“This is it.” I snap to attention. I can hardly believe my eyes. Once again, I look at the FBI photograph. The driver has a full head of salt and pepper hair and a thin mustache. His jaw line is narrow, and his eyes are deep set. This is the right man and the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. I look through the binoculars and transfix my vision on the rolling cart.
An attractive young lady with a long ponytail exits the helicopter. She’s smiling and waving to the man in the golf cart. He joyfully waves back. I wonder if she could be his daughter?
She’s not far away, and the binoculars make her face clear enough to see her long dark eyelashes. She reminds me of a South American beauty queen I once met.
I didn’t think the fatal moment would arrive in this manner. The young woman appears to be quite happy. I begin to have second thoughts about doing the job. Then, I remember the resident of this luxurious house is also one of the largest and most ruthless opium and cocaine distributors in the world. It’s because of his political power and financial influence that I have been shanghaied into these sweltering surroundings.
My doubts disappear. I feel my heart skip a beat, my hands grow cold and clammy and my fingertips tingle. Good God-Almighty. I haven’t shot a man in years and this seems so impersonal. It’s not like when I was fighting for my life.
I lay on the ground beside the FBI’s Nemesis Arms Rifle that is set up on a tripod. I lift the stock, raise the gun a fraction and sight my victim in the crosshairs.
Just as I take a deep breath, the cart turns off the path and angles toward the helicopter. My target is now at a ninety-degree angle. “Damn.” I should have fired before he turned. Why did I wait? Sweat drips from my forehead and into my eyes. “Stop it. Don’t panic. Make the shot.”
The loud crack of gunfire interrupts the normal late afternoon chatter of the jungle and causes a flock of birds to spring into the air. There is a brief instant of dead silence before wildlife begins to stir again.
The golf cart has stopped and the King-Pin’s face is laying flat against the steering wheel. The young lady’s smile has been replaced by fear.
The pilot races from the helicopter. He stops halfway and turns all the way around, as if searching for a shooter. Maybe he has just realized he’s out in the open and may also get shot. He waves his arm, motioning the girl toward the house, but the girl does not move.
Ramos struggles to get out of the cart, but he falls to the ground. The pretty girl is flailing her arms and yelling. The pilot lifts the bleeding man into the back seat of the cart. The young lady crawls in beside the drug lord and puts her arms around him. The pilot drives the golf-cart up the path toward the big house as fast as it will go. I watch as Ramos’ white shirt turns red.