But with all that said here you go.
Green Eyed Burn II: The Inkwell
Chapter 1
Presidential Palace,
People's Republic of Porto Velho
Six Months Later.
Fernando Patrijillo Trujillo inhaled the sweet smoke of the Cuban cigar deep into his lungs, held it, and then blew a perfect smoke ring savouring the essence of the finely rolled tobacco.
Trujillo was a man with a mission. A mission that was approaching completion. From his early days as a hustler on the mean streets of Sao Paulo to today, President - for life - of the People's Republic of Porto Velho, the micro nation nestled deep in South America on the Brazilian border. It was the capital of the Brazilian state of Rondonia when rebels tried to form a breakaway republic. The Brazilian military, after a bloody battle, put down the revolt but in the confusion Trujillo, with his Triad backers led by Chin Wah Pong, walled up the city and formally petition for independence which was somehow granted by a war weary Brasília.
When the dust settled the surviving Rondonian rebels realized they were set up and disappeared into the jungle never to be heard from again.
Trujillo kicked up his booted feet and leaned back in his leather Presidential - for life - chair. He let his mind drift back to when he was Pong's most trusted adviser. Arranging Pong's downfall while conspiring with his step-daughter Bonita, Now there was a hot piece of ass. Pong never realized he arranged the betrayal of the Rondonians. All in his name of course. Then when Pong's house of cards collapsed Trujillo was poised to build his own.
Letting those silly American gringo's set up their little Group of Ten within my protected border was a good ideal at the time. It brought in untold billions of Yankee dollars into his tiny nonindustrial nation. Who would have thought that the special coca mixture his people cooked up would ignite like wildfire? Ink! What a stupid name. The American press. Go fig.
But now it was time to tie up all the loose ends. There were too many people still breathing that knew more than they should. If then pushed the international pressure could collapse his house. That will not happen! No one must know what is happening outside the city.
Trujillo straightened up and pressed the buzzer on his desk. I've kept them waiting long enough. One of the joys of power. “Send them in.” He said.
Two men entered Trujillo's spacious and well furnished office. The first man was tall and in his late forties but with a baby face that made him look fifteen years younger. Despite the cherub look he held an intelligent, yet dangerous twinkle in his eyes. He was Trujillo's head of covert operations. The second man was ugly and gaunt looking. Five years older than his companion and looked it. Some would say he was little more than a thug.
“I have a job for the both of you.” Trujillo said.
“I'm not your fucking errand boy Trujillo.” The gaunt man said.
American's. Duh. “This you might like,” The President - for life - said as if talking to a child.
“I'm listening.”
Trujillo handed him a large manila envelope, “Some old friends of yours have out lived their usefulness.” Much like you my American freak.
The gaunt man opened the envelope and flipped through the photos. Some he knew were already dead, Stein, DeTully, Tauris, while the rest have gone into hiding. He nodded his approval especially at the last name on the list. Knowing Trujillo had forbidden anyone but himself to smoke in his office the gaunt man fired up a cigarette while scanning the location of the single woman on his list. I'm going to enjoy doing her.
“What about me, sir?” The other man asked.
Ah, Canadians, so polite. “Do you remember our friend Joseph Nowlan?”
“Nowlan, he's the little religious nut job you have managing the Ink in Canada. He took over after Kieran Crudup was killed by the R.C.M.P.”
The gaunt man looked up from his file, “It wasn't the Canadians who killed him. It was the Russian.” He corrected.
“The one you captured but later escaped.”
“That was not my fault.”
“It was on your watch.”
“Gentlemen,” Trujillo said keeping control. “Don't forget where you are.”
“My apologies Mr. President.” The tall man said.
“Yeah,” The gaunt man said taking another draw on his cigarette. “Sorry.”
“Nowlan has outlived his usefulness. I don't care how you do it. As long as there are bodies.” He waves them off, “Now go. Play nice.”
***
In the corridor outside of the Presidential office the tall man and the gaunt man walk in silence.
“I think our missions can intersect.” The tall man suddenly said.
“What?”
He pointed at the picture of the woman in the gaunt man's hand. “Her.”
“She's mine. I'm saving her for last.”
“I thought as much. But before you do I have a use for her.”
“Impress me.”
As the tall man explains his plan a smile slides across the gaunt man's ugly face displaying a gap where he is missing a front tooth.
***
The weapon glinted like a spectre of doom in the moonlight. The assassin stroked its sleek lines like a long lost lover reunited before picking out the target in the gathering crowd twenty floors below.
For a fraction of a second, a hesitation, then an intense flush of the passion to come swept over him and the rest became easy.
The trigger was gently squeezed once.
That was all that was needed.
Below a man fell and twitched twice in a growing puddle of blood.
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