Chapter 45: Chapter 45

THE WHITE...

The first date is always a milestone in a man's life, and in my case, it means my first contact with the targets. I need to do some reading work: How many security guards? What places are you going to? Who could be blamed?

Killing is easy, hiding evidence is a work of art.

I treat my victims like a packer treats packages. It's never personal. If I get caught up in the details and sensitized, I get lost. I don't see anyone, I see a job.

I park the bike on the side of the street and take off my helmet. On the other side, there is a small artisan café, run by Maria, mother of two small children. The store was renovated last year after vandals set it on fire. And why do I know all this? Because that's where Angelic buys his favorite coffee; coffee with almond milk, whipped cream and essence of mint.

I lower the support foot of the motorcycle and I wait. After a few minutes, Angelic's personal security, Marcos, comes out of the store with a bag. He is a former MMA fighter who retired after breaking his right leg.

There are three cars in a row. Marcos looks all over the street, including me, but I'm just an American citizen on his middle class motorcycle. He gets into the second car, where the president and his daughter are presumably. I watch the cars drive away, effortlessly giving way to traffic. All other cars pull away for them to pass.

This is their daily route. At seven o'clock, father and daughter leave together. She goes to her private dance class and he goes to the White House. She has lunch at the studio, comes home at two o'clock in the afternoon and prepares for university. Of course, not in person.

Angelic owns a construction company, even though she is still an engineering student. She has a poor relief program, in which she rebuilds abandoned buildings so that the homeless have a place to live. Friendly, I would say.

I still haven't seen her. Security is professional and well trained, covering the entire perimeter and even preventing him from being seen. The car has tinted and armored windows. No social media or internet photos. It's all part of a protocol, some say she takes risks that no one else takes.

Around me, the city functions like a runaway freight train. Latecomers rush to the station, traffic hell, noise, pollution and the rush. For me, it's more fatal than a gunshot.

Putting on the helmet and speeding up the avenue, in the opposite direction from the presidential car, I drive through the streets of New York until I reach the part of the city that I love the most: the ghetto.

This may sound hypocritical, as I am a fan of luxury, but poverty captivates me. When a person has nothing, he needs to move to have something. To be creative, innovative, to fight in the jungle of life to survive. But when you're just a spoiled rich kid, being good at something is the fucking minimum.

Arrived in the Bronx, one of the poorest and most violent neighborhoods in the region, I slow down. I never forget a place, a face, an address, and that's why I know exactly where to go, even in the narrow streets.

The side buildings are old and made of exposed brick. Angelic's company seems unaware that there are buildings to renovate here too. There are ragged children in the streets, beggars wrapped in blankets under bridges, drug addicts and prostitutes. Meanwhile, the presidential car traces a precise route for the lady to have her favorite coffee every morning.

I park in the uninhabitable part of the Bronx, the place so rotten that even the poorest dare not live. The sewer goes down in the open, and the smell is just no worse than the sight.

It's been years since I've been to the States, but I remember all the details that will never change. This neighborhood has always been what it is today.

I get off the bike, take off my helmet and walk to the sidewalk. I'm looking for hangar 404. The original idea was to build a place where people from the Bronx could work. Several sheds were built, but there was no investment and they became a home for drug addicts.

I find the address I was looking for, but the gate is closed, unlike others that have been broken into. I look up and down the street, and even though it's early, it's not a part of town where people want to walk. These are dangerous streets.

I kick the doors and they open easily because they are too rusty to withstand any pressure.

I enter the dimly lit and stuffy space, with only the rays of sunlight entering through the now open door. It seems even the light refuses to visit the Bronx. The interior of the shed is deteriorated, it smells of rodents. The only audible sound comes from my boot stomping on the dusty ground.

The shed has two floors. The ladder is on the left, but it doesn't look like it will last much longer before collapsing. There are boxes covered in white canvas and dust in every corner.

I hear a noise coming from above and I stop. I grab the gun from the waistband of my pants, just in case.

"I thought you were dead," said a male voice. One I haven't heard in many years.

Pietro Sanchez comes down the stairs with a heavy step, as if he was sure that the concrete would not give way. I look up to the man who has been my provider in the past and always has something good for me when I'm in this part of the world.

"Good to see you," I said.

- Of course, it's good to see you too. I'm going to get a little richer today – he smiled as he reached the bottom step. I approach and we greet each other with a wave of the hand.

- Depends on what you have for me.

Pietro is a mouse. He can get any weapon at any time. Its price is not the best, but the truth is that no one can legally get what it has in stock.

- Still the best, brother.

Pietro heads to the other side of the shed, where wooden crates are stacked on the floor. He's almost as tall as me, with long hair still tied in a bun. He looks like a broke hippie selling trinkets on the beach, but in fact, the man practically supports the illegal arms trade.

He pulls out one of the crates and opens the lid, revealing about twenty battle rifles. By the way, I recognize an AVS-36. Like I said, you don't find this kind of thing anywhere.

- Who are your suppliers? The Soviets? - I have to ask.

I admit, I saw myself negotiating with a lot of people, at least curious. Acquiring a weapon is easy, but a good weapon is not available from any vendor. Pietro is the most unlikely Mexican for the job, and the fact that he's hiding million-dollar guns in that mousehole helps him keep his secret.

- When someone needs good equipment, they know where to find it – he shrugs taking one of the guns to give it to me - What do you need?

I take the gun out of his hands. This is a Mark 14 upgraded battle rifle, produced by the United States for Special Operations Command. Heavy, not very long.

- Long range, light pistol, vest. As usual, I answer. I approach the sights with my right eye, I hold the front support and the butt. That's the problem with the big guns: they take both hands. I point the rifle at one of the boxes and test the scope. Within reason.

- I will prepare the material. How much time do I have? Pietro asks.

- Two days.

I give him the rifle. Certainly not my type. A man who drives luxury sports cars would never use a gun that size for his job. Too big, not effective. My criteria for guns, cars, and women are the same.

Pietro puts the gun away and closes the box. Meanwhile, I look around me. The first thing I learned when I started killing for pay was that you never know when danger is around the corner. That's why I don't turn my back on anyone.

I notice something at the back of the shed, covered by the dirty tarp. The shape appears to be a truck or something, but it's too dark for me to be sure.

- What is that? I point my chin.

- A reservoir.

Pietro brings the box back again and approaches me. I don't trust him, but I know I have two things when I look for him: agility and secrecy. That's enough.

- New department? - question.

"You'll find out soon enough," I said.

Everyone will know.