The young man crouched down, unlocked the padlocks that secured the chains on the man’s feet and hands, and left them by his side. He stood, surveying the barn’s interior, and saw that there was still abundant desiccated hay on the floor. Altamar emitted a groaning sound from where his mouth had been, but where now there were merely gums and teeth, his lips having been neatly removed by the acid, and then the rats. The young man fished the camera out again and took another photo, ensuring that the time stamp wasn’t on.
“I’m back. A deal’s a deal. I released you. I think that it’s a safe bet that with a mug like that you won’t be doing the cover shot for TeleNoticias any time soon, but maybe you can get some part-time work scaring kids for Halloween. You’re free to go, so thanks for the memories and have a nice life. Oh, and I know you’ll need some light given the condition of what’s left of your eyes, so I’ll be a nice guy and leave the lantern burning for you. Hope you make it out before the fire gets out of control. That’s got to be a horrible way to die,” the young man said in a kind, soft voice, before tossing the lantern against the ground and watching the kerosene splatter onto the dry hay from its broken reservoir. The fire immediately spread and began to roar, and soon the entire barn was ablaze.
Inspecting his work with quiet satisfaction, the young man turned and walked to the door, pausing to kick Altamar in the groin as he moved by him. It wouldn’t do to have him passing out. He’d want his full attention for this phase of what remained of his short life.
The fire licked out of the door and windows as he started the truck’s engine. After a few moments it was obvious that Altamar wasn’t going to make it out. A shame, really. It would almost be better if he somehow managed to survive. A life in that condition would be fitting punishment for what he’d done to Jasmine and her family.
But a deal was a deal, and he’d kept his word.
He slid the transmission into reverse and pulled away.
There was nothing left to see.
The truck approached the small house and rolled to a stop, the engine going silent as the driver-side door opened. The young man moved to the home’s entrance and expertly picked the lock. Once inside, he crept soundlessly to the main bedroom, where Jasmine was sleeping.
He’d been tortured since he’d seen her face. Even after getting revenge for the vicious brutality, he knew her life was going to continue to be a miserable nightmare. Nobody could help her. He’d gladly leave her the two million dollars if he thought for a second that medicine could fix her face to anything resembling normalcy, but he knew that was an impossibility. It was just another example of a cruel and unpredictable universe punishing the innocents and making their every moment a tortured farce.
He watched as she lay, breathing fitfully, her ravaged profile a constant reminder of the pain she’d endured, and then he pulled his pistol from his belt and shot her in the head.
Ten minutes later he sat on the hood of the truck, watching the house burn, embers blowing into the pre-dawn as they carried his Jasmine’s soul with them. He reasoned that if there was such thing as hell, he would be going anyway, so he was more than willing to carry the burden of ending her suffering and doing what she couldn’t do for herself. He winced as the roof collapsed, the propane for the stove having provided ample fuel to get the blaze started. A single tear trickled its way down his cheek – his lonely offering to a world that brutalized its children and savaged its meek. His shoulders shuddered as he cried for what could have been, and what Jasmine could have had, at the unfairness of it all and the pointlessness of everything.
Eventually, his sorrow exhausted, he gruffly rubbed the moisture from his face with his shirt sleeve before getting behind the wheel and driving away. There was still much to be done, and he could bemoan his existence later.
Solomon Valiente sat in the office of his furniture store, ranchero music humming forth from the showroom speakers in an attempt to lure pedestrians in, wondering what the gimmick was in this overture from an unknown. He’d gotten a strange call an hour earlier indicating that a stranger wanted to speak with him on an important matter of urgency. He rubbed his neck, absently fingering the heavy gold links that held the crucifix he never removed. He gestured to the two men standing by his door to allow the young man to enter his office.
Valiente was one of the main rivals to Altamar’s iron hold on his empire, and it was well known that he hated the man, furious over some close family members who had been killed by Altamar’s goons when the power struggle over Don Miguel’s holdings was underway. In the interests of prosperity they’d made their fragile pact, but Valiente held a grudge, and he was a dangerous and powerful warlord in his own right.
The young man had approached him through a street-level enforcer that morning and requested a meeting. He claimed to have something of tremendous value to offer Valiente, which had naturally piqued his interest – Valiente was a man best avoided so he wasn’t accustomed to being solicited for anything. Three security men had frisked the young man upon his arrival, verifying that he had no weapons and wasn’t wearing a wire before allowing him anywhere near Valiente’s office; so there could be no trickery or immediate physical threat – always a concern in the cartel game, where you could routinely expect attempts on your life on virtually any pretense.
Valiente leaned forward in his reclining chair as the young man entered and sat at his desk, a stern, armed enforcer bracketing him on either side, ever mindful of the slightest wrong move.
“So, you want a meeting. Here it is. Tell me what it is you have that’s of such value to me,” Valiente started, sipping his coffee while appraising the young man’s face.
“I’m an ex-marine. I want to begin a career as a specialist in contract executions for your cartel. I’ve been trained in every sort of weapons and demolition, and I have a year’s worth of combat experience with over thirty-six confirmed kills,” the young man began.
“That’s interesting, but it’s not of that much value to me. Don’t get me wrong, I can always use good men, but there’s a difference between coming looking for a job, and bringing me something of value,” Valiente observed.
“I know. And I’m not looking for a job. I’m offering my services as a contractor. And what I have to offer you, I believe, is significant. As a good faith token, take a look at this. It was taken seven hours ago.” He removed the small digital camera from his pants pocket, powered it on and thumbed through the photos until he reached the desired one. He handed the device to Valiente.
Valiente peered at the screen and blinked, and then his eyes narrowed to slits.
“Both of you. Get out,” he instructed his bodyguards. The two hulking men exchanged glances, and then with distrustful glares at the new arrival, obediently left the room.
“I could have you killed for this, and Altamar would reward me with anything I wanted.”
“No. He wouldn’t. He can’t give you what you really want. Only I can. Today. Because you don’t want to live in his shadow forever, and I have the ability to make him disappear, now, and never give you any more problems. You and you alone would know he was gone, enabling you to consolidate power and take steps ahead of any of your competitors, ensuring that you’d replace him. Here’s what I propose. You pay me three hundred thousand dollars and he disappears effective immediately.” Valiente’s eyes tracked the young man’s unblinking gaze as he spoke. “You pay me two hundred thousand dollars each for as many of your rivals you want dispatched within the next seventy-two hours, and I’ll make it so. It’s a guarantee that you will take over Altamar’s business at that point, which will make you that amount of money in a matter of hours. I have him right now, so you haven’t attempted anything. I have. So you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.” The young man had spoken in a calm, soft voice, with measured inflection, laying out the options in a methodical manner.