The Cuban Crisis

"Whilst I'm sure I don't need to reiterate the lack of foresight shown in your willingness to bring Lance-Corporal Niebla into your affairs, Agent Carter, I feel almost obligated to."

"Marines are as tough as they get. I knew he could handle it."

"And yet a part of you also knew that, sooner or later, Lance-Corporal Niebla would find himself in harm's way because of your actions."

"...I had to keep the girl safe. I did my mission. I have no regrets."

"What happened to Niebla-"

"I have no regrets, sir."

"Agent Carter, I've interviewed more people in your line of work than you've heard of. I know how to spot regret in a man's eyes."

"Give me back my shades."

"Agent Carter."

"Give. Me. Back. My. Shades. Please."

"Very well, then. Here they are."

"Thank you. Can I ask you a question, sir?"

"Go ahead."

"What do you see now?"

"...Lance-Corporal Niebla very generously provided accommodation for you on the condition that you fully explained your situation to him. Did you or did you not disclose information about your mission parameters to a third party?"

"I did not disclose information about my mission parameters to a third party."

"Then how, exactly, did you earn Niebla's trust, Agent Carter?"

"..."

"Agent Carter, do not make me repeat my question."

"I looked him in the eye, and I lied. He bought it. You ask me if I have any regrets? I regret that."

"And are there any other regrets you'd like to share at this time, Agent Carter?"

"There are no further regrets that I'd like to share at this time."

"Good. Continue."

"Jay...Lance-Corporal Niebla, I mean, took me and Iris back to his house. First decent night's sleep I had since I arrived in Venezuela. Maybe even before. It was good to just be able to relax for a while. Wasn't too long before it all went to shit again."

Nate Carter very rarely remembered his dreams. Regardless of their content, their tone or their ties to reality, they always just managed to slip from his grasp the moment he opened his eyes. Indeed, the most he ever remembered from any given dream was the reaction each one elicited and, nine times out of ten, the reaction was anything but a pleasant one. However, there was one often recurring dream that Nate always remembered and it was definitely more akin to a nightmare.

In this nightmare, Nate would find himself completely alone in an empty black void, a chilling sensation creeping into his bones and sparking a chain reaction of fear and self-loathing. After spending what seemed like an eternity in this void, an almost blinding light would flare into existence above Nate's head, prompting him to desperately reach for it. No matter how much he strained and struggled, however, the light grew dimmer and dimmer as he was pulled bodily into the darkness below, a drowning sensation overwhelming his senses. Eventually, he would give up hope. Apologise for his own weakness. Close his eyes and submit to his fate. Then he would open them and find himself grounded in waking reality again, his body drenched in a cold sweat and his eyes fighting back tears. He'd put his experience aside and busy himself with some task such as making breakfast or doing some exercise and, eventually, he would succeed in pushing it to the back of his mind, but in the waking hours when he'd lie in his bed waiting for sleep to take him, his mind always returned to the unending nightmare which would likely claim him once he closed his eyes. And it was in these few moments that Nate Carter, conditioned to stand unflinching against man, beast and god alike, knew true fear.

His eyes jumping open, Nate sat bolt upright as he emerged from beneath the covers of Javier's sofa-bed, his trained eyes darting around the room in search of the phantom that haunted his subconscious thoughts. Taking more time than he cared to admit seeking out what wasn't there, Nate exhaled and ran a hand down his face, taking a second to gather his bearings before hoisting himself off of the bed.

Making his way towards the kitchen area in search of food, Nate's mind wandered away from his nightmare and refocused on Iris. She was the mission and, therefore, she was all that mattered. That much was obvious. What continued to elude him, however, was the nature of the circumstances surrounding the young girl. For some reason, she had been kidnapped by a group of international terrorists with the intention of selling her to the highest bidder as a weapon. The questions of just how the girl could be utilised as a weapon and how she came to be one, however, stood unanswered at the forefront of Nate's thoughts and, with a period of potential downtime now stretched before him, now seemed a better time than ever to get his answers.

Retrieving a box of cereal and a bottle of milk from the pantry and fridge respectively, Nate poured himself a cold bowl of some off-brand corn-based cereal and quickly began to devour it, already turning his attention to the next task. A solitary fly flew around in his peripheral vision, sampling the fruit Javier had on display.

