“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.
But more than that, I am a Lucas first, and it was my mother they ran over with a pickup while rushing out of the field.
They left her for dead.
They left a woman whose life revolved around taking care of loved ones broken and now bound to a wheelchair.
“Fuck your apology.” One bullet down. “Now, let’s play a round of truth or death.”
“We can find a solution, Javier. She didn’t die—”
“You’d already be dead otherwise.” The man beside him weeps, and I look over. “Something you want to say, Mr. Gil?” His head shakes back and forth fast, a bit of bloody spittle flying out with the frantic move. “Then be a good boy until I address you. Understood?”
“Yes.” Low and meek.
“Speak up. You still have your tongue.”
“Yes, sir.”
At my nod, he lowers his head and sits stone still. “Tell me, Francis. Tell me why you did it?”
“He offered me money and a lot of American pussy.”
“The world is full of opportunities, culicagado. Some good. Some bad.” I take the remaining steps between us and poke the still-hot barrel of the Glock into his wound. He squirms, trying to move away while I dig deeper, forcing the tip inside the hole by force. Tears run down his grimy face, his nose running as the skin stretches and eventually gives way. One hard push, and the muscles there buckle. The barrel is deep enough to stay upright without my hand and I let go, crouching down to his level. Eye to eye. “The outcomes vary by scenarios. Investing in real estate is profitable, but stealing from those you owe your life to becomes a death sentence.”
“Please don’t kill me. I-I’ll work off the debt.”
“Open that mouth again out of turn, Gil, and I’ll slit your throat,” I say without looking over, and when he doesn’t utter another sound, I smile at Francis and tap the handle. “Get up.”
“I’m bound, Javi—” He doesn’t finish as the back of my hand connects with his face, forcing his head to the side.
“There’s enough slack for you to stand.” Gil looks up at me and begins to rise before Francis, but I shake my head. One kneels while the other struggles to find footing, taking longer than my patience has time for, and I pull the gun out and hold it to his temple as positive reinforcement.
Once again, his scream rends the air and his body recoils, but Francis is smart enough to rise to his feet. “That’s better.”
“What can I do to make this right?” His low words meet my ears and I smile, rubbing the stained red barrel down his cheek and then tapping the skin there. “I don’t want to die, Javier. Please.”
“So, you want to make a deal? Is that right?” At my words, he nods. “Okay.”
“Okay?” There’s a hint of relief mixed with trepidation in his tone, and there should be. Nothing is ever as simple. Not in our life. “I’ll do whatever it is you ask.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes.” No hesitation, and I catch the nervous flinch from Gil. The way he folds into himself.
That man isn’t a complete idiot; he just made the mistake that so many do. Greed isn’t an awful trait; the problem lies in taking from the wrong hands because those at the top have been where you are.
The most notorious criminals start somewhere. An attack on our business isn’t a foreign occurrence—it’s something our family has prepared for—but not choosing their victim wisely will be a costly error.
“There’s a bullet in the magazine, Francis. Just one.” He nods and I hand the Glock over, taking a step back. “Kill him.”
There’s an important choice to be made here:
Be brave or fight.
Shoot him or me.
Not that he would ever set a single foot outside this warehouse, but when the will to survive is strong, you’ll try anything. A few beats of silence follow, the sole cause of noise coming from the man still kneeling on the cold and dirty floor.
Gil begins to recite words that are familiar to me. A prayer from the Catholic church while Francis raises a shaking hand. There’s a line on forgiveness for one’s sins—on repenting for harmful thoughts—and throughout both, the man remains breathing.
Sweat beads on both sets of brows, and those in the room to witness don’t dare speak.
“Shoot him.”
“Javier, I’m—”
“Unable to follow simple instructions?” Because playing the role of a monster and being one are two vastly different things. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
“I can do it.” His shaking limbs say otherwise. His expression is one of utter fear.
“Then get closer and use both hands to steady the shot.” Not that his injured shoulder helps, but it amuses me to see him grit his teeth while doing as I say. “You have five seconds to shoot.”
Francis closes his eyes, and I move closer. He exhales roughly, and I smirk. “That’s five.” Before he can react, I have the Glock back in my hand and Gil lies dead with a bullet hole to the side of the head. Fragments scatter with the force of the blast. A lifeless body. Cold, vacant eyes.
I drop the gun between his bare feet and wait.
No reaction. Not so much as a twitch of a muscle.
My eyes flick to Alejandro, and he presses a button on his phone. At once, the buzz of speakers fills the space and Francis’s voice filters through the room.
“I told you this would be easy, parce. These people are mindless slaves. If the Lucas family says jump, they fall into line and ask how high.” The sound of an engine turning can be heard, and then the seat belt alarm follows shortly after. His companion doesn’t give more than a grunt in answer, giving Francis the opening to run his mouth. I’ve listened to this recording. “Cocky assholes sit comfortably atop while we do all the work.”