February 10, 1998, ten in the morning, the Colombia border, an abandoned farm.
Sinopiquiar was pinned face-down in the mud, his cheek pressed against the freezing earth, his nose flooded with the stench of rotten leaves and livestock manure.
He tried to struggle, but the foot on the back of his neck was pressing too hard, nailing him to the ground like a spike. He heard his own ribs creak—he didn't know if they had snapped, or if it was just the illusion of being crushed.
"Don't move."
The man standing on him was speaking Spanish, but with a strange accent.
A Mexican.
Sinopiquiar's heart clenched violently.
"You… you can't arrest me…" His voice squeezed through his teeth, hoarse beyond recognition. "This is Colombian territory… you have no law enforcement authority…"
The man standing on him let out a short laugh.
"Law enforcement authority?"
The foot pressed down even harder.
