And then one day there is a great heaving movement of the inmates in the prison. You hear their shouts and barks followed by bursts from assault rifles nearby. You wonder whether it is better to move toward or away from the shooting –maybe the place is being liberated. You smell the blood and hear the death well before a military man –he's younger than your children– bursts into the room firing. You dive to the infested floor as hundreds of steel-jacketed rounds splash through bodies like hot knives through warm butter. Buried alive under several bleeding inmate bodies, you hide until the killers move on, reloading. You can't breathe. You're unsure whether you've been wounded or as luck might have it, killed. You're wondering whether death would be good or bad luck when a radio within earshot reports that inmates rioted but the government is now in control of the situation. You try to laugh but can't catch a breath. You close your eyes praying to Jesus they never have to open again.
At least 30 years had passed since his last visit to Caracas. He had little time to become an expert on moving about in such a complicated metropolis. Whether it was hopping on the subway, finding directions, playing waiting games at public agencies, eating whatever he could and sleeping wherever he could, Guerrero senior had been wandering the streets for 60 days, and thanks to "the boys" he found some sort of relief by way of helping hands.