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Hitman: A True Story (Chapter 9)

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    Hitman: A True Story (Chapter 9)

    Finally got a few minutes to write. It's been almost 7 months since Chapter 8 was posted. I'm getting faster!

    Here's the background from TBH'er Coon007:

    At the time I met luis, we were working some gold/silver mining project's in the Zacatecas area. And one of my partners Mr.Kilroy has a close friend who is a priest in the Monterrey area that oversee's all the little rural catholic churches. One day a song come on the radio that I had composed and Mr.Kilroy stated to the priest that I had wrote that song, so the priest asked me if I knew about writing books... me and my big mouth said yes, that same afternoon I met with Luis. He told me he a tumor in his brain that could not be operated on and he knew he was going to die, but before he died he wanted someone to write his life story (why i'll never know) so he gave all his money away and went to a small rural church to be forgiven by god for all the crimes he committed. Luis died on 3/10/2004 in that little room behind the church with the priest taking care of him. So here are his stories.


    Just in case you need the links to the previous chapters:

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6

    Chapter 7

    Chapter 8

    ===============================================

    Hitman: A True Story
    Chapter 9: Thall Shalt Not Betray



    Julio Alvarez. Professional. Dependable. Expensive. Deadly. Julio was the leader of a group of twenty or so of the deadliest hitmen in Mexico (me excluded, of course). They worked for the highest bidder and could demand above market price because of their abilities and reputation. They wore nice suits, drove nice cars, and lived a normal life outside of the contract murders. Unlike the majority of thugs you see now who kill for a few pesos or drugs, they would conduct research, study their targets, and execute quickly and quietly. The targets never saw them coming.

    And that is why I seriously considered hiring them for my next hit. I’m not scared of much. But I’m not stupid, either. I needed to go up against Columbians (and Columbian-backed drug runners) this time. And my boss, Don Ernesto, wanted the whole lot of them gone. But as usual, pride won out and I took care of the problem myself.

    That Sunday started like all the rest. Horacio, the driver, took Carlos and Don Ernesto to pick me up at my apartment. We went back to the little town of El Saguaro where they attended mass. I stayed outside to guard Ernesto’s car. It was dog duty—but I didn’t really mind since church wasn’t my thing. After mass we always went to a local hole-in-the-wall for breakfast. They served the best chilaquiles in Mexico. Don Ernesto would treat the priest, altar boys, and all of the regular church ladies to breakfast. They would all sit and gossip until early afternoon. He was a generous man and people loved him for that.

    Later that evening we were back at the ranch. The phone rang. I overheard Ernesto arguing loudly with someone on the other end of the line. Carlos (always a little slow) kept asking loudly, “What’s wrong?” Ernesto put his hand over the phone and whispered, “Shut your mouth! I can’t hear”. When he finally hung up, I could tell he was very upset. “What’s wrong, boss?”, I asked. The Oliveros are saying they lost my shipment. That’s what they said, but I don’t believe those sons of b#$^%&”.

    Thinking back, I always figured something like this would happen. The Oliveros were a no-good family which consisted of the father (Juan), two sons (Juan Jr and Javier), and an ugly daughter (Juanita). Don Ernesto had been using them for moving product from Medellin to Mexico from time to time. They worked fast and cheap. Don Ernesto always paid extra for a job well done, but the Oliveros had come to expect inflated payment. I never liked the way they would eye a shipment like a coyote looking at his kill. I knew they were taking little nips and morsels from each shipment, and had warned Ernesto about it. The last two or three shipments had been a little light. Not too much to draw attention, but at least a couple pounds each time. I asked Ernesto to stop using the Oliveros, but he would say something like, “When you move a thousand kilos of coke, you tend to lose a little bit. Nothing to worry about. It’s the cost of business.”

    But this time Ernesto was furious. “We are going to look into this and take care of it!” These were harsh words for the normally docile and friendly Ernesto. I was actually pleasantly surprised by the weight of his concern and anger. In the past, I had to prod him into action and he always second-guessed the violence that I found necessary to solve problems successfully.

    As always, my first order of business was surveillance and intelligence. I conducted street research and then started keeping tabs on the Oliveros family. I quickly learned that all of them were selling cocaine on the side. This was a start, but it didn’t necessarily mean that they were selling Don Ernesto’s product. It could have come from anywhere. So I started digging deeper—literally. I went through their trash. Bam! I found kilo wrappers with Ernesto’s tri-colored rainbow logo. The Oliveros crew had once again lived up to to their reputation as a gang of idiots. I gathered the evidence and hurried back to the hacienda to tell Don Ernesto.

