy stopped running. On some level it was a relief. He was not sure how much more he could take, his lungs could take. The three men came round the corner, taking their time. The boy was beyond terror and now felt oddly calm. He thought what a shame it would be to die here. His body would be found in a dusty, litter-strewn alley three blocks from a dirty beach. Only twenty-four. A real shame.

“I‘ll tell you where it is,” he said, his breath slowly coming back to him.

“I know where it is chico, I already have it,” said one of the men. 

The man was clearly the boss, had been all along, since he had first seen them at his posada. The man smiled and his face became grotesque. It was a mess of scars, old and new. The others stood either side of him, blocking the alleyway. Blocking any way out. They each took a step sideways, in case he thought about making a run for it. They were big men and they had steel baseball bats. There was no way he was going to make a run for it.

“I’ve got money, a lot.”

“I know you do chico.” 

The boss was older than his men; smaller, leaner. It was this man that he was most scared of. But it was not his smile or his scars that terrified the boy. It was his eyes. Looking into his eyes, he knew there was no way out. There was no hint of humanity or compassion in those eyes. Nothing you could even begin to reason with.

“I can transfer one million dollars to you right now, straight away,” he was desperate now. He tried to take a step backwards but stumbled on a pile of rotting rubbish. Without realising the absurdity of his action he took a step forward, towards the three men but away from the stinking rubbish.

 “Please, just tell me what you want.” 

“I don’t want your money chico. I already have what I want.”

The boy looked up into the dark Caribbean sky. Not even any stars out. He thought again what a shame it would be to die here. The two henchmen took a step towards him and raised their bats. This was it.

No way out. Dead end.

 “So go fuck yourself then.”

The men were fast and the boy barely had time to raise his arms. He went down into a ball on the floor after the first few blows. He managed to protect his head and he did well for a time. His arms did not break until the seventh or eighth blows. Steel against bone. It was only a matter of time. Once his arms were broken and unable to protect him any longer, the men concentrated on his ribs and head. But the position was awkward. They tried crouching down and swinging and then tried a few backhand swipes. Their blows were beginning to lose power so they switched to feet. The boy was still breathing and showed signs of consciousness. They were both wearing heavy boots and were both big men. The boots were Timberlands, imported from Miami. They took turns stamping on his head. The Timberlands were tough, six inches high, galvanised rubber soles. They did their job. The boy stood little chance. With each stamp, the boy’s head caved in a little. At first, it was hard to notice – the human skull is strong. But once they got a fracture and then a break, the damage became more noticeable. After five minutes there was little left that resembled a head. 

After five minutes the man had finished his cigarette. 

“Basta, vamanos.”