Read Once Upon A Wish : Book One Online
Authors: Richard Poche
Tags: #noir, #noir crime, #hit men, #noir crime thriller, #drug cartel fiction, #edge of your seat thrillers, #gripping thriller, #hit man book, #hit man series
Once Upon A Wish : Book One (8 page)
“No.”
“I want to see her.”
Nestor shook his head no.
“I want to see her now!”
They drove to her place in silence. They
passed all of the abandoned storefronts and broken trees that
looked like brown skeletons reaching out for them. Nestor parked
outside the apartment complex and the two waited.
“You can’t go in,” he said. “She doesn’t
see clients in her house.”
“I know,” Hernan said. “I know the
rules.”
“I’m not a killer, Hernan. I know what she
means to you.”
The apartment door opened. Ana stepped
outside holding Antonio’s hand as her grandmother trailed behind
and closed the door.
They watched as the grandmother took the
young boy’s hand from Ana. Dressed in a suit and tie, Antonio waved
good-bye to his mother as they headed off to church.
“Why would Cisneros do this?”
“I don’t know. A power play maybe. Maybe he
thinks she’s a distraction. Maybe he’s testing you. Or me. Or both
of us.”
Hernan just shook his head in
disbelief.
“Maybe he’s right,” Nestor said. “Maybe she
is a distraction. I’ll talk to him. Tell him that we’ll put her up
some place. Some place far away. She won’t be a problem.”
Hernan shook his head again.
“I know a guy,” Nestor continued. “Chuy. He
set up my people when I helped them across the border. I can have
him set up Ana in Los Angeles. Or San Diego. He doesn’t have to
know. We can say we made the hit and just hide her.”
“I want nothing bad to happen to her.”
Hernan watched as Ana stepped back into the
house. He took out his cell phone and texted her.
He waited a few moments.
“I don’t think she’ll call you,” Nestor
said. “I came and had a talk with her. It didn’t go well.”
Hernan’s cell phone rang.
“She calls me back. She always does.”
directions as they walked to the duck pond. She clutched her purse
tightly.
Hernan pulled out his bag of bread and
began throwing it at the ducks.
“You have to go,” he said. He caressed her
arm, noting the contrast in his adobe brick skin color and her pale
complexion.
“I want to know what is going on, Hernan.
What kind of trouble are you in?”
“I’m a killer.”
“A killer—”
“A hit man—” Hernan tossed the ducks a
morsel of bread. They quacked as they pounced on it.
Ana took a deep breath and rolled her
eyes.
“You see those killings on the news? That
guy that was shot on Bancroft Avenue?”
“Yeah.”
Hernan nodded his head. “I did that,” his
voice barely audible.
“Are you serious?”
Hernan pulled up his shirt to show Ana the
gun he had strapped to his waist.
Ana started to laugh. She looked at the
ducks and shook her head, laughing louder in disbelief. “And here I
thought you were some lonely weirdo who washed dishes in some
greasy restaurant.”
“There’s a safe house. In L.A. We’ll set it
up for you.”
“My kid has a life here. My grandmother.
I’m sick of running and hiding. If your asshole boss wants to kill
me, I don’t care!”
Ana pushed Hernan away.
“And how are you going to set things up for
me? You idiots cannot even take care of yourselves!
She pushed again. Harder this time.
“You have to go or he will send someone
else.”
“Why don’t I just eliminate you? Huh?” Ana
reached into her purse and ripped out a small derringer. “Would
that solve my problem?”
“Ana, don’t.”
“You think I care about you? I mean,
really.”
“Ana—”
“You’re a dumb ass. And a weirdo. I can’t
stand you.”
Hernan grabbed the gun. He pushed and she
pulled.
She pulled the trigger and fell to the
ground, the gun bouncing down on the grass.
The bullet’s trajectory had went up through
her chin and exited underneath her nasal cavity. Ana began spitting
out blood.
Hernan could only stare at her now
disfigured face.
Ana rolled over and slowly reached for the
gun. She said something unintelligible.
Hernan stepped on her hand as she got hold
of the gun. He took out his own gun with the silencer attached. She
looked up at him. Her gentle eyes the only dignity left in her
corrupted face.
Hernan shot her once in the head and then
in the heart like he was taught. He stared down at her for a moment
and dropped the bag of breadcrumbs alongside her.
He sprinted back to his truck.
He turned around and saw the ducks gather
around Ana’s body.
A white duck followed Hernan’s truck with
its beak.
shut.
Nestor came his bedroom door startled.
“You can call Cisneros,” Hernan said. “The
job is done.”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s done is done.”
