Timoteo teetered in the doorway, motioning to the men. “You come with three?” He turned his baseball cap around with a brusque swipe of his hand, exposing his bloodshot eyes. He leaned forward as Kiarme approached, lifting on the balls of his sandaled feet in an attempt to be at eye level. “I come with one. Me.”

The supplier's breath reeked of alcohol. An empty bottle of Flor de Caña lay tipped over on the table inside; there could be no reasoning with Timoteo today. The men would miss out on the opportunity to see the transaction, but he knew the supplier wouldn’t accept a deviation from the norm under his present condition. He’d cause trouble, more than usual, and Kiarme would lose his patience. This trip was too important to jeopardize; time was crucial.

“Sir?” Santiago’s voice was hesitant as he reached into the back seat for the bag.

Kiarme intercepted Michaelson before he could get any closer to the shack. “Wait out here.”

“What?” Stainless steel aimed down from a tight fist. “You gotta be shittin me!”

The commandant lifted an arm, blocking the ex-soldier from following him into the shanty. Now was not the time for the trainee to disobey. Each movement was being scrutinized.

Michaelson stepped back, disgruntled, but momentarily quiet. The blade stabbed down into the scabbard strapped to his worn belt.

Kiarme took the military issue bag from Santiago, motioning him to go back to the car. He ignored Michaelson's last effort at protest, closing the tin sheet door behind him.

Timoteo wouldn’t back away more than a few steps. His lips pulled into a sneer as his buyer brushed past him. “You need bodyguards now, Gringo?”

“I'm training them.” Sunlight trickled in through the cracks in the tin sheets, dimly lighting the interior.

“Training? What's training?”

He could smell the bitter scent of recent urine as he stepped further into the muggy shack. “This is my last trip to El Salvador.” He removed his sunglasses, slipping them into the breast pocket of his unbuttoned shirt.

“Por que? You don't like doing business with me?” The gangly man sauntered towards the warped metal table, slapping his hand down upon the rusted surface. “Money, now.”

Kiarme threw the black bag on the table, knocking the bottle onto the dirt packed floor. “I need more than usual.”

Timoteo turned, sneering. “So, you bring more money than usual, no?”

“There's more.”

The gaunt face grew hard, the thin brows arching. “You take those there.” He pointed at the bulky sacks to the left of the door. “More dynamite later.”

Blue eyes stabbed into the bronze-skinned mainlander. His voice was practically monotonic in an effort to hide his displeasure. “I need it now.”

“What do you need it for? Are you taking over El Salvador, o que?”

Kiarme's jaw grew taut at the insolent laugh. His voice remained calm and steady. “No questions.”

The supplier’s fleshy lips smirked. “I met some men the other day. What a surprise; they know you.”

Kiarme’s fingers twitched.

Timoteo stumbled forward. “They say you buy guns from them. Semi-Automatics. Rifles. Lots of bullets.” The smirk became a sneer. “And dynamite from me. Why you need so much, Americano?”

“No questions.” Last time.

A string of Spanish profanity came out of Timoteo's mouth as he gestured wildly. “No questions! No questions! No answers, no dynamite. You buy too much dynamite, and I never can ask why. No, cabron, I want to know why this time. You tell me, or I'll have my amigos in La Guardia pick you up before you reach the ocean. Then you can tell them.”

Threats. Business was over. Nothing was different.

It took only seconds.

His arm dropped to his side, the semi-automatic pistol still clenched tight in his fist. The acrid scent of gunfire wafted about in the confined space of the shanty, and the tin walls reverberated from the report. A small cloud of dust rose from the ground as the body fell back.

Instincts had kicked in.

Page 5 coming soon