“What was that?”
“My name, it’s not Rodrigo. It’s Antonio Rodriguez.”
“Do we look like we give a shit what your name is?” asked the second man, sporting a beard.
“Maybe he’s trying to cause some trouble for us,” said the third, who had long hair hanging just above his shoulders. “Should we teach him a lesson?”
Antonio stepped back from the bar and raised his hands in surrender. “I don’t want any trouble. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“Oh really?” asked the long-haired one. “So what will you do for us in return?”
“I-I don’t know,” said Antonio. “What would you like?”
“The beers are on the house,” said the long-haired one.
“No, beers and shots,” said the bald one.
The bearded man wrapped an arm around each of his friends. “I think we can do better than that. Why doesn’t Mr. Rodrigo here give us all our drinks on the house for the night?”
Antonio cleared his throat. “I don’t think I can do that. I’ll be out a lot of money.”
“What, are you saying we drink too much?” asked the bearded one.
“No, I just mean...it’s a lot to ask.”
“Sounds like you aren’t too friendly to our kind.” The bald one reached into his pocket and pulled out a butterfly knife. He flicked it open and the steel flashed rapidly before he aimed the tip of the blade at Antonio’s face. “Maybe we should show you what we do to people who aren’t nice to us.”
“N-no, it’s okay, really,” said Antonio. He filled up the glasses quickly from the tap and laid them out. “Look, three beers. I’ll get your shots, too and anything else yo—”
“I’m gonna be nice and warn you three to leave now.”
The gruff voice of Old Man Joe. Antonio was surprised to hear it. He wasn’t sure he ever heard Joe say anything other than “tequila” or “check.” The three grunts found their attention drawn to the strange foreigner as well.
“You wanna say that again, gringo?” asked the bald one.
“You’re gonna leave the man be. You’re gonna finish your drinks quietly, you’ll pay your tab, and then you’ll get the hell outta here.”
“And why should we listen to you?” asked the bearded one.
Joe’s dark eyes fixed on them and he quickly drank the tequila. “Because if you don’t, I’ll throw you out myself.”
“No, it’s okay!” said Antonio, hoping to keep the peace. “Joe really, I don’t mind! Let them have what they want! I don’t want any troubl—”
“Shut up, Rodrigo,” snapped the bearded man.
“His name’s Antonio.” Joe stepped off the stool. “Antonio Rodriguez. And while you’re in his bar, you’ll show him the respect he deserves.”
“This asshole’s pissing me off,” said the bald one. He stood from his chair, holding up his butterfly knife. “You’re a guest in our country. You should know your plac—”
Joe’s hand flashed beneath his coat and a gunshot rang out. The bullet struck the butterfly knife perfectly and knocked it from the bald guy’s hand. Joe held the Peacemaker replica in one hand, smoke rising from the end of the barrel.
“That was your second warning,” said Joe. “There won’t be a third.”
He took his cigar from the ash tray and puffed on the end. The three men didn’t move. They kept their eyes on him. They didn’t know if the old man was bluffing and not one of them was brave enough to find out for sure. But if they did what he said, their reputations would suffer for it. They couldn’t let some old American bastard push them around like that, make them look like fools in their own town. Even worse, how might it reflect on the boss? Or what might the boss do to them in order to save face?
Joe’s posture remained unchanged, the gun held steady—his hand didn’t shake in the slightest or even quiver. With his eyes locked on the trio, he spoke to the bartender, removing the cigar from his mouth.
“Antonio, get me another tequila.”
Antonio practically sprang into action and refilled the shot glass. Joe set the cigar down and picked up the shot instead. He threw it back, that gun hand never moving an inch.
Joe fired another shot, this one at the floor just scant inches in front of the bald man’s feet. “I’m getting sick of waiting for the Three Stooges to make up their mind. You boys are cutting into my drinking time, so I suggest you leave. Before I forget that I’m a gentleman.”
“Don’t need this shit, man,” said the bearded guy. He spat on the bar. “Your booze sucks anyway.”
The bearded guy walked out the door with his friends following behind him. Joe waited until they left and he moved the gun beneath his coat, sliding it into the holster. He sat back on his stool and slid the empty glass towards Antonio.
The bartender just looked at the stranger in surprise. Joe picked up his cigar and puffed on the end of it a little more. He tossed a glance from the empty shot to Antonio. “Another one.”
Antonio slowly picked up the bottle of Patrón and refilled the glass, keeping his eyes locked on Joe. “Just who are you anyway?”
“Not a very nice person.”
“I’ll say. You’ve just caused me more trouble, friend.”
“You’ve got a pretty short memory. Those three idiots were spoiling for a fight. Think they wouldn’t have started one?”
“Those guys work for Suárez.”
“I know that name?”
“You haven’t been here very long and you don’t really talk to people. So I suppose that’s why you don’t,” said Antonio. “If you did, you’d know better than to pick a fight with his people.”
“Who’s Suárez?” asked Joe.
“Drug dealer, came here from Colombia not too long ago. Pretty much owns the town. Most of us, we try to stay out of his way. But some of the townspeople, they get offers.”
“Offers?”
