He listens to the clock. Tick, tick, tick, tick. A sliver of the moonlight peeks through the silk curtain, other than that he is obscure within the darkness. Tick, tick, tick, tick. He is dressed in black, all black.
Black boots. Black pants. Black sweater. Black knife. Black gun. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
He knows that the moment is soon, he has been preparing himself for this moment. Mentally and physically. Tick, tick, tick, tick. He makes absolutely no sound, his breathing is inaudible. His footsteps
are carefully planted as to not make any noise, like a mountain lion stalking its unsuspecting prey. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
He's done this before. He's been here before. He is the best. He has made himself invisible, blending into the darkness with chameleon like precision. Tick, tick, tick, tick. There is no room for failure. Failure is not an option. His mind is flooded with images. Images of his past. His childhood. His parents. He erases these images. He's good at erasing his memories. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
His heart rate begins to accelerate. He could feel it. His hands begin to sweat. Another footstep, almost there. Tick, tick, tick, tick. He takes a deep breath. He calms himself. He slows his heart rate. He erases.
He hears. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
The sun won't be rising for a few more hours. He is nocturnal. He and darkness have become well acquainted throughout the years. He feels at ease in the darkness. It is in the darkness that he feels alive. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
He prepares his gun. Carefully removing the silencer from his bag and silently twisting it into position. When the silencer is tightly fastened he feels a sense of dissociation. As if the locking of the silencer onto the gun has turned on a second personality. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
He's a killer. He doesn't deny it. Every day that he looks into his mirror, into those ice cold blue eyes which have seen so much pain, he sees a killer. It's what he is. Nothing more. A killer whom has been trained to have no remorse. No doubt. No pain. No memories. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
He doesn't kill for money. He doesn't kill for pleasure. Psychopaths kill for pleasure. He doesn't enjoy killing. Killing doesn't bother him. It is his duty. It is his nature. It is what he does. Kills. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't know who he works for. He doesn't leave evidence. He can't be traced. He isn't in any governmental database. He doesn't exist. He is a ghost. A ghost that kills. A killer ghost. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
His target is an influential and prominent oil tycoon with ties to the Russian mafioso. He's been trailing him for months. Watched his every move. Read every e-mail. Listened to every telephone call. He knows his target better than the target knows himself. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
His target is in the way. That is politics. If you get in the way, somebody moves you. He was that somebody. He's the one who did all of the dirty work in order to preserve the appearance our elected officials. Their ties to corruption just couldn't be made public. Wouldn't. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
He's been in his targets house for the entire evening. He was here before his target got home for the day. He was never seen. He was never heard. He left no trace of his presence. Not even a scent. Like a ghost. A killer ghost. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
His target brought his lady friend home with him. She was a good looking woman with a body that most women would die for. She wasn't with him for his good looks. His target is worth nearly 2.5 billion dollars and was a very powerful man. His good fortune is about to be cut short. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
They're sleeping. He planted a bug in his bedroom earlier and has been monitoring their activity with an earpiece that he has been wearing. They were heavily intoxicated, engaged in sex, and passed out. They won't even hear him coming. They never hear him. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
He approaches the bedroom door and softly turns the handle. He sneaks through the threshold into the bedroom. The television is on, but muted. He sees his target. He's in a deep sleep. His companion lies nude atop the blankets next to him. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
He aims the silenced pistol and pulls the trigger. A bullet strikes the tycoon between the eyes. Head shot. He aims again. He pulls the trigger a second time. Another Head shot. He prefers head shots. Less room for error. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
He aims the pistol at the tycoons companion. No women. No children. He reminds himself. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
He slowly lowers the pistol and creeps back into the darkness. Another mission completed. He makes his way out of the house. He mapped his route. No one will see him. He is a ghost. A killer ghost. He blends into the darkness. Into the night. He disappears.
Camilo Miguel patiently waited for his Aguardiente. He isn't accustomed to waiting, however his waitress was a beautiful young woman with mouth full of pearly whites and a personality to match. He needed to stay focused as well, business was at hand.
Camilo's bodyguard sat across from him at the small wooden table. Carlos. Carlos was a barrel chested man with a scar which down his face from his eye to his chin. Nobody knew how he got the scar, people assumed that it was the result of being slashed by a knife when he was affiliated with the Escobar cartel but nobody knew for certain. Nobody asked Carlos any question, nobody. Not even Camilo.
The men were dressed in tailored suits and sitting within one of the finest restaurants of Bogata. Carlos kept a watchful eye on the other patrons as Camilo discussed business on his phone. “Tú me escuchas! Usted hacer como tu le dijo y no hacer preguntas! Informe a mí cuando la tarea se ha completado.” Camilo quietly ended his call with a look of discontent.
The waitress returned with the mens drinks. Carlos took Camilo's Aguardiente within his hand and sipped. After a moment of scrutiny he nodded his head in approval and passed the drink to Camilo.
Camilo took a long hard sip and placed the glass down with a smile on his face.
“Only the best for us my friend, you will be rewarded handsomely for your loyalty. Of this you have my word.”
