1
The conflict had erupted less than a week earlier, and in that short span, the violence and chaos had spiraled far beyond even the grimmest forecasts. For the locals in that narrow strip of land, the week was nothing out of the ordinary; loss, death, and destruction were everyday facts of life. The rest of the world watched from afar, the primary audience. Reporters and news outlets flooded screens with footage of the carnage, treating it like some distant spectacle, divorced from the routines of their own comfortable lives.
Among the dozens of journalists and cameramen tracking every second of the fighting from the safety of the invading army’s protective lines stood Oscar Martinez. His vest bore the embroidered “Press” badge with his full name stitched beneath it. In his hands, he gripped a camera, its lens sweeping in steady, precise arcs as he fired off shot after shot without pause.
What set Oscar apart from the pack of reporters and cameramen wasn’t his gear or his credentials—it was his position: smack in the heart of the war zone. He was what they call a war photographer, and that’s where he did his work. Amid the screams, the gunfire, and the explosions, you could spot him darting from cover to cover, hunting the perfect angle for his next frame. Anyone peering at his eyes through the viewfinder might expect to see fire or thrill, but they’d find only cold contempt for the scenes unfolding before him. He wore no body armor, no special gear. In nearly twenty years behind the lens, he’d never taken a serious wound; his only shields were the camera itself and a razor-sharp instinct.
He was thirty-eight years old, eighteen of them spent peering through that viewfinder. At twenty, he’d scraped together enough cash to chase his dream of leaving his home country behind. His journey kicked off in Europe, starting in Belgium. A month in, he stumbled into a village and witnessed a man stoned to death by a mob. Whether driven by morbid curiosity or something else, he pulled out his father’s compact old film camera and snapped a few shots. The crowd paid no mind to the young stranger photographing what they saw as rough justice. When the man finally stopped twitching, his body drenched in blood, the mob’s exhaustion and revulsion kicked in. Oscar took one last frame and slipped quietly away. Shaken by what he’d seen, he left the village for the next town over.
He arrived in the late afternoon—not a long trip. His first stop was the nearest bar. Nursing a glass of hard liquor, he tried to process what he’d witnessed and why he’d felt compelled to document it. What gnawed at him most was his numbness. In the movies, someone who saw a murder would puke, sob, scream, or try to save the stranger. He’d done none of that. His only impulse had been to take pictures.
As the alcohol started to hit, he cut himself off. A young tourist getting sloshed in an unfamiliar place was asking for trouble. Still, the drink had done its job, settling his nerves. For the first time, he scanned the room: tables, a few locals eating. He left the barstool, paid up, and took a seat, exhaling deeply as he waited for service.
He ordered what looked like a stew with bread and, to wash it down, wine—standard fare in those parts. His rule: never ask what was in the food as long as it was cheap and edible, especially with his funds running low. The meal sharpened his senses; the hum of conversation filled his ears. He usually tuned it out—most of it was in the local dialect, which he only half-understood, catching a phrase here and there. Then he picked up a familiar language and zeroed in on the table it came from. Two men, clearly not locals—first by their looks, second by their clothes. To kill time, he eavesdropped as they chatted casually, confident no one could follow.
Both wore similar gear: jeans, T-shirts, and sleeveless vests crammed with pockets. The taller one had blond hair and carried himself like the boss. His shorter, stocky partner had dark hair. They spoke in English:
“…We wasted our time. Didn’t make it in time, damn it!” The blond snapped, slamming a fist on the table. Rage crackled in his voice.
“So, the intel was solid? He’s dead?” The shorter one asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Ninety-nine percent. Still, we’ll poke around, but it’s a damn waste,” the blond said, staring into space.
His partner stayed quiet, taking a long pull from his glass, watching him. Silence stretched. Then the blond spoke again.
“Poor bastard. You know how they deal with the corrupt in that town—or anyone they think is corrupt: they stone ’em,” he said grimly, not looking at his friend.
“They didn’t care he was the mayor?” The shorter one asked, visibly shocked.
