The Contractor Ch. 09-10

It was three weeks before the call came. We had been in Naples almost two months, not knowing where we might need to go on a moment's notice.

"Señor Ricardo, can you go to Hermosillo in two days?"

"Yes."

"There will be someone to meet you at the airport. He will take you to the person you wish to meet."

"Thank you, Chaco. What can I do to repay you?" I asked.

"It is not necessary. You will be doing my friends a service. Good luck, Senõr."

"I am grateful, Chaco. Thank you again."

And that was that.

"I won't be going with you, Rick. I don't think I want to be around when you do what you have to do."

"I understand. Why don't you catch a flight to Boston and stay with your mother. I'm sure she'll be glad to see you again. I can book you on a flight from Tampa tomorrow morning."

She nodded. "Okay. I think that's what I'll do. Are you sure this is what you want to do ... the Mexican thing, I mean?"

"It's a matter of honor for me and for Hurley. I won't enjoy it and I won't celebrate, but I will be satisfied that a debt has been repaid."

"All right, Rick. I guess I can understand. Will you come to Cape Cod when it is finished?"

"Yes. It will be over for me finally. I will honestly be able to claim to be retired."

"Maybe then we can talk about the future?" she said expectantly.

"I think we'll need to do that for sure."

We didn't make love that night. We held each other and fell asleep, each in our own dreams. I knew what I had committed to do and I was not going to back out. I had called in some serious markers to get to this point.

I kissed Sally once more as she moved toward security at the Tampa airport. An hour and a half later I would be on a flight to Phoenix, then a short-haul to Hermosillo the next morning. I wondered what I would find in the big Mexican city. I wondered where they would be holding Alfonso. I wondered how they had cut him out of the herd. I wondered just how I was going to do what I had come to do. The instrument of his demise was packed in my checked bag.

When I walked from the aircraft to the Hermosillo arrivals area, I saw a well dressed middle aged man holding a sign simply lettered Señor Ricardo. There was little doubt it was for me.

"I am Señor Ricardo," I said to the man.

"May I see some identification, Señor?"

I handed him my passport, he glanced at it quickly and then returned it to me.

"Welcome to Hermosillo, Señor. Please follow me."

My bag was waiting for me at the luggage turntable and we walked out into the hot, late summer air together. I was led to a late model Cadillac sitting by the curb in a no parking zone. I didn't seem to matter. The man opened the rear passenger side door, took my bag, placed it in the trunk and got behind the wheel. In a matter of seconds, we were on our way.

The drive was barely five minutes and I judged that we were somewhere north of the airport. The driver pulled up in front of a large, very dilapidated warehouse and parked near what might have been an office door. He opened the trunk for me to get at my bag at my request. I retrieved what I wanted before the man led me through the door and into the building.

It took a couple of moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they did, I saw two men standing by another man seated in a chair. My driver had quietly left, probably to return to the car. I approached the three men in this empty, cavernous room, waiting until I was close enough to see what I needed to see.

Sitting tied to a wooden chair was Vicente Alfonso, looking much smaller than I imagined. The two men who were standing beside him acknowledged me, then stepped back. From here on, I was on my own.

I reached into my inside jacket pocket and retrieved a picture and showed it to Alfonso.

"Do you recognize this man?" I asked, showing him the last photograph of Hurley I had.

He looked at me, then at the picture, snarled something I didn't understand, and spat at the picture. He missed. I took it from that he wasn't about to beg for mercy. Just as well. I wasn't about to grant any. I reached behind my back and withdrew the CRK 7" Yarborough knife I had been awarded on my graduation from the U.S. Army Q course. I didn't bother with any formalities or last minute sermons. I stepped behind him, put my hand over his mouth and in one fierce stroke, ended his pathetic life. A second cut removed his head entirely and I held it up by his greasy hair.

"You know where to put this?" I asked them.

"Si," one of them said solemnly.

"Gracias," I said. "It is done."

There had been surprisingly less blood than I expected, perhaps because the stroke had been so quick and clean. I would leave it for these men to clean up the scene. I doubted the body would ever be found, but the head certainly would. It would be placed on the doorstep of his home.

Time to go.

I kept my bag in the back seat of the car, changing and bagging my blood-stained clothes as we returned to the airport. The knife was now wiped clean and wrapped in its plastic bag, returned to its hiding place in the bottom of the bag. I disposed of the clothes in a washroom trash container. There was time to kill before the next plane left for the United States, this one to Tucson. I had thanked the driver for his efficiency and courtesy. I offered him some money, but it was refused. That didn't surprise me. I hoped he wasn't offended.

It took two double scotches to calm me down from the after effects. In all the contracts I had performed, this was unique. My usual trademark was quick and clean. A single well-placed bullet or knife blade. Try to make as little noise and mess as possible. Efficient and tidy. It mattered not if they knew who I was or why. I just did what was asked of me.

This time was different. This was my kill. My revenge. My decision. I had thought about having a conversation with Vicente Alfonso, but that would never happen. He was unrepentant to the end. Perhaps it was macho bravery, or perhaps he knew this day would come and accepted his fate. It no longer mattered. Hurley had been avenged. That was all I had set out to accomplish.

My flight was on time and within an hour I was back in the USA. A quick question and answer session at US Customs and I was on my way to my hotel. I would be back at the airport the next day to begin my journey to Boston and my parents' home.

I chose a Delta flight that would leave at ten the next morning and, assuming I made the connection, arrive in Boston at seven that evening. What was on my mind was the reception I would get from Sally. I had time to dwell on that question. Too much time.

To Be Continued