“That’s far enough!” Osvaldo shouted when they were some twenty feet away. “What do you want?”
“Our children!” Ramón thundered. “Helena and Tristán!”
“Sure, once I get my money.” Osvaldo motioned to the lighthouse. “Not a second earlier.”
“We’ve heard that one before,” Rosalía said bitterly. “We don’t trust you, Osvaldo Salazar. Do what we say or you’re dead.”
Osvaldo grinned, but the look in his eyes remained frosty. “You seem to have forgotten something,” he said as Carlito appeared over the ditch, shoving Helena and Tristán ahead of him at gunpoint. “If I go down, so do those two.”
There was a moment of absolute tension, with no one willing to yield. Sweaty hands gripped guns as both sides braced themselves. One false move, one ill-judged response, was all it would take for the carnage to begin.
And at that moment, Roberto stepped through the door.
He squinted in the sun, shielding his eyes. And then, dragging his injured leg along, he started moving toward the group in the middle of the open space.
Never in his entire life, not even in terrifying war situations, had he felt so exposed. He imagined every single shooter, on both sides, watching him, fingers on their triggers, asking themselves the same question: “Whose side is he on?”
And yet in spite of that, he somehow mustered a winning smile.
50
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
“All together at last,” Roberto said in the cheery tone of someone sitting down to evening drinks with friends. “We haven’t been introduced. You must be Osvaldo Salazar. My name’s Roberto Lobeira.”
“I’ve heard about you,” the Colombian hissed. “Got my money?”
“Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time. Tell me, are you a movie lover by any chance?”
“What the—”
“Movies, cinema, you know.”
“I don’t have time for this—”
“The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,” Roberto went on. “Clint Eastwood, Lee Van Cleef, Eli Wallach? It’s a classic, from 1966, you must know it.”
Osvaldo gave a dubious grunt but allowed him to continue. Rosalía and Ramón looked on in bewilderment.
“I love the ending of that movie. The three main characters are in this graveyard; each of them wants the money for himself, but nobody dares shoot—they can only hit one opponent at a time, and if they do, the other one will take advantage and shoot the survivor.”
“Mexican standoff,” Osvaldo said, comprehension dawning.
“Mexican standoff, exactly. I always wondered where the phrase came from. Well, I’m afraid our situation is much like the one in the movie. You and your men here, the islanders over there, and over in the lighthouse behind me, Ibaibarriaga with his rifle, sitting on a mound of explosives. A perfect triangle.”
Roberto was silent for a moment, letting the idea sink in with all present. He had said it loud enough to be heard by everyone else, too, and he was pleased to hear some concerned murmurs strike up on both sides.
“No one can win here,” he continued. “Whoever shoots first will be open to attack from the third one in the triangle. That’s what makes it awkward. But beautiful, too, if I may say so.”
Osvaldo gave a half smile and looked at him with renewed respect. “You did this,” he muttered. “You planned it to happen like this.”
“Let’s just say I’ve had quite a lot of time to think it through,” Roberto said, modestly tilting his head. “And I believe I’ve come up with a solution that suits everyone, and that means this can end without violence.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Okay. Salazar, you release Helena and Tristán and let them go back to their families. In exchange, the islanders guarantee you safe passage to the speedboat so you can get away from here.”
“No way,” Osvaldo said. “I’m not going anywhere without my money.”