“Wouldn’t matter if he was the president. Poor bastard. Don’t know how he lasted nearly two years.”
“Two years? How long did his predecessor hold out?”
“Just under six months,” the blond replied, ending with a bitter laugh.
“What’d he do?”
“Who knows, who cares? Maybe they do it when they’re bored.”
Oscar was sure they were talking about the man he’d watched die. They kept at it, unconcerned. By then, his plate was clean. He kept listening and pieced together that these guys were journalists from one of the big global networks. He waited for his plate to be cleared, paid the bill, and on impulse stood and walked over. As they talked, he stopped at their table and politely asked to join.
“Good afternoon. Name’s Oscar. I overheard your conversation,” he said, calm and steady.
Both looked up, startled by the young guy standing there—and even more that he spoke their language. They’d been sure no one could understand them.
“Excuse me?” the blond asked, brow furrowed.
“I’m Oscar. I heard what you were saying,” he repeated, face neutral.
“A backpacking tourist, huh? How can we help?” The blond asked, a flicker of curiosity in his tone.
“I think I’ve got something that you want…” Oscar said, eyes shifting between them.
“About what? My buddy and I have covered a lot of ground…” the dark-haired one said, suspicion in his gaze.
“The guy stoned in the next village.”
The blond glanced at his partner, a grin spreading. That was the reaction Oscar wanted. With a wave, he invited him to sit.
“Well, new friend, I’m William, and this is Richard. We’re reporters with GNN—Global News Network. We were sent to cover the mayor’s arrest. But we arrived too late: they executed him in public,” William explained, with frustration.
“Yeah, he’s dead. I was there a few hours ago,” he said, voice flat.
“We’d love your take to round out the story,” Richard said, leaning in, newly hooked.
“I’ve got better than a story,” he dropped, watching their faces.
“What’s better than the story?” William asked, skeptical.
“Photos.”
He studied them, gauging their interest. Richard straightened, showing real spark for the first time.
“You’ve got photos?” he whispered, incredulous.
“I was in the village when it happened. Took some with my camera,” she confirmed, lifting her chin slightly.
“If it’s legit, we’re in. Can we see them?” Richard pressed, eager.
“First, let’s talk payment. These aren’t free.”
Richard shot William an amused grin.
“Of course. But at least show me the camera,” William said with a shrug.
Oscar pulled his bag, fished out his dad’s tiny film camera, and handed it to Richard. He burst out laughing. William looked entertained. He didn’t get the joke—figured they were mocking him or didn’t believe the shots were real.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, irritation rising, contempt bubbling.
“Well, kid, first, that camera’s so basic you’d be lucky if anything came out. Second, you’ve got no experience,” William said, barely containing a chuckle.
“If you’re not interested, sorry to bother you,” she snapped, standing abruptly. Pride wouldn’t let him stay.
Many nights later, staring at ceilings in whatever fleabag he crashed in, he wondered how his life would’ve gone if he hadn’t gone back to the table—or if Richard hadn’t asked.
“Didn’t mean to offend. Sit. Let’s talk business,” Richard said, smile fading to urgency.
Oscar paused, eyed the strangers, and sat, face still tight.
“How much are the photos worth to you?” he asked bluntly.
“Depends on quality and what they show,” Richard said, serious now. William was more into his drink.
“It’s film. How do we know?” He asked, panic creeping in as reality sank.
“We’ve got the gear to develop it. We see what’s there, and we deal. Sound fair?” William said, finally looking up, eyes sharp.
Oscar thought for a beat but knew he had no leverage. Richard was right—the film had to be developed. He nodded. He followed them to their hotel, where they had massive black gear bags.
Soon he saw they were packed with pro kit—cameras, tools, all William’s. He hauled what he needed to the bathroom, ending with a red bulb from an inner pocket. The room glowed crimson. He stepped out and took his camera. While this went down, Richard sprawled on the bed, eyes shut, checked out.
William let Oscar watch. The bathroom was blood-red: the sink was full of one chemical, and the tray over the toilet had...
EPUB (Adobe DRM)
