RFT: One Early Morning in Newport

“All I need to do is get enough credit to expand. We can open up shops in Kent and Sussex,” Gilbert Guerra said aloud. He looked into the rearview mirror, his heart beating steadily.

“That’s it. There’s more money in this state than people count on,” Mondo Herrero mentioned. His mind spun. He sat in the passenger seat. He kept a low brimmed hat on his head like a hood.

“I know we can make this thing even bigger than before. We’re clean. We’ve made all the right moves. Everything is for us, now. We have the ability to keep this thing blowing up,” Guerra said.

“More states, too,” Herrero replied.

The inside of the vehicle showed immaculate detail. Wood grain steering wheel and leather seats complimented the caramel and oak motif. The luxury car was mass produced, not quite exotic yet. But Guerra and Herrero sought to rise up from even this relatively comfortable position. The late spring night air was electric, and seemed like a storm was brewing. But was it? The energy of the two men just charged the atmosphere with their ideas.

“I’m telling you…we get this line of credit and we can have auto shops that will serve more and more people throughout the tristate.” Guerra looked over his shoulder. His heart rate quickened a bit.

Herrero sighed. “We might as well get some sleep. He’s not going to be here for a couple of hours,” he yawned and cozied up to the side of the headrest.

“No. We have to stay vigilant at all times. We don’t know if he might have company.” His heart elevated with this last sentence. He looked at the rearview mirror as if it would tell him more information about the whereabouts of Felix Armando. He was the baddest cat who had all the connections and could turn a taco into a Hispanic restaurant chain with his power.

Herrero closed his eyes and started to snore.

“Hey!”

“What, what, what?”

“Be vigilant,” Guerra instructed.

Herrero awakened fully right then. He reached for the CD button in the air conditioned vehicle. Hip Hop music mixed with Reggaeton blared from the system with lushness and clarity. The subwoofers in the rear issued a crisp sound despite the booming bass.

“I’m feeling this,” Guerra mentioned, referring to the situation, never minding the music.

“This is one of my favorite tunes,” Herrero responded.

“I’m so ready to level up off of this deal. We will finally have the chance to spread our wings here in Newport, Delaware, New Jersey, and Philly. We’ll be able to grow with the knowledge we’re building,” Guerra said.

When the temperature dropped from eighty degrees Fahrenheit to about sixty degrees, Guerro turned down the air.

“Hey, man! What did you do that for? It’s still humid as hell out here!” Herrero raised his voice.

“Listen, we’ve got to control the climate and stay ready for when we get out of this car for the deal. The air hogs up the gas we’re going to need to get out of here. Do you understand?” Guerra retorted, his voice flat and passionless.

Then, a vehicle rolled up beside Guerra’s. It was a minivan.

“I don’t remember Armando having a van,” Guerra noticed.

The sliding door opened and two men brandished semi-automatic weapons. Because of the lateness of the hour, around two am, no other cars or pedestrians noticed the auto shop.They opened fire with their rifles and pistols, sending sparks into the early June morning.

Guerra sustained injuries to his chest, and a round skimmed off his head. Herrero had been killed with multiple shots to his torso and head.

Guerra tried to open the door and crawl out. Adrenaline built up in his system, and his organs did everything to save his life, but the gunshot wounds proved to be fatal.

The van escaped into the night. The business partners lay dead, their hopes of a better life dashed.