by Lena Bourne
We walk to my hotel in silence. He follows me up to my room, waits by the window while I pack, staring out over the beach with a vacant look in his eyes like he’s not even here. That look frightens me for some reason, makes my hands shake. Is that how I look when I stare out the window? Me doing that freaked Tara out while she was staying with me at the mental hospital, and if this is how I looked then I understand why. I pack faster, am done within fifteen minutes.
He hovers beside me while I check out at reception, not saying anything, the vacant stare from before replaced by something cold, vast and hard.
“Is that the new Lexus?” he asks as I lead him to my car, perking up for the first time since we left the beach.
“Sure is,” I say, unlocking it. He walks around it to check it out from all sides. I wish he still looked at me with that same kind of admiration and excitement in his eyes. It feels a little empty and cold without it.
I pop open the trunk, stand aside for him to put my suitcase in. “It was a birthday present from my dad.” He offered, and I took it. I’m not like Tara. If the man wants to buy me off, give me lavish presents to excuse his shortcomings as a parent, then let him. It’s a nice car, and I always try to make the best of any situation.
“Some present,” he says, whistling appreciatively.
I dangle the key at him. “Wanna drive?”
“I very much do,” he says, snatching the key from me, and then actually opening the passenger door for me so I can get in. It takes me completely by surprise.
“Oh, my, how respectful of you,” I say, slipping into the car.
“That’s me. If I say I’m gonna do a thing, them I’m gonna do it all the way,” he says, grinning right before he slams the door behind me, so I can’t even counter his statement. Not that I knew what to say to that.
“Wow, it’s stick shift,” he says after he gets in, looking at me with pure awe.
“Is there any other way to drive?” I ask smugly.
He grunts appreciatively, then accelerates down the main boulevard, going way too fast, the speed sending my stomach up into my throat.
“This is one nice car,” he says in a loving voice as we reach the desolate stretch of road that leads to his apartment building. He’s still going way too fast, dust streaming after us. I love driving fast, but he’s taking it to a whole new level.
“I kinda like it,” I say, smiling. “Not sure if I made a mistake going with the red leather interior though.”
He frowns at me, shaking his head.
“What?”
“Women, that’s what,” he says, making a sharp turn into a side street, forcing me to grab the dashboard to steady myself.
“And that means what, exactly?”
“You get a car like this, and the only thing you care about is how it looks,” he explains.
I should maybe be a little offended, but I’m not. I’m just glad that weird desolation is gone from his eyes and his voice. Maybe now we can get back to where we left off yesterday, before I stormed out of his place.
He parks in the garage below his building, then precedes me up the stairs, carrying my suitcase.
“I need a shower,” he says once I close the door behind us, turning to face me in the narrow hallway inside the door. He’s so close that the heat he gives off is caressing my entire body. For a split second I’m sure he’s gonna kiss me, and I even lean a little forward, but he turns, walks away towards the bathroom.
“You make yourself at home,” he calls over his shoulder, and it feels like I’ve been plunged under a cold shower.
Why did I even come here, if he’s just gonna treat me like some friend of his? I could just go home, forget all this.
I’m trying hard to hold on to the anger, as I clear away the mess on the sofa so I can at least sit down, but it fades completely once he returns. He’s wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of black cargo pants, his curly hair wet and slicked back. He looks like some tough commando from one of my dad’s action movies, and I can’t take my eyes off him. Maybe it’s because of the strong scent of his body wash filtering in from the bathroom. I’ve always been a sucker for a man’s body wash, and the one he uses fits him like they made it just for him. He’s still that guy from my fantasies, only now he’s going off to his manly job, and I’m to stay home and keep house. It’s a weird thing to think, but fitting at the same time.
He tells me to stay inside, and that he’ll be back as soon as he can, while he collects a large duffle bag from a closet in the hall. Only after his back is turned do I manage to peel my eyes away.
“What if I get hungry though?” I ask my arms full of his dirty clothes I collected off the sofa. It’s a valid question, but I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself. Besides, I had a huge lunch, and I’m probably not going to eat anything else today. I’m just asking to stall his departure, or prevent it all together.
“You’re right.” He tosses open a few drawers in a stand by the door, rummaging through them, then finally brings out a key, holding it out to me to take. “There’s a small market a few blocks south of here. But drive there if you go after dark, and don’t leave your car parked anywhere for too long.”
He’s giving me directions like he wants to prolong this conversation too.
“To the south?” I ask and smile, dropping the clothes I’m still holding back onto the sofa, and approaching him. “Let me just whip out my compass. And how many clicks is that?”
I take the key from his hand, our fingers touching briefly, but explosively. Where the hell is he hiding that passion he had for me in the beginning? I want it back.
He chuckles. “Just make a left onto the main street and go straight. You can’t miss it.”
“And you think I’m safe staying here by myself?” I’m smiling as I ask it, since this task of keeping me safe is complete bullshit, but it doesn’t transfer to his face this time.
“I didn’t see anyone following you,” he says. “But that could change. There’s a knife under the bed, and…” he looks around the apartment like he’s searching for something. “I’ll give you a gun, just in case.”
