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“No.”
“Louder.” Alejandro nods and I release the man, letting him fall to his knees. At once, his hand comes up and he rubs his neck, glaring at us from his position. “Didn’t your father ever teach you manners? How to respect those above you?”
“You’ll never be him.” The hand on the ground bracing his weight tightens into a fist, his teeth grinding as he spits out words through them. He’s amusing to watch, at least.
“An abusive adulterer? Is that who I should admire?”
“Fuck you,” Andresito hisses out a second before the bottom of my foot meets his face. A swift kick and he’s thrown back, landing on his back with an arm at an awkward angle. “Hijueputa!”
“Watch. Your. Mouth.” My fingers twitch, and I hold myself back from putting a bullet between his eyes. We’re not innocent—there’s enough blood on my family’s hands to cover a stadium, but his crimes are worse. Behind the disguise of a poppy farmer, Don Andres also dabbled in human trafficking and kept a horde of prostitutes at his disposal by forced addiction. Andresito knows this. His wife knew this. “I won’t repeat myself.”
“He ruined us!” The kid tries to wipe his face, but only succeeds in spreading the blood flowing from his nose across his lips and cheek. “My family is—”
“You’re a bunch of sick fucks.”
At my words, his eyes narrow and he tries to stand. “Maybe I’ll return the favor?” He’s unsteadied, almost drunk-like, and can barely manage to kneel with his face screwed up in anger. “He killed mine and I’ll kill—”
“You.” I finish for him, pulling my Ruger from the holster around my chest. His father died at Alejandro’s hands, and he’ll meet his end at mine as a second later I pull the trigger, killing the sole male heir to Don Andres’s small estate. A few garbled breaths, and those scared eyes are on mine as his body stills and his life’s essence seeps from the wounds. One to his neck and the other his chest; two bullets exit his body and ricochet off the concrete ground, his blood marking those closest to his corpse. “Anyone else have something to say?”
Not a word. Not so much as a sound.
“We apologize for this small inconvenience.” Alejandro’s voice reverberates throughout the space as he clasps my shoulder, giving it a small squeeze before releasing. His men lower their drawn weapons, and mine returns to its place. “Let’s proceed.”
“Agreed.” Nothing else is said while he retakes his seat, and my attention turns to the men on the floor, a puddle of urine now surrounding their scared forms. That, and the rivulets of blood winding down to the divot at the center that leads to drainage in the cement floor. “How are you two holding up? Need anything?” Their response is a muffled sound and I look over at the man closest to their forms. “Remove the gag.”
“Of course, sir.” Alejandro’s guard tears the covering, then moves back into formation, gun in hand and finger on the trigger.
“Gracias.” He nods, and I tilt my head in Francis’s direction. “I’m not going to repeat myself.”
“I can explain, Javier. Just hear me out.”
My eyes narrow and I pick up the machete, admiring the smooth wooden handle and slick blade. Not too heavy. Unbreakable if used with force. “That’s not what I asked, Francis.”
“Please.”
“How have you been?”
“C-could be better.”
“And whose fault is that?” Placing the machete back upon the tray, I prepare my single-use gun by loading the two bullets and cocking it with the barrel pointing at Francis.
I’ve known him for years.
I’ve welcomed him to share a meal or two with my family.
I offered him a job when his father fell ill, and later when he passed, my family took care of the bill. Ungrateful son of a bitch.
“I’m sorry.” It’s a whisper; two pathetic words that earn him a bullet to his right shoulder. His cry of pain reverberates throughout every inch of this room as his life’s essence begins to flow.
At first, the .45 bullet’s entry and exit create a small splash, but soon it begins to flow downward, staining his exposed skin.
He’s a human map of bruises and cuts, of swollen flesh and pain. From where I stand, it’s easy to make out the broken ribs and the fragment poking through the skin.
My cousin doesn’t take kindly to thieves.
And while it’s his product the men stole, these two are mine. I’m not the head of this operation, never want to be, but I do command respect.
Taking lives is my profession. My passion as a private Sicario.
