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The latter I’ll toss somewhere or give it to a small farmer who’s loyal to the family. This motherfucker purchased and used quality tools; it’d be a shame to waste them.
All in all, it wasn’t much in the matter of bulk, but once ready for sale, the street value is easily twenty grand and I’ll donate it to the cause. Because to remove a president in power, you need funds, weapons, and soldiers—in the end, this will be nothing more than a humble act of goodwill from a dead man.
“How much did I have to drink last night?” His cough is rough as if he’d smoked heavily for many years. There’s also a small gash over his right eyebrow from where I struck him, and it’s bled quite a bit. Not enough, in my opinion. “I’ve never felt this fucked up.”
Rivulets of red mix with the low setting of the water hose, flooding the top a bit before sliding over the side of the building. To anyone that comes up and discovers his body between tomorrow and the next few days, it’ll look like a robbery for his illegal farming. Just another drug deal gone wrong, and the case will receive little to no attention.
The difference is that Jaime will know. The message will be clear to him and his family.
I’m coming.
“A lot, from my understanding.” At the sound of my voice, his head snaps in my direction, and his eyes widen in horror. “Morning, sunshine.”
“What the…shit!” He made a move to scramble back, but the dislocated shoulder doesn’t help his cause. The weight he put on it when trying to gain traction causes him to slip and fall forward, hitting his face on the cold concrete floor. “Fuck!”
“You might want to be careful. That looked like it hurt.”
Henry doesn’t answer me, too busy looking around and notices two things: his marijuana is gone, and so is his phone, which I now have in my pocket. In all this, he keeps flicking his gaze in my direction, trying to guess my next move while I sit comfortably in a folding metal chair beside a patio table.
There’s no escape. No help.
Just an executioner and the convicted.
“Please don’t.”
“I suggest you start talking. My patience is thin at the moment.” Reaching into my front pocket, I pull out a pack of cigarettes and light one up. I’m not one to smoke often, but the relaxing atmosphere seems to call for one. The idiot flinches at the sudden move but settles; Henry tries to stand once again, but I hold a hand up. “You can explain from your knees, and I’d be quick to drop to them. Either you cooperate and make this easier on yourself, or I begin to unload my magazine. Trust me, you’ll drop immediately with a blown kneecap.”
“Killing me is not the answer, De Leon.”
“No. It’s not.” His rough exhale almost makes me chuckle, but I keep my expression neutral. Emotionless. “It’s just the beginning.” Holding the cig between my lips, I inhale deeply and hold it a few seconds before exhaling through my nose. I also hold up my gun and point at his horror-filled face, and at once, he gets into position. Watching me. Body is shaking. Maybe going into a little bit of shock. “Now, you know why I’m here?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”
Tears pour from his eyes, bottom lip trembling. Pathetic. “I paid for an order with fake bills. Lied and stole from your family.”
“And? What else?”
“That’s all I did. Te lo juro.” I swear it. I swear it.
Leaning forward in my seat, I glare at him. “We both know that’s a fucking lie. Your friendship with the Uriels is enough proof of that.”
“Ivan, please. It doesn’t need to be like this?” Henry says, teeth chattering while his body tries to shy away from the cold puddle he’s sitting in. A quick tsk from me stops him. “Can you turn the water off?”
“No.” Another deep inhale; this time I stretch my neck from side to side before releasing perfect ‘O’ rings of smoke. “Pick it up. I want it over your head while we discuss a few things.” Shaky hands reach over the nozzle not too far from him. “And turn the setting to full power.”
“Okay.”
“Point it at your face, right eyebrow to be exact.” Doing as I ask; Henry holds the sharp blast of water to his face and the gash I left earlier. A string of curses leaves his mouth, almost choking him as the water, tinged with red, rushes inside. There’s coughing and sputtering as he tries to remove the jet, but I discipline him just as swiftly.
From my back pocket, I pull out the silencer attachment and shoot to his ear.
One shot, and it tears clean off. The torn cartilage now lies a few feet from him, and it’s burned from the impact.
“Son of a bitch,” he grits out, his hand loosening on the green hose to cup the injured area. Blood pours from the open wound at a rapid pace, and his hand becomes drenched—his arm and clothing bear the same fate. What was once a pale-yellow shirt is now red. Dark and bright. “How could you just shoot me? I’m cooperating.”
“Pick it up and aim again, or you’ll lose something more painful next time.” One last puff, and I toss the remains at his head. The red ember bounces off his wet forehead and flops to the ground. “Remember, you hold the power here. How much you suffer is up to you.”
