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We’ve been in Colombia for nearly three months—three months of sweat, swamp-ass, and headaches. But today, it’s all worth the discomfort.
Our team has tracked Moreno’s head enforcer to an apartment complex centrally located in the city of Barranquilla, Colombia. We surround the property, covering the three levels with no potential for Diaz to escape.
Like a coward, Diaz broke into an apartment, using the occupants as leverage.
“Se acabó, Diaz. Sal con las manos en levantadas,” Atlas bellows in the hallway outside the apartment with his gun drawn.
“Retrocede antes de poner una bala en la cabeza de este chico,” Diaz hollers back.
“Fuck,” Atlas grits through his teeth.
The situation has come to a standstill. Diaz will kill the kid inside if we bust through the door. I know Atlas wanted to take the enforcer alive to question him about Esteban Moreno. However, we’re now dealing with a hostage situation.
I try to reason with my brother. “He won’t give up what he knows, Atlas. He knows he’s dead either way. We have to make the hit.”
He gives a stiff nod. “Confirmed.” He holds a finger to his ear comm. “Do you have eyes on him Chase? Over.”
“I’m in the apartment building across the ally and have him in my scope. Over.”
I’m quick to ask, “Do you have a clean shot? Over.”
“Confirmed. Over.”
“Take the shot,” Atlas orders.
A second later, we hear the whiz of a bullet connecting with glass before a sickening wet sound follows. Screams erupt from within the apartment.
“Target down. Over,” Chase says through the comms.
We bust into the apartment to find a mother holding her son to her chest. She’s shielding the boy from the gory remains of Diaz’s body on the floor, who is bleeding out from a bullet wound in the side of his head. Both the mother and child scream in fear, but neither is hurt. The mission is a success.
* * *
The crew has finished the last of our paperwork with the Colombian National Security, ensuring they have transferred our funds. Mercenary work is dangerous, but there’s no scoffing at the sweet payday that comes after a mission is complete. Atlas and I have been taking on these jobs for nearly two years, and it’s given us more money than we ever dreamed of.
This last assignment has put a fire under Atlas’s ass, and he’s moving full steam ahead with the new headquarters building. He plans on meeting with the architect once we return home. If the plans look good, we’ll move out of the rental in the next few months.
Being separated from Opal has done nothing to help sort through my troubled thoughts. I want her more than ever, even though I’m trash. I hoped the distance would’ve reinforced my decision to end things, but there’s something to be said about absence making the heart grow fonder.
My heart aches as I try to recall why I think leaving her is the right choice. Outside of the mission, my thoughts revolved around Opal and how much I fucking love her.
Opal sent me hundreds of messages filled with sentiment and saccharine words. I sent her a handful, all saying, “I love you.” I figured if I couldn’t send her messages regularly, I would send her the message that meant the most.
But even those I limited. Why? Because I’m trying to create distance—maybe it won’t hurt so much if I pull away slowly.
Who the fuck am I kidding? It’s going to hurt worse than swallowing a branding iron.
The team is on our way to the airport. Atlas looks over at me. “Excited to see Opal?”
More than I can express, and way more than I should be allowed. Instead of answering, I look out the car window.
“What’s with you? Every time I mention Opal, you look constipated,” he teases.
I roll my eyes. “Like you’ve been a joy to be around these last few months.”
“Can’t help that I’m an asshole—at least I can admit it. I’ve gone three months without getting my dick wet.”
“We’ve all gone months without getting laid,” I remind him, rubbing a migraine away with my fingers. Talking about sex is not helping me. My mind is already playing a porno video of Opal on a loop.
