Common Enemy

There is nothing more satisfying than holding a sniper and having a perfect aim. Clear and fixed between the cross. Then you take a moment and wish the victim would recite a prayer, which they never do. Unless you are killing a nun or a priest, that is not going to happen. I mostly pop my sniper the moment they are in my sight and get the job done. Barometric pressure, air density, or a sudden rush of adrenaline knowing you are about to kill someone. They all disappear. If you haven’t guessed already, I am a hitman. But that night, I was not working for anyone. That was me doing something for myself. And the decision – I was proud of it.

No more bootlicking the cartel. No more bending over the bosses and no more scampering for a couple of thousand bucks per contract. It was a literal bulls – eye in my scope. But unlike most of the occasions, it was impossible to miss. I lay stretched on a jagged knoll, behind a loaded Remington M40 rifle, about a couple of hundred yards from the warehouse. Not close to the bustle of the civilization, I would say. The place was several miles into the desert west from Alvaro. Firing or any kind of scream would not make it even to the nearest point of I-54. I had been there since the last hour hoping the wind would slow down. I believed I had minutes where I wasn’t feeling any breeze brush against my sweaty face. Yet something held me back, screaming at the back of my head not now, hold on a sec. Nervousness. You can’t escape it. Not easily when you are about to kill a dozen cartel guys for their amenities. The guys I was about to kill were nasty people. I reckoned there may be a cartel rat somewhere in there whose skin was being peeled off at that time. Tortures and live mutilations were regular there. It had been pure misfortune on my site that I happened to see the grotesque sight unfold in front of me.

Columbian Necktie, Gutting, Necklacing, making starving pit bulls bite off gentiles a living man. Seen them all. And it was something which made me walk out of the cartel. I had thought I could get used to the brutality but soon it became enough for me, made me sick to my stomach to the point I couldn’t push myself from my bed and take a phone call from Don Romero. I did not want my life squandered in this shithole of a territorial business, as they call it. They wouldn’t let me out (no point in asking either) so I decided to take the matter into my own hands.

The wind had slackened. The voice in my head now all quiet, leaving a cricket to do its job somewhere amidst my penance. I kept observing the dimly lit warehouse through the rock-solid sniper scope. Full moon night had covered for the absence of night vision scope for me (though I doubt anyone other than para-militants had one). The warehouse was an abandoned spot that used to serve as a meth lab a few years before I got into the business. It would be six years ago. But now it was a venue for trading and torture, of course. A bag loaded with firearms lay beside the squishy mat I was on, the zipper of the bag opened and within my arm’s reach. I chose the proper ammunition from there and stuffed the cartridges in my guns. One by one, I loaded three of my guns. Thirty-six bullets for twelve guys. Plus a Kevlar. Not a bad until someone hits my head.

I could see some of my associates strolling inside the dimly lit room, walking back and forth by the windows of the non–parted hall. Not more than three of them even through those large four-by-four windows – I hoped. Their visibility didn’t matter to me, I had to convince myself, much anyway because they were not my targets for the moment. There were barrels of flammable fuel visible from through the windows which I had locked in the cross of the scope. The last time I was there I had convinced those men we needed a supply of petroleum in the warehouse. Being a loyalist, what they thought of me, they agreed. I was also the one who rolled those OXY barrels to the place and positioned them for my convenience. I was going to hit them and nothing else. Cause a fire, wreak havoc. Fire being the sole thing that could make them rush for those.

Diamonds. They last forever. Not with the cartel. It didn’t belong to me either but I had already made up my mind. A pouch of diamonds would allow me to reset my life in some windy suburbs of Arizona. A condominium on the outskirts of some city where I could wake up in the morning and feel myself being snowcapped mountains. No rent to be paid for I owned the unit. Much, much away from this disgusting desert.

Thinking about the mountains, I took the shot. The rifle recoiled against my firm shoulder as the 9 mm bullet propelled out of the barrel. A wisp of smoke along with a little pop in the distance came shortly after.

From there it took a second then the interior of the warehouse lit orange, its sound reaching to my ear being no more than a kid bursting a carnival balloon on my ear. Disappointment. I had expected the roofs to blow up, falling on themselves and the window glasses to explode. However, it wasn’t even like a grenade explosion – which now I just learned is nothing more than a puff of smoke. I could see the burning men running inside. I followed one of them by my scope. That man was on fire head to toe, slapping himself to get rid of the flames and roll on the verge of hopelessness. I could have ended him there but let him suffer. Human cries echoed in the desert under the moonlight. Meanwhile, I remained there watching the flames go upwards. Then I looked at my watch.

