gunslinger

He sits on the floor in the TV in the study of the neat, modest rented home three blocks from the U.S.-Mexican border. Madden football. Video game. He plays alone, Cowboys versus the Eagles, cell phone on the coffee table to the left. Cowboys lead, 34-17. The cell phone rings. He picks it up. Text message. He reads it, erases it, closes the phone, puts the game on hold, rises, walks to the closet, grabs his jacket and a 9mm Glock, the latter from the top shelf, back. He checks the magazine, then checks his watch. He has 15 minutes. His name is Jorge Leon Ruiz – a.k.a. Spyderbite. He’s 14 and he has his mark. He knows the target. It’s the one he’d suspected. He walks out into the night, now. It’s 72 degrees, with a slight, gusting breeze off the Gulf and a bright, oval moon. He grabs the road bike next to the garage. It’s his ride. This isn’t his first time; it’s his fourth. Fifty grand. Child’s pay. He’ll finish the game some other time. Tonight, he'll head back across the border to lie low for a few days.