Loose Ends

BLAM.

The still night was shattered by the noise of a round going off. The darkness that had shrouded him was lit up by the muzzle flash.

Chick. Chunk. Chick.

He racked the bolt. Released the spent shell. Chambered another round. Sighted in on the other eye.

BLAM.

Another clap of thunder emitted from the weapon. Another flash of lightning tore apart the blackness of the night.

Chick. Chunk. Chick.

Rack the bolt. Release the shell. Chamber another round.

Click.

Put the safety on.

Not a bad effort, he thought, Considering five months of recovery. He grimaced, reaching for the knot of skin that coursed its way between his shoulder blades as he limped down the range. Being dumped out of a crop-duster carrying flour hadn’t been part of his plan for the last job. Luckily, he had landed in that muddy pig house on that ranchers’ property.

El cojo, he thought as he spat in disdain. Not El fantasma anymore. Just a stupid cripple. He hunched over at the target, seeing where the rounds had passed through the paper. It was a standard target used in the FBI sniper course, the aim being for a clean shot through both eyes. Smiling, he removed the sheet and with his trusty McMillan Tactical-338 hanging off his shoulder, he shuffled back to his ute.

Sitting in the tray, El cañonero contemplated the events of the past six months. His injury had done more then hurt his body. It had hurt his reputation in the underground community. He was no longer a legend. No longer untouchable or beyond reach of those interested in doing him harm or competing with him for contracts. That’s what frustrated him the most. The jobs were harder to come by, he wasn’t seen as the first option. He was kept in the dark. And being kept in the dark was dangerous. The shrill cry of the phone startled him. He considered it, its movement like a viper’s head as it prepared to strike. Finally, he picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Can the cripple be trusted?”, a husky voice asked. At the mention of El cojo, his blood began to boil.

“I’m sorry but I don’t speak Espanyol,” he replied haughtily.

“But I speak both yours and the boss’ language,” a second, lighter voice said as a third person became involved in what would turn out to be the most horrific experience of El cañonero’s life.

“And he is asking whether we can trust you,” the third-wheeler continued.

“We? Who is we?”. This was becoming increasingly more threatening.

“You took our contract when you,” the voice paused, as if searching for a word that was right on the tip of the tongue.

“Had your accident with the plane.” The words hit like a tonne of bricks, the wind seemed to be knocked out of him, making it hard to focus on the phone call.

“What do you want?”

“Just checking in on you,” the voice was full of malice shrouded in a conversational tone.

“We wouldn’t want our best hitman getting hit now, would we?”.

“Sorry mate I don’t understand a word your saying except something about the major el sicario.”

“He said that we wouldn’t want our best hitman getting hit, would we?”. Now that was definitely a serious threat. And not one to take lightly.

“Look, I haven’t done nothing but what you guys wanted,” he stuttered, desperately trying to think what he had done to displease the underworld lords.

“Angel dust doesn’t give you wings when you fall out of a plane does it?”

With a start, he realized that what he had thought was flour was actually a massive shipment of PCP, probably worth about half a million. And he knew why they were calling.

“Look mate, I haven’t told anyone about what has happened, okay?”. He was desperately trying to figure out a way he could play for time so he could get across the border. He threw his trusty rifle through the window and onto the passenger seat, already fishing in his pockets for his keys.

“Have you finished practicing? You usually do a few more targets. Three more to be precise.”

His heart started racing. The old airstrip he used as a firing range was surrounded by sand dunes and almost two hundred kilometres from the nearest sign of civilisation. He did usually shoot another three papers, making it a baker’s dozen and a total of twenty-six shells.

“Mate, I ain’t ever snitched, never have and never will. That’s part of honouring a contract.”

There was a pause from the caller.

“Its nothing personal. We just can’t have any loose ends.”

Then his nerves were burning like kindle in a fire, his vision blurred, and everything went dark.