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Despite the downpour it was hot, with the rain only adding to the never ending muggy heat which wearing on my soul, day-in, and day-out I suffered with the humidity and heat, and now the pounding rain on the tile roof was adding to my misery. I would never get used to this climate, just as I would never get used to the fact that I was cut-off from my known world, my wife and my family. I was physically and mentally worn out, alone, hiding, and in fear for my life. My nights were long and I seldom saw the daylight except on rare occasions when I wasn’t sleeping. I sit here in my little tiny room on the north coast of the Yucatan Peninsula, a room with only a large ceiling fan that turned 24 hours a day, with a single light bulb, barely bright enough to illuminate all corners of the 14 foot by 16 foot room with my only real companion a little field mouse who had wandered in one night and set up housekeeping. I sit waiting for what or who I don’t know only realizing that whatever was coming and more than likely, sooner than later, to tell you the truth I was not used to being the hunted. The dreams, it was because of the dreams that I was really getting tired of this existence, dreams that haunted me with visions of the people I loved going on without me, dreams that made me angry and afraid for my wife, her family and their inability to cope…they were constant. Why I sit here in this little obscure little room with a single bed, running cold water and a little chill box was understandable. Three major intelligence agencies and a score of minor players in the world of international politics and world power had a price on my head for at least four of my identities, there was no ‘Dead or Alive’ it was just plain “Dead” with each offering up to $1mil for someone to bring all my finger tips and my head to collect the money. It was time to consolidate my options. Why the death sentence? It seems that they either decided collectively or separately that there was a person walking around on this planet that had over the past thirty years, of doing their quiet work, had access to or was given more information concerning the jobs that he really should posses. They believed that sooner or later this information would surface and either topple their sitting governments or heap embarrassment on the old ones. To me I really didn’t care about any of that information, I had gone in and did my job
and to maintain my sanity walked away from it as fast I could, never once looking back. My job or skill? I am what is known as a professional assassin, a ‘007’ if you will, a title that in some people’s eyes is acceptable, but for most sane people the direct translation was ‘killer’ and in all cases no-matter how you colored it, that is what I am. I know I liked the word ‘assassin’ much better, as only warped or misdirected people were outright killers and I had my scruples. I did not assassinate people at random, only killing those who were dragging their countries or organizations into a confrontation that would either bring their people into a war or supply one in progress, creating a situation that when the dust settled there would be thousand of wounded and dead on both sides and their economy in shambles. There were a few that didn’t fall into this category, but I didn’t feel too bad about those as they were well deserved in my book anyway, besides my fees were high. Regardless I’ve hungered for the touch of my wife, dreamt about my family, and longed for the sights, sounds and smells of my native culture, America especially the Puget Sound. For the last thirty plus years I have roamed the world applying my trade, while it had it good moments I had spent many weeks out of those years, either being someone else of buried deep in some side street in a foreign location attempting to blend into another lifestyle, consequently I had spent little time being myself. Moving from location to location, city to city and country to country my life had become one that compared to that of a chameleon changing with efficiency at a moment’s notice. I remember one particular job I was hired to do, where I crawled through the drainage system under downtown Beirut for days, planting large amounts of explosives under many manholes, and had placed a microscopic transmitter on a limo, that when it drove over the manhole would set off the explosion. It worked, but it wasn’t my manhole that blew a crater in the street and blasted body parts all over the place, someone was mimicking my style. Needless to say they renamed Beirut’s airport after the man that was killed in the resultant explosion. I stayed around, under my cover as a freelance reporter and gave blow by blow accounts of the following days. During those days I began to think that maybe someone had picked the wrong guy, albeit he had made millions off of the rebuilding of Lebanon following their civil war, reportedly overloading his cost, his death raised the tension in the region. I reported on the chaos this event created along with the hue and cry by the west, and even though I did not cause his death I took the money, it was one of my biggest
