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A fuse in the ancient air conditioner has blown again, allowing the hot, stale air in the small room to stifle its occupants. Leaning back in his chair, Felipe wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. A sweltering draft floats through the cracks in the broken window frame.

Hijo de puta.

Why does Miguel make him use the computer in the main compound? Felipe could be sitting by the pool at the mansion with the laptop, enjoying a cold drink, but of course that's not acceptable to his cousin. No clue why Miguel consistently seems pissed off at him, although it has always been that way.

Across the desk, Ramon lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag, letting the smoke escape through the corners of his mouth. "How is it going?"

"I've got three possibilities, two Americans and one German. How 'bout you?" Felipe grabs the pack of Camels off the table and sticks a cigarette between his lips. Striking the match on the sole of his shoe, he holds the flame under the cigarette tip. As he inhales, the nicotine lulls his mind and takes the edge off his frazzled nerves.

Ramon grins. "I just got shots of a redhead in a bikini. Come check her out."

He doesn't have to ask twice; soon, both men are huddled over the computer screen.

"Wow, she's hot." Felipe clears his throat to distract himself from the pull in his pants. "Where's she from?"

"Ireland." Ramon takes another drag. "She's coming over next month."

A small whistle escapes Felipe. "Congrats, mano. She your first recruit?"

"Yep." The smoke from the cigarettes hangs over the musty room, robbing it of the last bit of oxygen. Ramon coughs into his fist. "She's being matched with Tomás. He's a lucky dog."

Felipe smirks. Lucky us. As is his best friend, Tomás and he have always shared their possessions. The redhead looks promising. In times like these, he loves his job. Recruiting foreign girls to match them with high-ranking soldiers sure beats dodging the bullets that fly around in active battle.

Ramon extinguishes the cigarette and cups his hands behind his head. "When do you think I'll be matched?"

"No clue. Talk to Miguel."

Ramon's lips twist as if he just swallowed something nasty. "You know how moody he is. I don't want to get on his nerves by asking him when I finally get to score."

Felipe nudges his shoulder. "I'll ask him for you."

"Thanks, mano." The usual easy-going grin is back on Ramon's face.

"Don't mention it."

Felipe returns to his own computer and opens the link to the forum he has been following for the past few months. He'd uploaded a few poems he had found online from various unknown authors, claiming them as his own, which resulted in a few bites, but they all led to dead ends. Most of the women were either too young or too old to meet the recruitment criteria. Maybe he should move on to another forum, where more users are in their late teens or early twenties. As long as they are literate and have half a brain, high-ranking officers in the Malaguian army aren't picky.

Felipe scrolls through the inbox, quickly scanning the messages, on the lookout for his next victim. A few sentences from a girl catch his eye; she seems really sweet. Her name is Stacy and she is from some hick town in Indiana he's never heard of. After he hits the reply button, he writes a mushy response; maybe she'll take the bait and turn out to fit the profile. Hell, he hasn't had a girlfriend in over a year and could try to claim her for himself. For all the hard work he does for the cause, he deserves some fun, especially with Tomás joining the ranks of married men soon.

With hooded eyes, he continues to browse the forum, leaving a few thread comments and taking drags from a fresh cigarette from time to time. His stomach growls—lunch is approaching—and he fully intends to take the afternoon off. Maybe he should go to the shooting range. Training has never harmed anyone and he could hang with Tomás afterward.

When the door flies open, he is so startled that he almost jumps out of the chair. Sun floods the small, dim room and blinds his eyes. He blinks at the silhouette in the doorway.

"Yo, Felipe, I need you to run an errand with me."

His cousin's cold voice sends a shiver down his spine. Miguel is in one of his moods where he will beat the crap out of anyone who mouths off.

"I'll be right there." Felipe logs out of the forum and shuts down the computer. "Hasta luego, Ramon."

Ramon pecks away at the keyboard without paying attention; he's probably chatting with the redhead about her upcoming trip. Being a romantic at heart, he gets a few good bites from cute girls every week while Tomás has the emotional insight of a fly. The girl will be in for a surprise once she arrives in Malaguay, expecting to find a Romeo and instead is married off to Hannibal Lecter, minus the liver and fava beans.

Miguel is waiting out by the open-sided military truck and flicks away a cigarette as Felipe steps out of the building. His eyes seethe with anger and the two soldiers with him hide in the driver's cabin.

Felipe frowns. "What's the matter? You look like you're about to kill someone."

"The rebels set one of the fields on fire and destroyed half a million dollars of merchandise."

"I told you—"

Miguel's death glare cuts his cousin off. "I remember what you told me. We need more soldiers to guard the fields, so let's get some."

"Where are we gonna find them?"

"The orphanage."

With a sigh, Felipe pulls himself into the truck, and Miguel signals the driver to get a move on it. Felipe leans back, letting the airflow cool his heated face. The orphanage is run by Pearson Moore, an American idealist who tries to save Malaguian boys from becoming child soldiers. Miguel hates him with a passion and the confrontation won't be pretty. It puts Felipe in a tight spot; he was raised in the orphanage until he was fourteen. Pearson is one of the few he cares about.