“Yes, boss” responded Carlos.
The men quietly finished their drinks and waited for their entree's. When the lovely waitress arrived with their meals, Camilo met her eyes and graciously thanked her.
“Muchas gracias. Usted tiene la más bella sonrisa que me he sentado los ojos al!”
The young waitress blushed and smiled. She slowly nodded her head and dismissed herself. Carlos repeated the same procedure that he did with the Aguardiente, he took a sample of each portion of food and tasted it before allowing Camilo to eat. With the same familiar nod of approval, the men progressed.
Camilo Miguel didn't become one of the most powerful men in South America by being a fool. After numerous failed assassination attempts he learned to become a little paranoid. He learned to not trust anyone.
At only 48 years of age, Camilo Miguel was head of one of the main cocaine distribution cartels within Columbia. His cartel was known as “Los Monstruos” for the brutal tactics that they utilized during their ascension to power. They leave no witnesses, they don't let their enemies survive to fight another day.
Los Monstruos was formed by Camilo Miguel when he was in his early twenties. Corruption from the Escobar Cartel had resulted in power struggle amongst drug lords for control of the cocaine industry. Camilo wasn't happy with receiving the short end of the stick so he formed his own private militia and went to war with the other cartels.
By the time that he was in his mid thirties, the United States had removed Escobar from power and Camilo quickly seized the opportunity to gain control of the polluted nation. He quickly made it known that he was the boss, “El jefe”, to the remaining politicians. No one questioned his authority, if they did they were killed. It was as simple as that.
At 48 years of age, Camilo accumulated a vast array of fortune. He had money hidden within numbered Swiss bank accounts, mansions, cars, boats, jet skis, women, and all of the cocaine and cocaine harvest that he could want. He created jobs for the migrant workers cultivating the cocoa and processing the cocaine.
He sent his product, 100% pure Columbian cocaine, to just about every nation in the world. His number one consumer was, of course, the United States of America. Not only did Camilo have Columbian politicians in his pocket but he had American politicians in his pocket as well. His influence reached to the top of the hierarchy, he had even done cocaine with the Secretary General of the United Nations.
After the terrorist attacks on September 11 and the passing of the Patriot Act by then President George W. Bush, Camilo stopped shipping his product to the Land of the Free. He waited for things to cool down and then he began shipping his product into his favorite country once again with the assistance of the Central Intelligence Agency, the very Organization which put him in power.
The CIA, although it will never be made public, has an interest in drug use within the precious United States. Drug use stimulates the economy. People sell drugs, people buy drugs. People overdose, people become addicted. People rob, steal, and kill for drugs. This cycle results in the hiring of more policeman, the construction of more prisons, the opening of more businesses, and more appropriations.
The U.S. Government's interest in Afghanistan was not Al-Qaeda but it was the control of the heroin which was their ulterior motive. Nor was there interest in Sir Escobar as much as it was the control of the Columbian cocaine which was the primary motive.
Drug distribution is big business in which most governments have their hands in. Some government's can be considered the biggest cartels in the world, it is just not known to the people because such affairs offend the conscience of society. But in reality, that is how it works. Uncle Sam just may be the biggest coke, heroin, and arms dealer on the planet and nobody would know about it. Well, a few people would know. Camilo being one of them.
The waitress returned and she politely asked them if they would care for another drink or desert, showing off her pearly whites.
“Sólo la miel de bill” responded Camilo with a womanizing devilish grin.
The lovely waitress smiled, nodded her head, and walked away silently. Camilo's phone began to ring and he began looking for it within the inner pocket of his suit coat. The waitress began to walk towards the table where the men were sitting.
Camilo held up his index finger in a wait a moment gesture and answered his phone.
“Senor Miguel?” the caller asked.
“Yes, who is this?” asked Camilo.
“This is goodbye. Mr. Petrov says that you shouldn't have been so greedy. You now pay for your sins with your life” , the phone clicks.
Before Camilo could process what was going on, it was much to late. The young waitress with such a beautiful smile had pulled out a gun which she had beneath her apron and put a single shot into Carlos forehead. Without hesitation she turned towards Camilo, let him see her smile one last time, and pulled the trigger. Two head shots.
An angel of death was Camilo's last thought.
The young waitress calmly returned her gun to her waistline beneath her apron and quietly walked out the front door of the restaurant.
Patrons and staff were in a state of shock. They just witnessed the execution of one of South America's most powerful men in broad daylight.
The young waitress quickly disappears into the Bogata city. When she is clear of the scene and out of her attire she make a quick phone call.
The phone is answered but no one says anything.
“Mission Successful” the waitress says.
Click. The phone is hung up.
The waitress disassembles the phone with professional precision and destroys the circuit board. She will be out of South America in a matter of an hour. Her identity will be changed, again.
In a dark room, engulfed in darkness The Ghost receives a call.
“Yeah” he answers.
“Confirmed. Success” the caller says.
The Ghost hangs up.
“Time to prepare” he thinks to himself.
© Copyright 2017 Pjpavalone. All rights reserved.
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