"You know, it tastes better when you heat the milk up." Javier quipped from behind, standing in the doorway leading to his bedroom.

"Yep." Nate replied, finishing the slapdash meal and placing the empty bowl in the sink. "I reckon it does."

"Enough of the cutesy shit, Nate." Javier said, making his way towards the fridge and withdrawing a carton of orange juice from its confines. "You told me I'd have answers when we were safe. Something tells me this is as safe as you're going to get."

"Wow." Nate said, flicking through yesterday's newspaper. "Where was this initiative back in Afghanistan?"

Pouring his glass of OJ and placing the carton back in the fridge, Javier slammed the door shut, forcefully, turning to Nate with a grim expression. "Enough, Nate. Either I get the 4-1-1 or I call the cops."

Taking on his own sombre expression, Nate rose from his seat and narrowed his eyes at his friend. "Do you really think the cops'll be able to touch me, Jay?"

Meeting Nate's glare, Javier stood tall and tensed his hand on the kitchen counter. "Answers, Nate. Or I'll take you down myself. Cops not included."

Their eyes locked in adversarial tension, the two men stared each other down with fiery intensity for a few seconds before bursting into spontaneous laughter, Nate wrapping an arm around Javier's neck. "Always were a ballsy son of a bitch, Jay." He chuckled. "Take a seat. You'll get your answers."

His own laughter subsiding, Javier took a seat opposite Nate and sipped from his glass. "Nate, before we go any further, I need to know what's up. Who's after you?"

Nate hesitated for a moment. The fly flew through the kitchen with a high-pitched buzzing noise. "Bad people, Jay. Criminals. Terrorists. They want the girl."

"The girl?" Jay echoed, raising an eyebrow. "Why do they want the girl?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out." Nate continued with a heavy sigh. "I need to get the girl out of the country, Jay. Back home. As long as she's here, she's in danger."

"So the feds sent you here to rescue a little girl from a bunch of terrorists?" Javier asked, leaning back in his chair with a sceptical look on his face. "Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me the whole story, here?"

"Because I'm not, Jay." Nate said, through gritted teeth. "Drop it."

Tensing for a moment as if preparing to snap back, Javier relented and raised his hands, defensively. "Okay. I get it. The whole secrets and lies thing. You're a spy, after all."

"Hrmph. 'Spy'. I hate that word." Nate said, pushing the crumpled newspaper aside. "Any other questions you wanna throw at me?"

"Just one, Nate." Javier responded, joining his hands into a ball. "When are you gonna stop lying to the girl?"

"What?" Nate said, taken aback. The fly briefly ceased buzzing around the room and rested on the counter beside Nate.

"I ain't stupid, Nate." Javier continued, finishing his drink. "The girl thinks you're her white knight coming to whisk her to safety. We both know that's not true. I don't know what's happening here, but I know that girl's life wasn't sunshine and lollipops back in the States and I know it won't be any better if you take her back."

"That's not-" Nate started, avoiding eye contact.

"Have you seen her scars, Nate?" Javier interjected, his tone serious.

Nate stopped, his eyes widening. "Scars?"

Just then, as if summoned by the conversation, a still drowsy Iris walked into the room in one of Javier's oversized t-shirts. Almost gasping in surprise, Nate peered down at her exposed legs. A series of uniform scars resembling markings made by surgeons to indicate specific points of incision, covered the young girl's lower leg and spanned what Nate could only assume was the length from her neck to her feet. Balling his hand into an angry fist, Nate bit his tongue on the issue before speaking up.

"Sleep well, kid?" He said, a trace of anger in his tone.

Iris simply nodded in return. "I'm hungry." She said, quickly turning the topic to her empty stomach.

"I'll fix you up some pancakes." Javier said, standing from his seat. "Nate, we'll talk later."

"Looking forward to it." Nate replied with a sigh, instinctively swatting the fly resting on the counter and eliciting a frown from Iris. "What?"

"Why did you do that?" Iris asked aggressively, moving closer to get a closer look at the flattened insect. "It wasn't going to hurt you."

"Huh?" Nate said, surprised by the sudden show of passion. "Well, no, I guess not, but..."

"Why did you do that, then?" She repeated, touching the splattered insect with a probing finger.

"Okay, look," Nate cut in, massaging the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry about the fly. I just...No, no excuses. I'm sorry."

"So, that's emasculating." Javier added, smirking.

