My simplest kill to date. No theatrics or illusions just who done it and no one will ever find out. Santos stepped out the rear door of a two-tiered apartment in a less than reputable section of Madrid. It was the home of a prostitute he visited biweekly. They had been classmates in grade school. He had many women but she was the one no matter how much he tried he could not kick. Every time he gave her a visit he sent his bodyguards to the famous Delicioso, Delicioso, Delicioso pastry shop to get him a post cordial snack. He had no idea of the hostility he had brought upon himself. That day the shop added a new pastry to its menu and the bodyguards were still waiting in line when Santos left the apartment. They were not professionals just FSE members who had been given pistols and assigned to guard the golden goose.

After the two shared a slobbery kiss, the prostitute closed her backdoor and Santos looked in the dirty alley for his two bodyguards. He waited a few seconds then made his way to the pastry shop. I let him take several steps before I walked into the alley. As I drew closer he covered his face with his hand. With all my anxiety his hand actually operated as a perfect gauge for my shot. Becoming a killer is easier to do in a group. The instant gratification and support pushes you forward instead of letting your mind dwell on what you are about to do or just done. My instincts took the place of comradery. The last thing I remember was lifting the gun from my waist and aiming it an inch in front of Santos’ pointer finger; leaving only a foot between his skull and my silencer. I don’t recall anything after that point until I woke up in Carmela’s bed with a throbbing pain in my crotch. She walked by the room as I sat up holding myself. The bruise on her cheek, the cut on her lip and the unremorseful stare she gave told me something vile had happened, but all I could muster was, “how did I get here?”