“You didn’t—”
“I took care of it.”
Nestor stared at Hernan for a few
moments.
The young man stared down at his feet then
started to sob. “I tried not to look down at her. When she was
dead. I knew I had to run. But I looked down anyway.”
Nestor put his hand on Hernan’s
shoulder.
The young man choked backed sobs. “I’m
never going to be able to sleep again. I’ll close my eyes and see
her blood—”
Hernan put his head on Nestor’s shoulder
and cried. Nestor put his arms around the young man, the first time
he hugged anyone in his life.
Hernan stayed in his room most of the
day.
Nestor stared at the TV, flipping channels
until he heard a knock at the door, urgent and hard.
Hernan popped out of his room, his eyes
sleepy. He had his gun in hand.
Nestor looked through the peek hole. “It’s
Cisneros,” he whispered.
Hernan gripped his gun, his face a picture
of menace.
“Hide it,” Nestor said. “And be cool.”
Nestor opened the door and gave Cisneros a
look of practiced indifference.
His employer stood there with Karlos the
goon by his side. He looked at Nestor through his tinted blue
shades, unsmiling.
“I have something for you,” Cisneros said,
holding up a suitcase. “May I please come in?”
Nestor stepped aside. Cisneros walked in
while Karlos took a step back.
Nestor shut the door.
Hernan stood frozen in the doorway of his
bedroom.
“When we are in the line of work we are
in,” Cisneros began. “We cannot have distractions.”
Hernan did not move a muscle. He glared at
Cisneros' blue tinted glasses as if the hotness of his gaze could
melt the glass.
“That gun in your back pocket,” Cisneros
said. “Give it to me.”
Hernan didn't respond.
“It's my gun,” Cisneros said. “I want it
back.”
Hernan pulled out the gun, and for a
moment, stared at the weapon. Then he flipped it over and handed
the gun, handle first, to his boss.
Cisneros set it to the side then placed his
suitcase on the couch. “I have something much better for you,” he
said as he opened up the briefcase.
“You can't find your salvation through a
woman,” he said. “Or even money.” Cisneros removed a large envelope
from the suitcase. He opened it and removed a handful of hundred
dollar bill stacks from inside.
Hernan looked at the money then at the
suitcase.
There were three new guns inside.
“There is salvation in violence though,
isn't there?” Cisneros handed Hernan a shiny black Luger.
Hernan appraised the gun for a beat.
“It is only a matter of time before someone
higher than the local popos get involved. It’s important that you
use different guns. Different methods. You can't shoot folks with
the same damn gun all the time. They’ll trace that shit
eventually.”
Hernan aimed the gun at the wall for a
moment. Then he pointed it at Cisneros before taking a look at the
other guns.
“I know you are upset with me,” Cisneros
continued. “But women like Ana—” He shook his head in disdain.
He stepped closer to Hernan and put his
hand on his shoulder.
“Mexican men your age,” he said. “They get
involved with the wrong woman. They work these lousy scut work jobs
and they have to support all of these kids and then their hot wife
becomes fat and flabby.” Cisneros chuckled to himself and looked
over at Nestor. “And some don't even make it that far.”
Hernan moved Cisneros hand off his shoulder
and walked toward the window.
Cisneros ignored the snub and looked at the
books on the coffee table. He saw Nestor's self-help choices in “A
Purpose Driven Life” and “The Richest Man in Babylon.” He picked up
one of the books and shook his head again in contempt.
“You don't need a purpose,” Cisneros said.
“Society wants you to be the guy with that leaf blower on his back.
To be the guy that picks up dirty dishes from the table. Fuck
that.”
Cisneros walked over to Hernan. He tapped
his finger on the young man's chest.
deadliest hit man in the world. I am an assassin.”
“That's the spirit.”
Cisneros walked toward the door and opened
it. He nodded at Karlos and the goon handed him another envelope
and a long, black case.
“Next target is inside. Half the money now,
half later.” He opened the second case. A large rifle with a scope
laid out inside.
“You can take out the big game with this
one.” Cisneros looked at Hernan like a proud father. “Happy
hunting.”
movies he bought at the local 7-11 bargain bin. B-movie fare
starring former professional wrestlers.
He practiced some of the moves he saw in
the mirror. Nestor spied on him from the kitchen table.
“Your techniques are fine,” Nestor said.
“What you see on TV is fake. Remember that. Fake guns, fake ammo.
In real life you can’t spin around three hundred and sixty degrees
and shoot off sixty rounds.”