"It's okay, Nate." Iris said, warmly. "It was only an accident, I guess."

"Thanks for hooking us up, Jay." Nate said, ignoring both their sentiments and moving to refold the sofa-bed. "We'll go just as soon as I get some more supplies and a new plan. Ever been to a supermarket, Iris?"

"Uh..." Iris started, thinking back on the question. "Nope."

Standing upright after completing his task, Nate returned to the kitchen area. "Then this'll be fun. I'll get you something."

"You guys need to borrow my car, there's a supermarket five minutes from here." Javier said, tossing Nate his car keys. "Just make sure you don't get it totalled in a high-speed chase or anything, bro."

"Me? Come on, Jay," Nate said, wryly. "I'm an angel. Get dressed in something, Iris. We've gotta hit the town."

Glowing with excitement, Iris nodded to Nate and went back to her guest room.

"When are you gonna tell her, Nate?" Javier remarked, the frivolity leaving his face just as readily as Iris had left the room.

For a moment, Nate simply stared out of the nearby window. When he turned his gaze back to Javier, his face was blank and expressionless. "...I'll fill your ride up on the way back, Jay." He replied, briskly walking towards the bathroom as Javier shook his head in disapproval.

The swatted fly let loose a high-pitched whine as it flew from the counter and nestled on a ripe fruit.

Well-maintained rubber tyres left a distinct trail in the dusty terrain as a non-descript black sedan made its way towards Santigo's hillside villa. Within its confines, a large Latino man sat waiting for the slightly undersized vehicle to reach its destination, his eyes hidden behind pitch-black shades and his hulking form covered in an ill-fitting suit which made him look like a trained bear more than anything else. Beside him, one of Santigo's men stared out of the other window, surreptitiously stealing searching glances at the monster of a man beside him. Beyond the obvious features, though, there was little about the man's less superficial qualities that even a trained eye could uncover. And that was perhaps why he came so highly recommended as a contract killer.

The Cuban was an enigma, a man with no identity, morals or will of his own. No one truly knew what it was he did with the money he earned from his various jobs for a multitude of different clients, but what everyone who ever had the opportunity to work with him did know was that he was as effective as he was reserved. Soft-spoken and willing to follow his client's word to the very letter, the Cuban existed almost as an extension of his employer's own will and desires. When working for the Russian Mafia, he was cunning, fierce and efficient. When working for the Yakuza, he was respectful and driven. And now, in Cannibal Santigo's employ, one could only wonder which characteristics he would willingly adapt to do his job with as much ease as possible.

The sedan pulled onto the villa's grounds as the electronic gate shifted aside to accommodate its arrival, the whirring of machinery breaking the blanket of silence hanging over the two men.

"Thank you for taking the job, Mr. Cuban." The smaller man said, somewhat hesitantly. "<Do you speak Spanish?>"

The Cuban peered at the man from behind his shades, seemingly deciding whether or not it was worth engaging in a conversation with him before answering. "<Yes.>"

"<You've got a reputation, sir.>" The man continued, slightly more confident than he was before. "<It speaks much for you.>"

"<Good.>" The Cuban responded, disdainfully. "<Then there is little reason in continuing this talk.>"

The car pulled to a stop with delicate ease as the driver shifted gears and turned off the engine. Gathering his large briefcase from beside him, the Cuban pushed the door of the sedan open and stepped into the sunlight, quickly followed by Santigo's man. With the driver opting to stay in the vehicle for the time being, the two passengers strode towards the villa's front door and pushed it open. Immediately greeted by the shrill laughter of loose women enjoying themselves and the din of festivity constantly emanating from the residence, they made a beeline for the stairway and ascended to the upper floor, leaving those of Santigo's forces less burdened by responsibility to their fun and games.

"<He prefers it when you call him 'Cannibal'.>" The man announced as he and the Cuban approached the door to his leader's office. "<He's expecting you, so just walk in.>"

"<You won't be joining us?>" The Cuban asked, hopefully.

"<In this organisation, it is believed that it is best to come face-to-face with our employer as little as possible.>" The man replied, making his way back towards the stairs. "<Superstition, yes, but superstition bred from common sense.>"

After briefly processing this new information, the Cuban rapped a knuckle on the ostentatious door and waited for an answer from the man on the other side of it. After a moment of silence, the response that came was curt and authoritative, as if it came from the mouth of a monarch readying himself for a meeting with his subjects.

