The cigarette remained carefully balanced between Kyle Moss's trembling lips as he stared down the barrel of the silenced pistol used to kill his attorney, Neil Taylor, a second ago. Moss was paralyzed. Not frozen. Literally paralyzed to the point of needing to make a conscious effort to breathe.
The shot had been fired just as Moss lit the cigarette. Both his hands hovered just above the table as if somebody hit pause on his life. A fragment of Taylor's skull was stuck to his face, the blood and brain matter served as a glue, adhering it to the right side of his cheek. Kyle wanted to wipe it off. He wanted to put his hands down. He wanted to get to the gun on the bed. None of his brain's requests were being honored by his body. His state of disconnect left him rigid.
The black semi-automatic pistol in the killer's hand seemed to grow bigger with each passing second. The frozen Moss took shallow breaths of the smoke-filled air, waiting for the gunman to kill him. But as precious seconds ticked by, no shot came.
"You may relax your hands, Mr. Moss, but please keep them on the table where I can see them." The man in the dark wide brimmed hat and suit of matching color lifted the rectangular leather case, then set it on the table before him without moving the muzzle off its intended target, Moss's forehead.
A worn leather bracelet clung to the gunman's wrist just beneath his suit sleeve. A long rattlesnake's tail dangled freely from it. The sound of its rattle as the killer set the leather case down didn't bother him. But the rattle from inside the case nearly caused Moss to vomit.
"I don't understand. I called you." Moss found the courage to speak but the words came out in clunky spurts as if his mind were trying to assemble each word letter by letter before releasing them.
"You have stolen from Mr. Fuentes. I am here to collect that debt. Now let's get on with this unfortunate business. And who I am is not of consequence to you. And it will soon not matter to either of us that I tell you. I am Alfredo Perez, but few know it. To those who stare at the case, I'm called El Vibora, The Viper."
"Wait! What? Stolen? I didn't steal anything from Mister Fuentes. Absurd! Are you kidding me? Get your boss on the phone." The ice in his limbs began to melt away as his paralyzing fear gave way to anger. Getting the gun from the bed was becoming a more possible opportunity.
"Maybe your idea of theft is different from Mister Fuentes’. Was there not a contractual arrangement made?"
"Yes," Moss said. Buy time. Get the gun. He knew what The Viper meant by contractual arrangement. Selling his stepdaughter into slavery had turned out to be the worst financial decision in Moss's long list of mistakes. It had been a hail Mary pass to save a dying business. And it backfired catastrophically. The climactic end of that karmic fallout was standing less than six feet away from him and holding a gun.
"So there it is, an arrangement was made. Money changed hands. Deals were made. Deals were broken. I am the one who repairs the damage."
"It wasn't my fault. And I never stole the money. You gotta believe me!"
"It doesn't matter what I believe. The call was made. I am here. Nothing short of a miracle will stop what comes next."
"You don't speak like a killer." Moss felt the statement slip out. Even offered an apologetic look to accompany it. But it was true. His English was soft and fluid. Educated in the US. His skin was pale. Hard to tell if he was even Mexican. His dark wire thin mustache and wide eyes gave him a Doc Holiday sort of look. None of it mattered. Kyle couldn't help but stare at the ghost-like marks underneath his right eye.
"Do you know a lot of killers, Mr. Moss?"
"Well—eh—no."
"Well, I do. And one thing I can tell you is that each of them approach death as uniquely as a set of fingerprints." He moved his hand toward the leather case. Three brass snap buckles separated the serpent inside from Moss.
Stall. Business 101. "Look, I told whoever I spoke to on the phone that I was planning to wire the money back as soon as the Feds unfreeze my accounts. My attorney was going to handle that," Moss shot a glance at the recently deceased Neil Taylor, "but not to worry, I can hire another."
The gun remained leveled at Moss's head, but The Viper didn't continue his reach for the case. "Even now, facing the tragic consequence of your life's decisions, you still cannot speak the truth. Sad really, if you stop to think about it. But you won't have long to ponder. So, please make use of the time you have left on this earth."
"Why don't you just shoot me and get it over with?" Frothy spit shot from his mouth, knocking the cigarette onto his lap. The hot cherry embers burned into his crotch. Moss snatched it by the butt and dusted the ash onto the floor. "Why don't you just put that bullet in my head right now?"
"That is not how it works, Mr. Moss. My employer, Mr. Fuentes, believes in clear and objective standards for all his employees. A task is given, a task is completed. No excuses tolerated, not ever. A simple but effective business plan."
"What else can I offer you that you don't already know?"
"Excellent question, Mr. Moss. Now you're getting in the spirit of things."
Getting in the spirit of things? This guy's insane. But he's still human. And human beings have weaknesses. Those weaknesses can and should be exploited. See, you smug son-of-a-bitch, I'm a businessman too? Fuentes isn't the only one who knows how to go to war.
"It is important to my employer, and so it is important to me that I investigate how far we have to go until all loose ends are clipped."
"You killed my attorney! Was he a loose end?"
"Yes, as was your accountant and your security guard."
The room spun. "You killed Teddy?" His accountant, Clarence Park, was a good enough accountant, but Moss held no personal feelings for the father of four. But Teddy had been a childhood friend before Kyle brought him in to work the cush gig of gate guard at his Hermosa Valley estate. Not so cush now. Ever since that Nighthawk woman showed up and ripped a gaping hole in his life.