“I like it though,” Hernan spun around and
pantomimed shooting off both the guns he had in his hands.
Nestor got up and turned off the TV.
“But some of what happens in the movies is
true,” Nestor said. “Sooner or later, this ends bad for us. We have
to have a goal. You know what I mean? We have to change the script.
You know that, right?”
Hernan shrugged his shoulders.
“We have to deal with all of these
dangerous targets, most of whom will now be expecting men like us
to come after them. Then we have to worry about the cops. The FBI.
Maybe the CIA if we hit some foreign diplomat. Then there is
Cisneros. I am not sure which one we should be worried about the
most.”
Hernan got quiet. He looked at his new
guns.
“We have to figure out how to cut ties with
him. Figure out how much money we need to have a better life and
cut loose from dealing with people like Cisneros.”
“He won't let us quit,” Hernan said.
Nestor nodded in agreement. “There will
come a time when we'll scorch the earth. Kill him. Kill all his
people. Then disappear.”
“How much do you think we need?”
“I don't know,” Nestor said. “Maybe a hundred thousand. At least.
More would be nice but we can't push it. We save up and we off
Cisneros. He'll be expecting it so we have to keep our cards close
to our chests. We are just dumb immigrants to him. We have to let
him think we aren't anything more than that.”
Hernan took out the rifle and peered
through the scope.
“Then when he least expects it,” Nestor
pointed his finger in the shape of a gun. “Blam!”
kitchen table and began sifting through the photos. He felt a rise
in his pulse as he saw the pictures of Edgar Williams. They called
him “Fast Eddie,” a reference to his teenage years as a high school
track star.
Flash forward thirty years later and he is
a returning hero...from prison. He had spurned a college
scholarship in track and field to pursue the street life in
Oakland. By the time he reached his mid-twenties, he had amassed a
fortune and moved heroin between the Bay Area and Los Angeles.
The FBI took notice and ultimately got him
for tax evasion.
He had been out for three years now. Fast
Eddie came back to the same streets that spawned him but found them
to be a lot different from when he left. He had made residents of
an entire Oakland neighborhood drug addicts. But now someone else
had taken his place.
And that someone wanted him dead.
being a forward thinking man. “Fast Eddie” wanted to recoup his
turf and it would only be a matter of time before he hit
Cisneros.
“I want to see her.”
Nestor shook his head no.
“I want to see her now!”
They drove to her place in silence. They
passed all of the abandoned storefronts and broken trees that
looked like brown skeletons reaching out for them. Nestor parked
outside the apartment complex and the two waited.
“You can’t go in,” he said. “She doesn’t
see clients in her house.”
“I know,” Hernan said. “I know the
rules.”
“I’m not a killer, Hernan. I know what she
means to you.”
The apartment door opened. Ana stepped
outside holding Antonio’s hand as her grandmother trailed behind
and closed the door.
They watched as the grandmother took the
young boy’s hand from Ana. Dressed in a suit and tie, Antonio waved
good-bye to his mother as they headed off to church.
“Why would Cisneros do this?”
“I don’t know. A power play maybe. Maybe he
thinks she’s a distraction. Maybe he’s testing you. Or me. Or both
of us.”
Hernan just shook his head in
disbelief.
“Maybe he’s right,” Nestor said. “Maybe she
is a distraction. I’ll talk to him. Tell him that we’ll put her up
some place. Some place far away. She won’t be a problem.”
Hernan shook his head again.
“I know a guy,” Nestor continued. “Chuy. He
set up my people when I helped them across the border. I can have
him set up Ana in Los Angeles. Or San Diego. He doesn’t have to
know. We can say we made the hit and just hide her.”
“I want nothing bad to happen to her.”
Hernan watched as Ana stepped back into the
house. He took out his cell phone and texted her.
He waited a few moments.
“I don’t think she’ll call you,” Nestor
said. “I came and had a talk with her. It didn’t go well.”
Hernan’s cell phone rang.
“She calls me back. She always does.”
directions as they walked to the duck pond. She clutched her purse
tightly.
Hernan pulled out his bag of bread and
began throwing it at the ducks.
“You have to go,” he said. He caressed her
arm, noting the contrast in his adobe brick skin color and her pale
complexion.
“I want to know what is going on, Hernan.
What kind of trouble are you in?”
“I’m a killer.”
“A killer—”
“A hit man—” Hernan tossed the ducks a
morsel of bread. They quacked as they pounced on it.
Ana took a deep breath and rolled her
eyes.
“You see those killings on the news? That
guy that was shot on Bancroft Avenue?”
“Yeah.”
