Best Served Cold

3

I’d never killed a man before.

Yet there I was, staring at the blood running down the dead Mexican’s face. It gushed out of the bullet wound and ran in a rivulet onto his lap. He was staring right at me, like he was still alive. He held a revolver in his limp hand, his finger still on the trigger. Slowly the antique gun slipped out of his dead grasp and clattered to the floor.

He had a family. He had friends. I didn’t just shoot a hole in his forehead; I shot a hole in everyone that loved him.

I stood there with wide eyes, watching it all with twisted guts. I even winced as the gun hit the ground. Those eyes kept staring at me, and I kept staring back. There wasn’t anything else to do. It took me what felt like eternity before I could tear my eyes away.

First I closed his eyes. The manila envelope was still lying open on the desk, so I took a look at it. Knowledge is power, after all. I didn’t need to read past the title.

DEA PAYROLL LIST

My parents worked for the Drug Enforcement Agency. Hell, I worked for the DEA. I snatched it up and hid it inside my coat. Earlier I thought that inside pocket was useless, too. Apparently I was wrong.

“You okay?” John asked and stepped into the office.

“Fine.” I tried to hide how uneasy killing made me. Not a good quality in a hitman. “The bastard tried to go for a gun beneath his desk. Idiot.”

“Nice shot. Though whoever’s in the next room probably heard it.”

I rubbed my temples. “Yeah. Yeah… Um, get some guys in here for the files. Those’ll end up more valuable than the hostage anyway.”

“We will, but right now we need to breach the final door.”

“You mean I need to breach the final door.”

John smiled, an expression that didn’t add up with his square jaw and trim hair. “Something like that.”

I brushed past him and turned down the hallway. I walked past the other hitman and stood outside the wooden door at the end of the hallway. Three fingers up. Two. One.

The door cracked against my foot and crashed inward. Before I knew what was happening, my pistol was aimed into a large cement room. Metal shelves lined the walls, filled with everything from guns to electrical wire. A chair with bindings stood in the middle of the room, jumper cables lying on the ground.

Our man wasn’t in the chair though. He was being held as a human shield by another gangster, right in the middle of the room. Sam had a black eye, and there was more bruising than untouched skin. He sagged like a rag doll, his eyes already void of life. I doubted that those electrical cables were for show.

“Drop your guns or he dies!” the man yelled. His bald, white, tattooed head was the only thing peeking out from behind Sam’s large figure.

“What do you want?” I asked as John and the other agent filed in behind me, all guns trained.

“I want you all to set down your guns and leave. Either that, or I blow this poor dude’s head off.”

“That’s not going to happen, and you know it. So what are you willing to have for his life?” I was playing it close, but this man wanted to survive above all else.

“I get to walk out. I live, Sammy here lives. So do you want to kill me, or save him?”

“He’s Sanchez,” John whispered in my ear. “He runs this district of Invis.”

“What do I do?” I whispered back, keeping my gaze focused on El Padre.

“Whenever you decide is fine,” Padre said. “But this poor dude’s clock is ticking.”