THIRTY-EIGHT

The complete silence around the old, darkened Catholic church was rather unsettling for a man like Leon Sphinx. It was in such quite moments as this that his mind was left to wander, and when that happened all sorts of horrible memories returned once more to plague him.

For Leon, moments of peace brought nothing but pain. He could still hear that high-pitched ringing of his mother’s cries as she was beaten and raped right before his eyes, and then the gunshots of his father’s executioners roaring out through the cool night air outside their home.

“Do you believe in God, Leon?” the man seated there in the pew directly behind Leon asked him.

“No.” Leon did not look back, his eyes remaining on the alter out the front of the church.

“Why not?”

“A better question would be: why should I have any reason to?”

“But why should you not?”

Leon’s teeth gritted. “If you could only see half of the things that I have seen, you would know that an entity as righteous as God has no place in this world. I’ve seen mothers, beaten and starving, feast on the flesh of their own dead children just to save themselves from starvation. I’ve seen children, little girls, doused head-to-toe in gasoline, light up the darkness of night like torches. Countless wives and sisters forced upon time and time again, right in front of their own husbands, brothers and sons. I could go on but, like it or not, that’s the world we live in. So if God did exist, and he let all of this shit just keep on happening, would that not make him an even more cold-hearted son of a bitch than you or I, Toma?”

Mickey Toma smiled, the whites of his eyes and teeth piercing through the shadows of the church behind Leon. “You know something, Leon? I’ve always liked you. You’re a piece of shit, sure, and you wrap yourself up in a material that looks suspiciously like toilet paper, but there’s no denying that you have a way with words.”

“If I didn’t know you better, Toma, I might take that as a compliment.”

Toma nodded. “It’s been far too long since the two of us have had a chance to have a sit down and have a chat, don’t you think?”

“Two years, five days, ten hours, and thirteen minutes.” Leon said. “Back in Bolivia. That was the last time.”

“Ah, yes. Bolivia.”

“Back when you ratted out your comrades to the Mountain Boys; right before I was burned to a crisp by Sierra Rico.”

“Good times, precious memories…”

Leon’s frown intensified. “But now, as much as I enjoy this small talk, Toma, that’s not the reason I’m here.”

“No, I realise that, Leon,” Toma grunted in amusement. “A man like you is always destined to die without any friends. What you are really here for is to claim your shot at Sierra Rico for the Guerrero world title.”

“Now you’re talking my language.”

“I can see it all happening now. An epic fight to the death between the legendary Calavera and the unknown freak who looks like a monster-of-the-week from Scooby-Doo. I’ve got goosebumps just thinking about it.”

“Enough with the jokes, you’d make a lousy comedian,” Leon said. “I carried out all your instructions; I left no survivors at the café, other than that smiling Jap.”

“True.” Toma stood up and walked down the aisle, taking a seat right beside Leon. “And I suppose that does warrant some kind of reward.” He took a small, round monitor from his pocket and handed it over to him.

Leon looked at the monitor’s screen. On it was something that looked like a network of tunnels, with two flashing dots at either end; one dot was green, the other red.

“This is a GPS tracking device, Leon. The red dot on screen shows you Sierra Rico’s current position, and the green one represents you. Think of it as a map to your heart’s greatest desire.”

“You’re telling me that you’ve been able to track Sierra Rico’s every move this entire time?”

“More or less,” Toma said. “It pays to keep tabs on all your assets. Now, as was agreed upon, as of this morning’s job, Sierra Rico is all yours to play with. Do with him as you wish, but just remember, he isn’t travelling alone; he’ll have three companions with him.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“Given your less-than-modest ego, I expected you’d say that. However, I must ask one more thing of you. All three of these men travelling with Sierra are to be spared. Do you understand?”

“Spared? Why? What do they matter to you?”

“That’s not important right now. Just know that if a single one of them dies, the remainder of our contract, including your payment and safe passageway back into Colombia when this is all done, will be cancelled. Comprende?”

Leon’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, I think I get it now. You have yourself an inside man in Sierra’s group. That’s how you’ve been keeping track of him, right?”

“What I have, Leon, is a role to play in a much larger plan than your petty revenge. The details of this plan do not concern you at this stage, so I advise you to just take your reward now and use it wisely, because Sierra Rico will not lay down his life meekly.”

With a simple grunt and a shrug, Leon accepted his reward and then walked out without so much as a thank you.

Once he was gone and Mickey Toma was all alone, the fiendish Guerrero turned his attention to the front of the church, his eyes gazing up at the alter, at the crucified statue of Jesus Christ that hung over it.

An angel born into a world of devils, Toma smiled, his eyes aglow as he thought back to Sierra’s lover. Lana. He reached down into his pocket and took out a polaroid photograph. It was the same one he had considered showing Sierra back at the Marino Nightclub. A useful tool, and a necessary sacrifice.