"Why don't you just shoot me and get it over with?" Frothy spit shot from his mouth, knocking the cigarette onto his lap. The hot cherry embers burned into his crotch. Moss snatched it by the butt and dusted the ash onto the floor. "Why don't you just put that bullet in my head right now?"
"That is not how it works, Mr. Moss. My employer, Mr. Fuentes, believes in clear and objective standards for all his employees. A task is given, a task is completed. No excuses tolerated, not ever. A simple but effective business plan."
"What else can I offer you that you don't already know?"
"Excellent question, Mr. Moss. Now you're getting in the spirit of things."
Getting in the spirit of things? This guy's insane. But he's still human. And human beings have weaknesses. Those weaknesses can and should be exploited. See, you smug son-of-a-bitch, I'm a businessman too? Fuentes isn't the only one who knows how to go to war.
"It is important to my employer, and so it is important to me that I investigate how far we have to go until all loose ends are clipped."
"You killed my attorney! Was he a loose end?"
"Yes, as was your accountant and your security guard."
The room spun. "You killed Teddy?" His accountant, Clarence Park, was a good enough accountant, but Moss held no personal feelings for the father of four. But Teddy had been a childhood friend before Kyle brought him in to work the cush gig of gate guard at his Hermosa Valley estate. Not so cush now. Ever since that Nighthawk woman showed up and ripped a gaping hole in his life.
"By you calling your attorney and bringing him here, you just saved me a day of work. That leaves more time for you and me to get acquainted."
"I've got money." What the hell does a cartel hitman make, anyway? "The bag down by my feet has two-hundred-fifty thousand in it." He watched as The Viper shifted his head and eyed the duffle. Stall. "A quarter million dollars is sitting right there. Take it. All of it. Just leave me enough to get across the border."
The Viper was silent for a moment before responding, "What you see as a last-ditch effort to weasel your way out of another mess, I see as weakness. Even facing certain death, you still lie."
"Lie? There's two-hundred-fifty thousand American dollars in that bag. Why don't you open it and count it yourself if you don't believe me?" The stalling was working. The snake was in the case and the bullet remained in its chamber. Each minute alive fanned his hope of escape. His wife had called him a cockroach the last time he struck her. Maybe he was a cockroach. And just maybe, under these circumstances, being a cockroach was a good thing. Hard to kill a cockroach. He remembered reading roaches could survive a nuclear blast. That's the kind of luck Kyle Moss needed right now.
"You’re a businessman, Mr. Moss, yes?"
"Yes. Yes I am." He sat up a little straighter. Keep him talking. That's where deals were made. And he was a deal maker. Money is the universal language and Moss spoke it fluently.
"And in the business world, what happens when you underestimate your competition?"
"I capitalize on it." Moss replied.
"In your desperate plea to make a monetary trade in exchange for your life, you failed to consider a few very important things. To put it bluntly, you underestimated me."
"I think we're getting our lines crossed here. Not sure what you're getting at or what I'm missing. You said I lied."
"You did. You told me you had a quarter-million dollars for me. But there's three hundred thousand dollars in this motel room."
The color drained from Moss' face. His limbs were once again paralyzed. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Even your voice betrays you. But yet you continue to lie. Were you going to tell me about the other fifty thousand? You offered me two-fifty."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered the lie.
"Confronted with the truth that is quite literally at my feet, soaking up the dead lawyer's blood." The Viper kicked the brown paper bag toward Moss. "Count it if you don't believe me. Isn't that what you said to me?"
"How did you…"
"You weren't directed to come to this motel by accident. Who do you think owns The Sunnyside Motel?"
Moss scanned the room as if the drapes would have a tag that read Owned and Operated by the Fuentes Cartel, knowing full well the meaning of the assassin's comment.
"The Fuentes business model also doesn't rely on trust. It's not reliable. Who am I to say?" He cocked his head, tipping the wide brim of his hat to his shoulder. His facial expression never changed. The slithered tongued of the Viper's voice remained ever steady and had an almost hypnotic quality. "The motel may look cheap, and it is. But the surveillance system is first rate."
"You've been watching me?" Ice ran down Kyle’s spine.
"Knowing that, would it change your offer?"
"I—well—of course." An empty offering. The leverage of advantage was lost. Moss felt the tipping of the scale. His ploy failed. Because he underestimated his adversary. Business 101.
"This is a special room. And it should have special meaning for you. Well, it would if you were a caring, compassionate human being. Which I can clearly see, you are not."
"Who the hell are you to lecture me about compassion when you stand over the dead body of my attorney while pointing a gun at my friggin' head! And that—that case! Are you insane?" Moss was unraveling. Sweat poured from his brow as he ripped a long drag from the cigarette.
"This is the same room your daughter stayed in after you sold her into slavery. The girl you failed to ensure was delivered to us without issue. Instead, you not only failed to deliver what was promised, your incompetence resulted in an additional loss."
"It was that stupid bitch! The Nighthawk woman. She's the one who ruined everything. That's who should be in this room right now sitting across from your damned snake in the box. She's the one you need to be looking for."
"I'm sure steps have already been taken to handle that situation. Regardless, it's of no matter to you." The Viper sidestepped a foot's distance, giving way to the growing pool of blood leaving the gaping exit wound in front of Taylor's forehead.
Moss shot a glance at the gun on the bed. He wasn't a gun guy. Actually he'd only fired it once. The day he bought it, he went to the range and put a box of ammunition through it. Shooting wasn't his thing. Concern crept in. Could I dive the four feet to where it lay before the professional killer got off a shot? Doubtful. Even if I did manage to get to the gun before he fired a shot, what's the chance I can fire a shot before he does? Slim. And the likelihood that shot hits the target I'm aiming for? No chance in hell. Moss could barely hit the paper target at five feet. And he hadn't been diving and rolling like a stunt double in a John Woo film. In his world of financial risk analysis, Moss weighed those principals against the circumstance he now faced. His calculation put his percentile of chance in surviving this encounter at zero. It was the first time Moss had been honest, with himself or anyone else.
The Viper's eyes followed Moss' and the path led him to the gun on the bed. "Survival's a curious thing. People think they are more capable than they are. Most go their whole lives thinking they will fight back if ever confronted with death and never get tested. I am in a unique position, one where I get to witness firsthand the answer to that question. Do you want to know the truth about people in those most dire of moments?"