paydays. Somewhere deep inside me I felt that maybe this had been a gross mistake. I worked my job for only one reason, money! I had no aspirations in catching up with William Gates, just didn’t want to worry about money if I decided to go fishing whenever I felt like it. All indications showed that it was that last job that I didn’t complete that put the hounds on my trail; the “Devil” had to be stopped! Few assassins (killers) obtain the notoriety of Carlos (“Ramirez Sanche”), and although he didn’t run advertisements in the New York Times, he might as well have. He was driven by elements that knew too much about him and as careful as he was, it was those elements (his own Sudanese bodyguards) that finally brought him down. Myself, I have no friends where my family, brothers, sisters, children and grandchildren, and my wife believe I am buried in a little cemetery in King County, in Washington State. I went to my own funeral in Seattle (about 9 months ago, after the hounds were getting close) as a burnt out 1st Avenue rummy, wearing jump boots and clothes I’d picked up at a local goodwill store. I slept fully clothed in a little cheap motel on Hwy 99 North, and on the day of my funeral caught a Metro bus with four days of growth on my face and looking and smelling like a trueblue wino, having poured a gallon of burgundy on my dark overcoat the night before. I wandered inside the gate and sat on an iron bench across the graveyard and watched the services. Among all the family, including my children, the one person I felt like running over and hugging was my mother who sat there looking up at the sky as the rain fell gently on her face. My two girls were there, Erin with her girls and Kim, At one time Kim looked over at me, nudged my sister Annie and motioned, I figured it was a good time to leave, I wasn’t that enamored with the guy anyway. I wobbled down the street thinking about the man wearing my name with a mashed in face and with eighty percent of his body burned, I prayed that he would pass through the gates upstairs with his own name and find some small place within his soul to forgive me for what I’d done. He was a John Doe that lay in the King County Morgue for 6-days in deep freeze before I read about him on-line in the Seattle PI. I flew up from Brazil, on the way trying to figure out how my name would end up hanging from his big toe. The most difficult thing was getting someone, somewhere, someplace the information to hang on his foot. I ran out of options. It was left to me, I stayed overnight in a local mission, dressed in my acquired wino outfit and dropped an old wallet all beat to death
at the desk one morning, using my best Foster Brooks manner told them that I thought this belonged to the John Doe laying on ice in the King County Morgue and walked away from James L. Person. Now James L Person had just been lowered into six-foot hole in the ground and another face was wobbling down the street with water running down his face like a broken water main with a stagger that was for real. I’d never used my real name in any of my jobs, but I guessed that in some manner the agency had tied my name in their manhunt as a possible, or we’re just tying up some loose ends – time to disappear. It was less than 2-months later that my mother left the family. I found the record of her death in the PI one morning, while sipping on my first cup of coffee sitting in my safe house in Seattle. It is not my habit to read the obituaries, why that morning I have no idea, the paper fell from my grasp and life for me on that morning changed forever, like many I believed my mother would live forever. On the day of her interment I wore an expensive suit under an expensive overcoat, had my hair shaved, and wore a pair of gold horn rimmed tinted glasses and walked with a cane. Arriving at the cemetery early I walked past the tent in the field and stood just on the other side of a little hill full of fir trees, where I could, by moving a bit watch the services. Standing beside a large cedar tree I watched the procession make its way past the stone gates, with a long line of cars crawling up the grade finally stopping at the site. I watched my brothers and sisters pull themselves from the cars, the ushers moving silently beside them guiding them to their chairs. Annie, the oldest sister, shook her arm and pushed the ushers hand away and walked over with her head held high. As she walked she looked up at the clear sky and when she brought her eyes down, she paused just a minute and looked right into my eyes; I didn’t flinch or turn away. The service was short, no one really wants to hang around a hole in the ground looking at the remains of their mother, the person who walked you to school, wrapped her arms around you when you were sad, or wore her-self out trying to keep life easier for you – you can’t take it. As the family started their walk back to their cars, the youngest, who had looked at me once or twice, glanced over his shoulder to look once more at me. I turned and limped across another path and made my way from the cemetery. Before I turned, I noticed Annie turn and look over at me, turned and then spun around again to get a quick glance; it was really time for me to leave. I haven’t seen anyone of my relatives since that day, including my new wife who
I missed more than the air circulating through my lungs, after my mother passed, Nadia was my only person left in my world, yet because of my actions she too was a shadow in my life. I have not laid eyes on my family since.
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