Twenty seconds had gone past the explosion. It was when I began to realize I might have left a loophole in my planning. Or perhaps the loophole had just come out of nowhere. I had expected someone would come out of the burning place with the pouch of diamonds but I was wrong. The fire had been raging in the warehouse for over a minute and none of them bothered to come out. There I began to realize why I hadn’t seen many people wandering inside the warehouse. They must have been playing poker near the petroleum barrel. In short, most of them were burnt to charcoal right now. However, it was not what I could afford so, I took three of my guns. I carried two of them in both of my hands, put the last one in my hostler, gathered some cartridges but not too many, and leaped for the warehouse.

I scampered into the desert, jumping over the bushes, stepping over unstable pebbles, and almost twisted my ankle in panic. Good lord I wasn’t wearing those loose shoes that night. As I ran into the incinerator of the warehouse, I could hear the yells of my associates. And trust me, they sound different from when they are drunk or accidentally stubbed their toes. Their voices were inhumane consisting of the texture of torn vocal chords. Or burnt. And there were at least five or six screams like those echoing in the desert. Soon came the smell. Burnt flesh and the fumes of clothes melting upon the human skin probably bubbling on the epidermis and seeping through the sweat pores.

By the time I reached the door, I was about to puke. I touched the doorknob by the back of my hands. It was hot but enough to keep a hold for some seconds. Meant the fire wasn’t as big as I had seen through the window. Small windows. I couldn’t blame them for distorting my comprehension of the scale. Taking a step backward, I kicked the door right beside the doorknob. The door came off its hinges in a single kick and the smoke along with the flames hit my face, making me dig my face under my elbow. And the fumes of human burnt flesh traveled through my nostrils to the lungs. I coughed some of it out but couldn’t get rid of most of it. I slowly walked past the fire, burning bodies on the floor and the melting barrels. Fire lit everywhere in the room. I almost burnt the end of my jacket when realized I was taking too much time.

I was already coughing madly. Like once every two seconds and the fire was growing in front of me as well as behind me. I knew every inch of the damn warehouse but walking in the same place during a fire meant was something I hadn’t imagined until last week. I did not realize it but I had reached the end of the warehouse. It meant the diamonds were in the worst place they could be.

Upstairs.

I gazed at the burning roof. Luckily the stairs were made of metal. Still, I was unsure if I could get any confidence about the old concrete holding the stairs in its place. I tiptoed up my way to the metal stairs. I accidentally put my hand on the railing and heard it sizzle. I was quick to retreat at the same time I was taking too much time to reach the top. When I reached the second floor, I could not see anything other than smoke and fire. And the room where the diamonds were kept. I had no clue. I took off my jacket and wrapped it around my body then I took a leap of faith and dived into the wall of fire.

It didn’t hurt much but I felt irritation on my skin and the top of my hair melted. The jacket had taken some damage though. I kicked a door near to me. There I saw two men loading their guns.

“There is a sniper somewhere, Johnny,” Jorje said.

“I know,” I said.

I shot him right in the face.

“Gabe,” Paolo snapped at me.

I had a gun with me so it did not matter.

“Where are the diamonds?” I asked.

“So you did this, Gabe?”

“Where are they?”

He did not answer me. I knew he would not open his mouth. However, I did not expect him to extend his arm and show me the pouch of diamonds.

“You killed our people for this?” Paolo asked.

“I could kill all for you for a paperclip, you maggot-infested fucks!”

“Don Romero won’t let this go.”

He tossed the pouch out of the window. I didn’t know where it landed. Did it hit the ground and scattered? Or stuck on a tree, making the diamond rain? I took too much time. A bullet whistled past my ear. I stumbled and slammed the door. Then again I was back in the fire. This time, I had nothing to protect myself and I paid the price. It stung me everywhere as I ran blindly in the narrow hallway.

I did not even notice when I reached the end of it. There, I took out my gun and got ready for a fight with Paolo. The fire danced in front of me and someone stepped out of it. Then three more figures stood by his side. I reached for my second gun.