Hernan nodded his head. “I did that,” his
voice barely audible.
“Are you serious?”
Hernan pulled up his shirt to show Ana the
gun he had strapped to his waist.
Ana started to laugh. She looked at the
ducks and shook her head, laughing louder in disbelief. “And here I
thought you were some lonely weirdo who washed dishes in some
greasy restaurant.”
“There’s a safe house. In L.A. We’ll set it
up for you.”
“My kid has a life here. My grandmother.
I’m sick of running and hiding. If your asshole boss wants to kill
me, I don’t care!”
Ana pushed Hernan away.
“And how are you going to set things up for
me? You idiots cannot even take care of yourselves!
She pushed again. Harder this time.
“You have to go or he will send someone
else.”
“Why don’t I just eliminate you? Huh?” Ana
reached into her purse and ripped out a small derringer. “Would
that solve my problem?”
“Ana, don’t.”
“You think I care about you? I mean,
really.”
“Ana—”
“You’re a dumb ass. And a weirdo. I can’t
stand you.”
Hernan grabbed the gun. He pushed and she
pulled.
She pulled the trigger and fell to the
ground, the gun bouncing down on the grass.
The bullet’s trajectory had went up through
her chin and exited underneath her nasal cavity. Ana began spitting
out blood.
Hernan could only stare at her now
disfigured face.
Ana rolled over and slowly reached for the
gun. She said something unintelligible.
Hernan stepped on her hand as she got hold
of the gun. He took out his own gun with the silencer attached. She
looked up at him. Her gentle eyes the only dignity left in her
corrupted face.
Hernan shot her once in the head and then
in the heart like he was taught. He stared down at her for a moment
and dropped the bag of breadcrumbs alongside her.
He sprinted back to his truck.
He turned around and saw the ducks gather
around Ana’s body.
A white duck followed Hernan’s truck with
its beak.
shut.
Nestor came his bedroom door startled.
“You can call Cisneros,” Hernan said. “The
job is done.”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s done is done.”
“You didn’t—”
“I took care of it.”
Nestor stared at Hernan for a few
moments.
The young man stared down at his feet then
started to sob. “I tried not to look down at her. When she was
dead. I knew I had to run. But I looked down anyway.”
Nestor put his hand on Hernan’s
shoulder.
The young man choked backed sobs. “I’m
never going to be able to sleep again. I’ll close my eyes and see
her blood—”
Hernan put his head on Nestor’s shoulder
and cried. Nestor put his arms around the young man, the first time
he hugged anyone in his life.
Hernan stayed in his room most of the
day.
Nestor stared at the TV, flipping channels
until he heard a knock at the door, urgent and hard.
Hernan popped out of his room, his eyes
sleepy. He had his gun in hand.
Nestor looked through the peek hole. “It’s
Cisneros,” he whispered.
Hernan gripped his gun, his face a picture
of menace.
“Hide it,” Nestor said. “And be cool.”
Nestor opened the door and gave Cisneros a
look of practiced indifference.
His employer stood there with Karlos the
goon by his side. He looked at Nestor through his tinted blue
shades, unsmiling.
“I have something for you,” Cisneros said,
holding up a suitcase. “May I please come in?”
Nestor stepped aside. Cisneros walked in
while Karlos took a step back.
Nestor shut the door.
Hernan stood frozen in the doorway of his
bedroom.
“When we are in the line of work we are
in,” Cisneros began. “We cannot have distractions.”
Hernan did not move a muscle. He glared at
Cisneros' blue tinted glasses as if the hotness of his gaze could
melt the glass.
“That gun in your back pocket,” Cisneros
said. “Give it to me.”
Hernan didn't respond.
“It's my gun,” Cisneros said. “I want it
back.”
Hernan pulled out the gun, and for a
moment, stared at the weapon. Then he flipped it over and handed
the gun, handle first, to his boss.
Cisneros set it to the side then placed his
suitcase on the couch. “I have something much better for you,” he
said as he opened up the briefcase.
“You can't find your salvation through a
woman,” he said. “Or even money.” Cisneros removed a large envelope
from the suitcase. He opened it and removed a handful of hundred
dollar bill stacks from inside.
Hernan looked at the money then at the
suitcase.
There were three new guns inside.
“There is salvation in violence though,
isn't there?” Cisneros handed Hernan a shiny black Luger.
Hernan appraised the gun for a beat.
“It is only a matter of time before someone
higher than the local popos get involved. It’s important that you
use different guns. Different methods. You can't shoot folks with
the same damn gun all the time. They’ll trace that shit
eventually.”
