I pulled the trigger, blowing off the top part of his head, his blood and brains spraying over me.
I placed Hector’s gun in the dead assassin’s hand, I put the three-shot.22 in Hector’s bloody paw.
I poured myself a whisky, picked up the phone, and called down to the front desk.
“Oh, my God, Hector saved my life, he’s dying, he’s dying, get help up here quick,” I said and hung up.
It didn’t take long for me to see flashing lights racing along the seafront. They’d send the paramilitary police for this one and I’m sure Bridget would have a plan B as per usual. Time to skip.
I stood, stretched, drank the whisky.
And as the stench of a slaughterhouse rose and the cold sea air blew in through the smashed window and the blood of both bodies pooled into the imitation Persian rugs, I washed my hands in the bath-room sink, grabbed my shoulder bag, packed, and got ready to run again.
The inquiries of the Peruvian police would take days. I didn’t have days. My cover was blown. I was screwed if I stayed in this country. I ran them a story that the two characters from Colombia had come into my room with guns and started asking all sorts of questions about the Japanese ambassador, Hector arrived, pushed one out the window and shot the other while taking a mortal wound himself.
The story would work if they wanted it to work. They had uncovered an assassination plot and a local boy was the hero.
I told them I was registered under the United States Witness Protection Program and now I had to fly the coop on the first flight out. They weren’t down with that at all. But they also didn’t want to mess with the FBI.
A signed statement, a videotaped statement, a fake contact address later, and I was all set to go.
It was too late to get a reservation now, but I didn’t need to beg the airlines. I had a perfectly good ticket on the flight to New York. Bridget’s ticket. And from New York I could go anywhere in the world.