He places the duffel bag on the floor and strides to the bedroom, but I stop him by grabbing his arm, my heart racing. “I don’t want a gun. Honestly, nothing’s gonna happen to me. No one even knows where I am.”
“You should be more worried,” he says, his eyes enveloping me, something in his gaze making me lightheaded. Or maybe it’s just the fear. I don’t want to be afraid any more. Ever again.
“I’ll be fine. No guns though.”
He shrugs in a defeated sort of way. “I guess you’re safe enough here, at my place.”
“What do you do, anyway?” I ask to change the subject, adding, “I mean as your job,” once I realize it came out a little too forward and rude.
“I help some plumber,” he says. “It’s a shit job, but it pays.”
“That’s literally a “shit” job,” I say and giggle. He laughs too, the sound completely unburdened, his eyes very soft and amused. Velvety. And I suddenly realize they’re like that all the time when he looks at me.
“Too right,” he says, hoisting the bag onto his shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”
“What’s in the bag?” I ask. I don’t want him to leave, and it’s not because I’m afraid someone will come after me.
“Tools of the trade, Sam,” he says, in a mock serious tone. Though maybe I’m wrong and he’s not just joking, since his face is very serious too and very dark.
“OK, I guess I’ll see you soon,” I say and he nods.
Then he leaves, closing the apartment door behind him firmly. Through the grimy little window by the door, I watch him descend the stairs then get into the back of a black Merc with tinted windows. It reminds me of the cars that picked me up to take me to clients. There’s no way that’s a plumber’s car. He lied to me. But I already knew that. How I knew, I have no idea. But that lost, desolate look in his eyes had a lot to do
with it. Why do I care so much? I have no idea about that either.
BRETT
The boss’ right hand man himself is sitting in the car that came to pick me up. El Secuaz they call him—the Henchman—and he fits the role perfectly with his lifeless black eyes, his carefully ironed three-piece suit, and his general ruthlessness. I don’t like how his cold, mocking black eyes are fixed on me right now. And I want to do something about it, make sure he stops doing it permanently. I used to wish that all the time in the beginning, but it faded as the months wore on. Now it’s back.
I have a nickname too. They call me El Gusano—the Worm. It’s because I was once a member of Viper’s Bite MC, and that’s what they called us—the Worms. They also call me that because I sold out to the enemy. And even though it doesn’t exactly have a positive connotation it’s still better to have a nickname than not to have one. It means they’ve accepted me as one of them, and are no longer actively considering getting rid of me. I have another nickname, the one the press uses when writing about my kills—The Shadow of Death. I like that nickname better. And this cholo asshole would do well to remember that I earned it many times over.
“We call, you answer,” The Henchman says, showing me a row of his gleaming white teeth in what I assume he means to be a grin. Though I guess this snarl is exactly what he wants to be showing me, because that’s just the kind of guy he is. Efficient to the core. “We call, you come.”
The sick motherfucker actually taps my knee as he says it like we’re on a date or something.
“I had other business to attend to,” I tell him.
“This business is your priority,” he says, tossing a large manila envelope in my lap. “Or else you will have no other business.”
“Let’s not get over dramatic here,” I say, picking up the envelope. Their threats used to scare me when I first started working for the cartel as their assassin. But now I know they need me. They won’t just kill me. “Who is it?”
“You need to know a name?” he asks, a little out of breath. Maybe my cold detachment shocked him. If so then good. “Open the letter and see.”
I do it, end up staring at the zoomed in face of a guy who’s probably younger than me. In the rest of the photos, he’s wearing expensive suits, expensive sunglasses, and expensive watches, driving expensive cars, living it up in expensive villas, partying with beautiful women, who are probably also very expensive. I hope he enjoyed all of that. Because it’s about to end. And I’m the guy who’s gonna end it.
My whole body tenses with the thought, revolting against it. I’m suddenly nauseous, can hear the blood rushing through my veins, feel it. But my mind knows it’s the only way. Or I’m next. I’m not ready to die. I know that now, since I always relearn it right before I pull the trigger. But tomorrow morning I’ll regret it. I’ll wish I was dead, that I chose differently. Then proceed to drown all the regrets in drink. Convince myself I’d be better off dead. Until the next time they call, hand me an envelope, show me pictures of the life of someone they want dead. And then the cycle will repeat.
But there’s Sam to consider now. I want to get back to her tonight. I made a promise to watch over her, so there’s no room for lamenting the poor choices in my past. They’re made, have to be lived with.
I stuff the photos back in the envelope and place it on the arm rest between us. I’ve gotten a good enough look at the guy they want dead. I’ll be able to spot him in any crowd. I don’t need long to memorize a face. Something about getting the order to kill just burns it into my brain. I can still recall the faces of everyone I killed on the cartel’s orders, and I see them all now as I lean back and close my eyes.
The AC is cranked up very high in the car, chills me to the bone in seconds. But it’s good to be uncomfortable, I should be.