    “Well, well well. So it’s true that they are taking my product. As you know, Luis, I don’t mind a little bit missing now and then. But my whole shipment? I’m going to call Juan Oliveros in the morning and get him to come over.”

    “Be careful”, I said. “Do you want me here?”

    “Of course, my angel. See you in the morning”.

    Late the next morning, Juan and the rest of the Oliveros bunch showed up at the hacienda. We all sat down in the study. Don Ernesto started the conversation.

    “Look, Juan. We have been doing this for a long time. And for the most part, you have all done a great job. But—that doesn’t mean you can steal from me, pendejo! You and your family have been stealing larger and larger amounts of coke from me and I’m starting to get sick of it! The way I see it, you owe me 12 kilos. That comes up to twelve thousand dollars!”

    In an instant, old man Oliveros’ eyes became squinty and he was furious. When Don Ernesto saw his anger, he began backing down from his previous demands. “I’m going to give you and your family a second chance.” I immediately looked at him and shook my head “No”, but he continued. “I have another run tonight. One-thousand kilos to be picked up off-shore. And I expect to get all one-thousand kilos when you return. Do I make myself clear? If you come through on this, we will call it even.”

    I couldn’t believe it. But the boss had spoken. And the Oliveros clan was probably laughing at Ernesto’s “butt chewing”. I jumped up and said, “I will go with them, boss.” But he shut me down immediately. “We need to do this so that we can establish trust and get back to business again.” With that, Don Ernesto provided the details and he and Juan Oliveros shook hands and the whole family departed immediately.

    “What were you thinking, boss?”, I asked. “You know they are going to screw you over again.”

    “I don’t believe that they will. But if they do, my angel, you will be there for me.” For such a smart man, he could really be dumb.

    Unfortunately, I was right. The next day Don Ernesto received a call that the entire load had been lost at sea. I started to tell him, “I told you so”, but I could see the pain on his face. We also had bigger problems. The Columbians would be wanting their money…load or no load. Don Ernesto sat silently for a few minutes and then called out for his driver.

    “Horacio, fetch me the money. The pick-up man will be here shortly. Horacio went upstairs and returned with a large suitcase filled with cash. We waited until the pick-up man arrived. The Columbian smiled at Don Ernesto.
    “It’s a good thing you have plenty of money to pay, pinche joto. Medellin has already heard about you losing the load. You know how this works. We get paid either way.” The man left and Don Ernesto looked like he was going to explode…or cry. I couldn’t tell which.

    Ernesto wanted to talk but I shook my head and ran outside. I jumped into my car and followed the Columbian from a distance. He stopped at a night club where I knew he would drop off the money for someone else to transport to Medellin. I wasn’t as angry about the money as I was about the low-life calling Don Ernesto a “pinche joto”. My blood was boiling. I watched the pick-up man leave the night club and followed him to a house. I quietly got out and approached him at his front door. I pushed the .38 Super hard into his rib cage. I walked him through the door at gun point and a young man was coming down the stairs. “Hola, mi amor. Who is your friend?” I whispered something into the Columbian’s ear about calling people a “pinche joto” when he had a boyfriend waiting on him at home.

    He finally realized the seriousness of the situation. “Look, I have no money. I already dropped it off. Take what you want and get out!” The other young man finally saw my pistol and he screamed. A well placed shot between the eyes shut him up for good. He collapsed in a pile, a look of surprise still on his face. The Columbian started to cry as I sat him in a chair and started to tie him up with an extension cord.

    I looked him in the eye while I stroked the pistol. “Not even an hour had passed from when Don Ernesto received the call from the Oliveros that they had lost the load…and you show up already knowing what had happened. How in the hell did you know this? Tell me before I kill you, pinche Columbiana mierda.” I was furious. I knew something was up between the Oliveros crew and the Columbians.

    I took out an ice pick I had brought along just for this job. I jabbed it into his guts, right above his navel. “You have about ten minutes before I stick you again if you don’t answer my questions.” He grimaced and moaned. “Yes. Yes. I will tell you what you want to know”.

    “How are the Oliveros family and Columbians working together?”

    “We offered the Oliveros fifty grand to say the load was lost. We knew Ernesto would pay for the load, no questions asked.”

    “Whose idea was it?”

    “Juan Oliveros proposed it to my boss, Eliseo Torres. And just so you know, once he finds out what you have done to me, there will be hell to pay. You and Ernesto are already dead!”

