Artem
A SMALL FARM OUTSIDE OF PICACHO DEL DIABLO, MEXICO
“Señor!” Guillermo greets, giving me a smile that I’m sure he thinks is convincing. “Nice to see you.”
I don’t bother with the fucking small talk.
Or with any talk.
I just punch him square in the face.
The weapons dealer stumbles back with a yell of pain. Blood spout from his nostrils.
“Keep in mind—the next punch will break your nose,” I tell him calmly.
“What the fuck?” Guillermo stammers as he tries to get his bearings. The blood is thick in his hands now.
He’s stumbled right into a murky puddle of mud and horse shit. His black rubber boots are mired in it.
“That was a warning,” I tell him. “A taster of what I will do to you if you don’t give me the information I need.”
“I… information?” Guillermo stammers. “I have no information. Just guns.”
“I have enough of your fucking guns,” I remind him. “I’ve kept your fucking side business going for the past few months. Which is why you owe me.”
Guillermo’s wipes the blood off his upper lip and spits on the earth.
“Fuck, it hurts,” he complains. “I think it’s broken.”
I narrow my eyes. “If I wanted to break your nose, trust me, it would be fucking broken right now. You’re fine. Be a fucking man and shake it off.”
He looks up at me, new fear tainting his expression.
“Mira, cabrón,” he says, straightening up. “I’m just the gun supplier around these parts okay? I’m not involved in the politics.”
“Like fuck you’re not,” I say. I feint closer.
He lunges backwards like I’d shocked him with a cattle prod. Ends up even deeper in the pile of shit.
Good. That’s where trash like him belongs anyway.
“Now, you’re gonna answer my questions,” I tell him, with a meaningful glance over his shoulder. In the distance behind him, two young boys are playing in the field. His sons, I presume. “Or Papa won’t be joining the boys for dinner.”
He gulps visibly and nods. “Sí, sí, sí. What do you wanna know?”
“My cabin was ransacked. No more than a few hours ago,” I say. “What do you know about that?”
“Nothing.”
I sigh and take a casual half-pivot, as if I’m going to walk away. Which is probably why he doesn’t see my fist coming.
He hits the ground hard, with a squelch. Shit flies everywhere. The blood is pouring even faster now. His lip is busted, too.
I stand over him, one foot planted on either side of his fat legs like sausages encased in denim.
“You wanna try that again?” I ask conversationally.
“Now it’s broken!” he cries out.