Hernan aimed the gun at the wall for a
moment. Then he pointed it at Cisneros before taking a look at the
other guns.
“I know you are upset with me,” Cisneros
continued. “But women like Ana—” He shook his head in disdain.
He stepped closer to Hernan and put his
hand on his shoulder.
“Mexican men your age,” he said. “They get
involved with the wrong woman. They work these lousy scut work jobs
and they have to support all of these kids and then their hot wife
becomes fat and flabby.” Cisneros chuckled to himself and looked
over at Nestor. “And some don't even make it that far.”
Hernan moved Cisneros hand off his shoulder
and walked toward the window.
Cisneros ignored the snub and looked at the
books on the coffee table. He saw Nestor's self-help choices in “A
Purpose Driven Life” and “The Richest Man in Babylon.” He picked up
one of the books and shook his head again in contempt.
“You don't need a purpose,” Cisneros said.
“Society wants you to be the guy with that leaf blower on his back.
To be the guy that picks up dirty dishes from the table. Fuck
that.”
Cisneros walked over to Hernan. He tapped
his finger on the young man's chest.
“You are an assassin! That
is your identity. They want you to be a gardener. Some idiot that
spends all day wearing an orange vest riding a lawnmower. If you’re
lucky, maybe you can be a janitor standing around with a mop up
your ass. But you are defiant. By working with me, you have made a
different choice. You will not be what they want you to be. You
will be what you are
meant
to be. A hired killer. Maybe the best one
ever.”
deadliest hit man in the world. I am an assassin.”
“That's the spirit.”
Cisneros walked toward the door and opened
it. He nodded at Karlos and the goon handed him another envelope
and a long, black case.
“Next target is inside. Half the money now,
half later.” He opened the second case. A large rifle with a scope
laid out inside.
“You can take out the big game with this
one.” Cisneros looked at Hernan like a proud father. “Happy
hunting.”
movies he bought at the local 7-11 bargain bin. B-movie fare
starring former professional wrestlers.
He practiced some of the moves he saw in
the mirror. Nestor spied on him from the kitchen table.
“Your techniques are fine,” Nestor said.
“What you see on TV is fake. Remember that. Fake guns, fake ammo.
In real life you can’t spin around three hundred and sixty degrees
and shoot off sixty rounds.”
“I like it though,” Hernan spun around and
pantomimed shooting off both the guns he had in his hands.
Nestor got up and turned off the TV.
“But some of what happens in the movies is
true,” Nestor said. “Sooner or later, this ends bad for us. We have
to have a goal. You know what I mean? We have to change the script.
You know that, right?”
Hernan shrugged his shoulders.
“We have to deal with all of these
dangerous targets, most of whom will now be expecting men like us
to come after them. Then we have to worry about the cops. The FBI.
Maybe the CIA if we hit some foreign diplomat. Then there is
Cisneros. I am not sure which one we should be worried about the
most.”
Hernan got quiet. He looked at his new
guns.
“We have to figure out how to cut ties with
him. Figure out how much money we need to have a better life and
cut loose from dealing with people like Cisneros.”
“He won't let us quit,” Hernan said.
Nestor nodded in agreement. “There will
come a time when we'll scorch the earth. Kill him. Kill all his
people. Then disappear.”
“How much do you think we need?”
“I don't know,” Nestor said. “Maybe a hundred thousand. At least.
More would be nice but we can't push it. We save up and we off
Cisneros. He'll be expecting it so we have to keep our cards close
to our chests. We are just dumb immigrants to him. We have to let
him think we aren't anything more than that.”
Hernan took out the rifle and peered
through the scope.
“Then when he least expects it,” Nestor
pointed his finger in the shape of a gun. “Blam!”
kitchen table and began sifting through the photos. He felt a rise
in his pulse as he saw the pictures of Edgar Williams. They called
him “Fast Eddie,” a reference to his teenage years as a high school
track star.
Flash forward thirty years later and he is
a returning hero...from prison. He had spurned a college
scholarship in track and field to pursue the street life in
Oakland. By the time he reached his mid-twenties, he had amassed a
fortune and moved heroin between the Bay Area and Los Angeles.
The FBI took notice and ultimately got him
for tax evasion.
He had been out for three years now. Fast
Eddie came back to the same streets that spawned him but found them
to be a lot different from when he left. He had made residents of
an entire Oakland neighborhood drug addicts. But now someone else
had taken his place.
And that someone wanted him dead.
being a forward thinking man. “Fast Eddie” wanted to recoup his
turf and it would only be a matter of time before he hit
Cisneros.
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