‘So, you want to be translated, huh?’
He asked, with a click-clack of the slide on his H&K pcm 45. The wounded half tattooed man shivered as he heard the snap of a round being chambered.
His round. The last round.
Kneeling in his own blood, on destroyed knees, the Mexican nodded to himself, as though agreeing on fate. Slowly he stared up at Jack with misty eyes, blinking against the desert sun, like buzzard prey. The barrel lowered to greet him.
‘Translate this.’
Darkgingerbread 