“Don’t go to sleep now,” The Henchman says sarcastically. “We are almost there.”
The car’s going up a steep winding road, which doesn’t level out for ages. The sun’s almost set by the time we reach a plateau, which is completely flat and empty, nothing but brown overgrown grass swaying in the breeze. I’d love to ride my bike along these empty fields, just keep going, only vast nothingness all around me. I haven’t taken my bike out for a long time, not since Candy left, and I truly was all alone here. This place reminds me of California too, of home, in a way nothing in this sorry country has since I got here.
A mansion is gleaming gold in the afternoon sun atop a smaller hill in front of us.
“The little cabron is staying at his vacation home tonight,” The Henchman says, and he looks like he’s about to spit, but thankfully doesn’t. “Perhaps you remember his father. He was the upstart drug dealer from Mexico City you killed for us at Christmas.” He pauses to cross himself and mutter a prayer under his breath, the hypocritical piece of shit that he is. “Now his little bastard is trying to pick up right where the old man left off. But he won’t get very far, now will he.”
He taps my knee again and grins. I don’t know why he’s telling me all this. I didn’t ask. I never ask. Because at the end of the day, I’d rather not know. I already can’t forget their faces, and the one belonging to this kid’s father is very vivid in my mind right now.
The car stops at the side of the road, about two clicks from the house.
I open the door and get out.
“Call us when it is done. We will pick you up.”
I hoist the bag with my rifle out of the car. He leans over just as I’m about to slam the door shut. “Kill all the witnesses too, if you want a clean getaway. There should not be many. This is a remote area. We may not be able to collect you before they find you.”
It sounds like a threat. But I’m not killing any more people than I absolutely have to. And I can make my own getaway. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to.
It’s full dark by the time I’m done scoping out the area surrounding the house. The mansion sits right on a cliff, and a rickety, disused set of wooden stairs leads down to the beach right next to a pile of large rocks I’ve chosen as the spot to set up. There’s another, newer set of stairs leading to the beach about one hundred yards to my left. That’s the one they use, this one is forgotten, so it, not the killing of everyone in the house, will be my escape route. The beach that wraps around this hill is wide enough to walk on even at high tide, which is just now reaching its maximum.
The rocks hiding me from view are jagged, yet brittle. They were probably excavated when the mansion was built and never properly removed. Lucky for me, because they offer a perfect view of the deck, living room and kitchen of the house, while hiding me from sight. There are only three bodyguards, the target and his girlfriend staying at the house. The couple is on the deck now, kissing and touching each other in a way that makes me certain he’s not paying her to be here with him. They’re completely entwined on a lounge chair by the pool, and I probably couldn’t kill one and not the other if I tried. And I should’ve tried by now, because it’s been hours, and I’m still just watching them go at it, wishing I wasn’t the guy who will end it. Wishing I had the same to come home to. But I never will. Because there’s no walking away from destroying people’s lives, from taking people’s lives. At least there isn’t for me. It’s why Candy left. And Samantha will too. My decision not to be with her anymore was a good one. I just wish it was easier. Because this whole time, watching those two make out, she’s all I’m thinking of. Her silky long legs, her supple white skin, her perky breasts and tiny nipples, her pouty, full lips and the way all of that tastes. My dick’s so hard it hurts. But that will be fixed once I take the kill shot. And these fantasies of Sam will go down with it too. I can’t offer her a safe future, I can’t offer her any kind of future at all.
The target’s girlfriend looks a little like Sam. At least she has the same long legs. This is the time to pull the trigger, because she’s moved, stood up so she can undress for him. Right now, she’s unzipping the back of the tight blood red dress she’s wearing.
But my hands are shaking very hard, and I can’t make them stop. I never have this problem. Never. It’s kill or be killed. Out here the same as it was in Iraq and Afghanistan. But this is different. I was doing it for my country then. Now I’m just doing it to save my own ass. And I always hated killing like this, from the shadows, my targets never knowing what’s coming.
But if I don’t pull the trigger, Sam might get taken again. She’s safe while she’s with me, since everyone knows I work for the cartel. But failing a mission could get her killed just as quickly as whatever other threat she’s facing from Shade.
My hands stop shaking once I realize that. So I take careful aim again, my finger hovering over the trigger. Then I take a steady, deep breath and hold it, lock on the target. The wind’s picking up but the palm trees planted around the deck serve as a good gauge of wind force and direction. I think of nothing but the crosshairs aligning with the exact spot I need to fire at to make this kill. I’ve been trained to do all this, and it’s second nature now.
Then I squeeze the trigger. Let the bang surprise me when it comes.
And miss.
The shot is still echoing over the hills as two of the bodyguards rush out onto the deck, drag the target into the living room. The third bodyguard is pulling down the blinds and the girl is alone on the deck, kneeling on the wooden planks and hiding her face in her hands. None of the bodyguards return for her, even though the target is frantically screaming at them to get her. He starts calling her to come, and eventually his voice breaks through her shocked paralysis and she crawls inside too. I have no clear line of sight anymore. Especially not after they kill the lights.
It’s over. Mission failed.