Antonio nodded. “Offers to be a mule. Sneak product over the border. It’s dangerous. You’ve got rival cartels, American immigration, even armed vigilantes.”
“If it’s so dangerous, why do they accept the job?”
“When I say ‘offer,’ it’s not really voluntary. The people who say yes, there’s a chance they’ll come back alive. The ones who say no, they never come back. Last girl who said no? Suárez’s men raped and beat her. Then they strung her up in the center of town so she would be made an example of. She was fifteen. That was three years ago. No one’s turned down an offer since.”
“What about the sheriff?” asked Joe.
Antonio laughed. “Right, the sheriff. That fat bastard does little else than sit on his ass and collect paychecks from Suárez to look the other way. Some of his men moonlight as enforcers.”
“Sounds like you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.”
“Yeah, and you just made things worse for me. I’ve been laying low. I’ve got a wife and kids to think about. And now, probably won’t be long until I get made an offer. Or made an example of.”
Antonio poured a shot for himself and raised the glass to Joe. “Salud, Señor Lawrence. Thanks for nothing.”
Joe silently took his wallet out and paid for his drinks. “Sorry for any trouble I caused, Antonio. Wish there was some way I could make it up to you.”
“Yeah, so do I,” said Antonio.
Old Man Joe left the bar, an even larger cloud hanging over him than when he entered.
THEN
The job was supposed to be simple.
The target: A war profiteer. He had recently been brought up on charges stating he and his company had defrauded the Department of Defense of millions of dollars. However, his lawyers and his political allies in Congress had managed to get him off without a hitch.
Carl Flint didn’t care about any of that, though. All he was interested in was the pay-off this job would provide. He was getting close to retiring from the business and he had made that much clear to Dante when he accepted the job.
As i
t was such a high profile target, the compensation was well worth the risk. Flint would have enough to retire in style. He and Melissa had their eye on some property down in Nassau. The plan was to build a house on the beach and have a bar attached. Melissa would run the business end of things while Flint would spend most of his time playing the saxophone.
It was going to be their own little slice of paradise.
At that moment though, Flint tried to push those thoughts out of his head. He needed to focus on the job at hand. He was perched on a rooftop across the street from the Hotel Excelsior. The target was checking out that day, prepared to travel abroad for some meetings with the Chinese government. Dante had intelligence that suggested the target was involved in some backdoor deals.
As the target came out, he was surrounded by an entourage of bodyguards. Three on each side. Flint viewed each of them through his scope. They looked like they had been carved out of stone, probably ex-Special Forces. Flint knew plenty of that, having served in that arena himself.
A voice crackled in his ear through the earpiece he wore. “You got him in your sights, cowboy?”
“Got a solid mark, Jackal. Ten minutes from now, you’re buying the first round,” said Flint.
“Wait, stop!” shouted Jackal.
Flint flinched and sighed. “Are you trying to screw up my shot?”
“Look at your shoulder.”
Flint’s eyesight traveled down to his left shoulder and he saw a red dot hovering over it. “Goddammit.”
He rolled to the side just as the sniper’s bullet struck the surface of the roof. Flint got to his feet, waving the rifle around and trying to find the source of the gunfire.
“Jackal, tell me you see something.”
“Nothing man, looks clear to me.”
“Well keep looking, dammit!”
“I got him! Eleven o’clock from your first position!”
Flint spun in the direction Jackal indicated. Peering through the scope, he caught sight of his attacker, lined up the crosshairs and pulled the trigger. The shooter’s head rocked back and he collapsed on the ledge. Flint went back to the building’s edge and saw the target’s bodyguards surround him and pull him down the street beneath overhanging cover.
“Flint, the mark’s getting away!”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Flint. He dropped the rifle and drew his Peacemaker-style revolvers from the holsters beneath his duster. “Pick up the gun, I’m going up close.”
He ran to the other edge and jumped, sailing across the alley between the buildings and landed with a skid, trying to maintain his balance. Once he gained proper footing he went off in another run, this time jumping down to the fire escape and quickly making his way down to ground level. He pressed his back against the side of the building and peered around the corner. One of the bodyguards saw him and fired off a shot and Flint went back for the cover. While keeping his body hidden, he blind-fired around the corner a few times.
He heard a woman scream and hoped that meant he was able to hit his target. Slowly, Flint peered around again but saw something else. His blind-firing had struck down a young woman in her mid-twenties or so. She lay motionless on the ground, but what struck Flint even more was her large belly. Except he knew enough about the human body to tell that it wasn’t fat.
“Flint, what the hell are you doing? He’s getting away! I’ve lost sight, they disappeared down an alley!”
“...I just shot a pregnant woman.”
“Who gives a crap? The mark!”
“Jackal, did you hear what I just said?”
“Dammit Flint, finish the job and get out of there before this place is swarming with cops!”
“Shit,” he muttered. He hated Jackal at that moment, his complete lack of compassion for what just happened. He understood why Jackal did it, this job was important to a lot of people. But the cost seemed too high.
