"Do you normally make-out with the people you're hired to kill? It doesn't strike me as very professional."
"Put the gun down," Gabriel panted, not answering her.
"Why on earth would I do that?"
"Because you're not going to shoot me," Gabriel rep...
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Years ago, Gabriel had been hired to take out a drug trafficker who operated in the Gulf of Mexico. Gabriel tried to execute a quiet kill on an abandoned, dimly lit dock, but the man realized he was there and quickly disarmed him. Stuck improvising, Gabriel managed to ensnare the trafficker in a nearby anchor and pushed him off the dock into the dark water. But before the man fell in, he grabbed Gabriel's foot, yanking him down into the abyss with him.
Gabriel vividly remembered what drowning had felt like. Panic - the overwhelming desperation to breathe despite the inability to. Then pain. Burning, aching, blinding pain that lasted long after Gabriel was able to kick free of the man's grasp and resurface.
That was how Gabriel felt now, staring down the fury-filled eyes of the woman who gave birth to him, raised him, and did nothing but shower him with love and affection, even when he didn't deserve it. Panic that once she knew what he had done, he was going to lose her. That he would lose both his parents. And pain at the thought that he would deserve it.
"Ama," he began gently, using his mother's nickname.
"Do not even try to sweet talk me Gabriel. Just tell us the truth. Now."
Gabriel didn't know how he was naive enough to believe that he could have gotten away with this indefinitely. But regardless of how the misguided belief ended up in his head, it was certainly gone now. It was time to face the consequences of his actions.
"Do you remember when I was looking for jobs?" he began. "I looked for months but no one would hire me with my background. And then Papa got his diagnosis...I had to help. I was just a burden."
"Mijo, you weren't a burden," his mother replied immediately.
"Yes I was. I was only taking. Taking when you didn't have enough to give. A man approached me and said he would pay me money - a lot of money - if I killed another man. So I agreed. And I succeeded. So they gave me another name. And then another. And that's what I've been doing for the past three years."
"Ay Dios," his mother breathed in horror, clutching her cross necklace.
"They were bad men Mama."
"That doesn't matter," she said sharply. "We don't get to decide who lives and who dies. Tu alma, Gabriel. (Your soul). You need to pray for forgiveness."
"I do," Gabriel replied quietly. "Every day."
"I can't believe you would agree to that," His father murmured in disbelief.
"We needed the money," Gabriel answered simply, unable to make direct eye contact with either of them.
"That's not an excuse," his father snapped at him. "Someone would have eventually hired you. You could have gotten a job at a fast food restaurant, found a roommate, lived simply. It may not have been as nice as owning a private island or sportscars, but you didn't really need that much money."