    “Really?” I drew my pistol and shoved it into his mouth. I raised my eyebrows at him as if to ask him “What did you say?”. He tried to reply with his mouth around the barrel and I pressed the trigger. I stepped back to admire my handiwork, but cut it short because the blood was pooling around my shoes. I was still furious. I thought about shooting him again but put my gun away and washed my hands in the kitchen sink. I left his house and went back to the hacienda.

    I told Don Ernesto what had transpired with the Columbian. Instead of being grateful, he worried.

    “What have you done, angel?”, he asked with fear in his eyes.

    “I did what should have been done long ago. It was all for your sake. Now I will go after the Oliveros crew and the rest of the Columbians. And in the mean time, you will start buying from the Cartahena Cartel and you will use the Rodriguez crew to move the product. Comprendes?” Ernesto nodded in quiet compliance.

    In the days that followed, things went back to normal. Ernesto spoke to the Cartahena Cartel and set up a test buy. Things went smoothly…just as planned. The Rodriguez crew (a rough, but surprisingly honest group), was ready to do the pick-up and delivery.

    “Boss—how do you want the Oliveros idiots handled?”, I asked Ernesto.

    “With pain. Lots of pain”, he replied.

    With that, I left the hacienda and went to town for fresh seafood and some peace and quiet so that I could make a plan. Once again, intel and surveillance paid off.

    Juan Jr. was a creature of habit. He was unmarried and spent almost every night visiting the local whorehouses. His policy was, “a different whore every night”. He was an easy mark. I went into the largest brothel one night and found the prettiest woman. I threw down a picture of Juan Jr. on the table and offered her five-hundred dollars to service him in his car and to forget that she ever met me. She agreed and grabbed the money off of the table.

    Less than 45 minutes later, Juan Jr. walked in to the bar area of the whorehouse. My new friend was whispering in his ear. He smiled, downed a few drinks, and then led her to his car. He was telling her something about needing to hurry because he had to go eat dinner with his family.

    I waited until he was beyond the point of paying attention to his surroundings and knocked on the driver’s side window. When Juan Jr. looked at me, his eyes went wide with recognition. I put a bullet through his neck. He was gasping for air. I double-tapped the woman out of necessity. Unfortunately for Juan Jr., the bullet went through his wind pipe. He was drowning in his own blood for a long two or three minutes. Long enough to contemplate his sins as I left his car and quickly returned.

    I had retrieved a gas can from the trunk of my car and doused Juan Jr.’s car. I opened the door, took the woman’s purse that contained my five-hundred dollars, and then poured the rest of the gas inside. I struck a match and dropped it. Juan Jr. was still alive, and I sat back and watched him howl—as he probably wished he had decided to be a baker or a janitor instead of a drug runner.

    Later that same night I tracked down Juan Sr. and his wife, his son Javier, and daughter Juanita. They were in a small restaurant enjoying a late dinner. Luckily the place was empty except for the Oliveros family and a few disinterested employees.

    My targets appeared to be spending big money on alcohol so they didn’t even notice when I walked up to the table. I had a large squirt bottle full of gas that looked like a hot sauce bottle, only bigger. I walked up and sprayed them all. Just as their eyes showed some recognition, I lit a Molotov cocktail that I had hidden under my jacket and slammed it down between them. All four were on fire, screaming as their skin burned off. They writhed around on the floor for awhile until the screams had all but stopped. I went ahead and unloaded a full magazine into them…just in case. The smell of burning flesh was overpowering. I went home and showered and slept like a baby.

    The next morning, Don Ernesto and Carlos were playing with a few baby peacocks that had hatched out last week. The difference between my job and their daily activities always struck me as amazing.

    “Job’s done, boss”, I said to Don Ernesto, expecting a lot of questions about the where, when, how of it all.

    But he was too busy petting the peacocks to acknowledge me.

    I shook my head and went looking for a beer.

    #2
    Yessss!!!

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      #3
      Always a good read, keep it coming

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        #4
        Thanks. Great stuff as usual

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          #5
          Great write up!

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            #6
            Thanks My Friend!

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              #7
              Great stuff Bobby. Least re read the entire series

              Thank you

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                #8
                Awesome as always

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                  #9
                  awesome as usual... keep em coming

                  Comment


                    #10
                    Top notch writing. Great story

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                      #11
                      Awesome stuff!!!

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                        #12
                        Love these stories!! Thanks for sharing!

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                          #13
                          Grandtastic!

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                            #14
                            “Double tapped the woman out of necessity.” Sobering that there are dudes out there like this. Another great insight into the cartel. “Some things you just can’t unsee.”

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                              #15
                              Most excellent.

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