Flint broke out into a run down the alley he had been using for cover. If they disappeared down this way, then he hoped he could reach them quickly. The entire time as he pumped his legs, he kept cursing himself for his carelessness. Blind-firing like that on a city street? Without properly assessing his surroundings? He should have his head examined.
Flint turned down the alley and saw the bodyguards. He fell face-down as they began firing at him. Flint raised his revolvers and squeezed off two shots, putting bullets perfectly dead-center in the foreheads of two of the guards. Flint rolled behind a dumpster and waited as the bullets ricocheted off. He sprung up and fired off two more shots, taking out two more guards.
Two left, only two between him and his mark. Flint crouched behind the dumpster and pushed it forward. The guards fired at it, trying to get lucky. Then Flint jumped from behind, raising the guns and emptying the chambers into the two guards.
Flint’s shoulder struck the building and he cringed. He holstered one of his guns and emptied the spent shells from the other. He dropped a single bullet into the chamber as he strode towards the mark.
“Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it,” said the mark.
“Like I haven’t heard that one before.”
He pulled the trigger and with a resounding bang, the job was done.
***
Flint stared at his reflection in the whiskey. Since his bullet ended that woman’s life, his eyes seemed to have aged by ten years. The whiskey had been sitting in front of him for ten minutes and he had yet to touch it.
“Listen man, it sucks but it happens,” said Jackal as he drank his beer. “This is a war and sometimes innocent people get caught in the crossfire.”
“That kind of talk’s exactly why I left the military,” said Flint. “There’s no way to excuse this, Jackal. That woman’s dead because of me. Her child is dead because of me.”
Jackal sighed. “I’m sorry but look at the bright side—this is it. You’re done now, you can retire in peace.”
“There’s no peace after this.”
“You’re a professional, Flint. So act like a professional.”
“I am acting like a professional. Only amateurs forgive clusterfuck mistakes like this.”
“Whatever.” Jackal tipped back his mug, lowering the level of beer past the halfway point. “You’re a real piece of work—a contract killer taking the moral high ground.”
Flint fixed his eyes on Jackal in a hard stare. Jackal looked back at him. “What? You got a problem or something?”
The assassin’s fist broke the distance between him and next thing Jackal knew, he was laying on the floor, the remainder of his beer splashed all over his face.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
Flint emptied his glass on Jackal’s face, the younger man shutting his eyes to keep the whiskey from infiltrating them.
“Thanks for the drink, you prick.” He kicked Jackal in the ribs once for good measure and left the bar.
Once outside, Flint drew a cigarillo from his coat. He pulled out a box of wood matches and tried to light one but the wind blew it out. He cursed and then a Zippo lighter came into view. Flint’s eyes traveled up the arm that held the lighter and saw Dante standing there, a lit cigarette between his lips.
“What are you doing here?” asked Flint as he allowed Dante to light the cigarillo.
“Came to check in on you.”
“You’re wasting your time. We’re done, you and me.”
“I know. Even before this job, I understood that. I hate to see you go but I respect it,” said Dante. “But there’s something I wanted to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“The girl survived.”
Flint looked back at him. “They’re alive?”
“No, the mother didn’t make it. But they saved the daughter,” said Dante. “Made a few inquiries at the hospital, found out the girl’s alive. They named her Sarah, after her mother.”
“Sarah...”
“Thought you’d sleep easier knowing she’s alive.”
&
nbsp; “The hell I will, knowing that girl’s an orphan because of me,” said Flint.
“World’s a hard place, my friend. But now you’re done. And with the money you’re getting from this hit, you and the Missus will be set for retirement. I even threw in a little bonus.”
“To hell with that.”
“Pardon?”
“You can keep your money. I’m not profiting over the death of a young mother.”
“What about retirement?” asked Dante.
“Oh, I’m still retiring but I’m doing it on my terms. Keep your goddamn blood money and lose my number.”
***
Flint stood outside the church orphanage, watching as the children played in the yard behind. A red rubber ball bounced on the ground, rolling away from the yard and coming to a stop by his feet. He bent down and picked it up with one hand just as a young girl, no more than five or six with short dark hair, came up to him. She looked up at the ball with wide, blue eyes and held her hands behind her back.
“Mister...?”
Flint looked down at the girl and knelt down before her. He held out the ball in his hand. “Is this yours?”
The girl nodded shyly and Flint smiled a little. “What’s your name?”
“Sarah.”
“Pretty name for a pretty girl. I once knew someone named Sarah,” he said. “My name’s Carl.”
“Sarah!”
Flint looked up and saw one of the nuns coming towards them. She knelt down behind Sarah and placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “You know better than to run off like that!”
“I was jus’ getting my ball,” said Sarah. “Billy took it away and threw it. Then Carl found it for me.”
The nun looked at Flint suspiciously. “Oh, Carl found it, huh? Well why don’t you thank Carl and go back to the playground?”
Sarah nodded and held out her hands. “Thank you, Carl. Can I have my ball back now?”
“Sure, sure you can, kid,” said Flint as he placed it in her tiny hands. “You be more careful now, you hear?”
Sarah nodded and ran back towards the yard. Flint and the nun both stood up simultaneously, her gaze still loaded with suspicion. “You mind telling me what you were doing?”
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