They ride in silence through the center of town, which is almost deserted. As the truck approaches, a few kids with runny noses take off. A mother calls out to her son, who has been playing with a stray dog. The boy is young, maybe ten or eleven, but that has never stopped Miguel before. When he needs soldiers, he pretty much takes anyone off the streets. The law requiring boys to be at least fourteen to enter the military doesn't apply to him.

As soon as they leave the last house of the city behind, the road begins to slope upward. The truck crawls along the windy trail wrapping itself around a mountain. The orphanage is five miles out in the middle of the woods—six small buildings in total, consisting of several dorms for about thirty boys and a handful of girls, a school, a mess hall, and an administrative building. All funded through donations, mostly from softhearted Americans.

When the truck screeches to a halt in front of the administrative building, a few boys playing soccer on the nearby pitch turn around to watch. Miguel squints at them and grabs a machine gun off the stand. Grinning with viciousness, he strolls over to them.

"Hey. Who of you is over twelve?"

Without exception, the boys evade his gaze and act as if they swallowed their tongues.

Miguel flicks the safety of the gun. "I asked you boys a question."

One of the youngsters is stupid enough to make eye contact. "Mr. Moore said we're not supposed to talk to you."

Miguel doesn't even bother to respond. Without hesitation, he aims the gun at the kid's feet, spraying the ground in front of him with a spurt of deadly lead. The boy jumps back, white as a sheet and shaking.

"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?" As Pearson rushes toward the little group, he trembles with anger. Lifting a rifle, he aims the barrel straight at Miguel's head.

Miguel regards him calmly. "Unfortunately, I have to borrow some of your kids."

"Get out of here before you regret it." Pearson slides his finger inside the trigger guard.

Miguel's eyes narrow. "Estúpido. I'm the president's son, and if you shoot me, this orphanage will burn within the hour, with everyone inside. I'm sure you don't want the death of innocent children on your hands."

Tense silence follows his words. The wind howls in the canyon, echoing off the tall mountain walls. All eyes are fixed on Pearson's finger.

Felipe closes his eyes.

Please, don't pull the trigger.

The soldier's machine guns will turn Pearson's body into a human sieve if he so much as puts a scratch on Miguel.

After what seems like an eternity, Pearson lowers the rifle. "Please, don't take the boys. They're only children and they've already lost their families."

The triumph is all too visible on Miguel's face; no doubt there'll be more visits in the near future. "I tell you what. Since you're cooperating, we'll only take five today. How does that sound?"

Pearson curses under his breath, making Miguel laugh.

He turns to the boy he intimidated earlier, who stares back at him with wide eyes. "Now, pendejo, how old are you?"

"Thir—Thirteen." Tears glisten in his eyes.

Miguel smirks. "Today is your lucky day, kid. You're getting out of this shithole."

He turns to the next boy; ten minutes later, five of them are loaded on the truck. Pearson has disappeared, probably calling the president's mansion or the US embassy to bitch about Miguel. His complaint will fall on deaf ears—he's too small of a fish in the pond to matter. The political climate between Malaguay and the superpower has been strained since the overthrow of the old regime eighteen years ago, and neither of them are keen to rock the boat.

"Vámonos." Miguel hits the side of the truck and the vehicle turns around, swaying up the hilly road. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, Miguel lights himself a smoke.

"What's your name, kid?" he asks the boy he had intimidated, offering him one of the cigarettes.

The boy takes it without even the slightest hesitation. "Charo."

"I'm Miguel."

"I know who you are, sir." Charo takes the offered lighter and flicks it open under the tip of the cigarette. Eyes closed, he takes a deep drag.

There's no coughing or spluttering; this couldn't be his first smoke. Pearson is strict and doesn't allow any drugs on the premises, so the boy must have either snuck off into the woods, like Felipe and Tomás used to do, or he hasn't been at the orphanage long.

"You don't need to call me sir." Miguel blows the smoke right into the boy's face. When he doesn't flinch, Miguel chuckles. "Tell me, Charo, what do you want to do when you grow up?"

"I want to be rich—live in a big mansion like you."

"And I bet you'll do anything to get there."

"I'll do whatever it takes."

"Even if you have to kill for your country?"

Charo nods slowly. "Give me a gun and I'll fight for Malaguay. Long live President Rizo."

Felipe turns away, a heavy lump settling in his stomach. As usual, his cousin left out the dying part. Only four out of every ten child soldiers live to see their eighteenth birthday, half of them disabled from a bullet wound.

As the truck makes its way back toward the city, Felipe glares up at the mountains. He loves his country, but how would it have felt to grow up without war and violence, in a place where a life mattered?

His sullen mood only lasts a moment. Maybe Stacy responded to his message already and they could meet on Skype. He couldn't wait to check. "Listen, Miguel, there's this girl I met online I'd like to recruit, possibly for myself."

"Seen a picture yet?"

"No, but there's this innocence in her writing I really like." Her message was so cute.

Amusement flickers in Miguel's eyes. "Go for it, Felipe. You've got my approval."

A smirk spreads on Felipe's lips and he cranes his neck. The driver better hurry and return to the recruitment center. Stacy might have enclosed a picture with her next message and if she ends up looking halfway decent, he'll do everything in his power to get her to Malaguay.

~~~~

© Sal Mason 2015

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