"Come in." The disembodied voice of Cannibal Santigo said, prompting the Cuban to enter as quickly as possible.

Within his office, Santigo sat at a large wooden desk, undoubtedly crafted by the finest carpenter his pilfered riches could buy. As the Cuban briskly walked towards the desk, Santigo reached to his left to retrieve what appeared to be half a human skull with the top of its cranium removed. On closer inspection, the Cuban noticed, the skull had been fashioned by delicate hands into a chalice, now filled to the brim with red wine as Santigo gently rose it to his lips. Santigo smirked as he noticed the Cuban's wandering eyes and placed the chalice before him with a warm smile.

"Do you like it?" He asked, genuinely curious. "Some find it to be a bit more macabre than they're used to. I've always found it to be quite tasteful, actually."

The Cuban didn't answer.

"You've worked for me many times during my illustrious career as a monster." Santigo continued, raising the chalice to his lips once more. "Not once have we ever had a conversation at length. Now, I just don't think that's proper. Do you?"

"What do you want to discuss?" The Cuban replied, somewhat reluctantly.

"Well, now you've put me on the spot." Santigo chuckled, placing the chalice back on the desk, gesturing to it. "Mmm. Shall we discuss this?"

"You're the client." The Cuban stated, impassively.

"This skull, my friend, belongs to the first man I killed with my own hands." Santigo started, resting his hands on the desk. "The man's identity is not important. He was simply an initiation kill. A means to an end, yes? He was prey. But, what has remained very important to me over the years is the manner in which I took this man's life. You have taken a lot of lives in your time, have you not?"

The Cuban simply nodded his response.

"Then you know that there are many ways to kill a man with your own hands." Santigo continued, eyeing the Cuban intensely before raising his muscled hands in demonstration. "And you must also know that no other method compares to literally killing a man with your own hands. There's an indescribable thrill to feeling the life drain from a man as you take his life with your hands clasped around his throat or his head. The adrenaline rush is incomparable, would you not agree?"

"I have never really noticed." The Cuban said, matter-of-factly

Santigo sank back into his chair, apparently disappointed with the man's response. "Yes, well, I suppose not. We are both predators, my friend, but we are very opposite ends of the spectrum. And yet, we both understand survival and, as such, we have both adapted to survive. You have shut out your emotions to better cope with the nature of your work. I have embraced it passionately, for to me it is simply not just work. I admit to feeling a sense of camaraderie with you."

Standing from his desk, Santigo lifted the chalice from the desk again, this time holding it up to better display it. The chalice was chipped and slightly cracked from frequent use and heavy maintenance. The sheen reflecting off of its surface indicated that it was often polished and cleaned by those who took care not to further damage it. It was clear the chalice was one of Santigo's prized possessions if only because of his apparent readiness to discuss it.

"Now, back to the skull. Over the years, there have been many cultures which have engaged in cannibalism as a ritual practice." He said, smirking at his uninterested guest. "It is quite funny what people will attach spiritualism to, no? Of course, there are instances where certain individuals have engaged in cannibalism out of desperation or mental illness. There are also examples of widespread cannibalism in times of madness and distress. However, it has always been spiritual and religious cannibalism which has most fascinated me."

Chalice in hand, Santigo made his way over to one of the many bookcases lining the walls of his office, scanning through it searchingly before retrieving a leather-bound tome from its collection. Setting it down on the desk before the Cuban, he continued to pace around the room as the man pushed the book open.

"Have you ever heard of the Aghoris?" Santigo asked, rhetorically. "They are a splinter sect of traditional Hinduism. Now, Hinduism in itself has never held my interest. Too karmic. The Aghoris, however, typically believe that the consumption of human flesh has a range of spiritual and physical benefits."

Finishing the wine within the chalice and liking his upper lip to savour it, Santigo snatched the bottle of red wine from his desk and began pouring himself a second glass. "They believe that regularly consuming human flesh or drinking from human skulls can slow the aging process, cure illness and grant extraordinary physical abilities. To them, a corpse is little more than natural matter devoid of the life it once contained. It's a fascinating mixture of religion and pseudo-science I've grown quite fond of."

"You are a cannibal, then?" The Cuban eventually inquired, looking up from the book.

Santigo gave a barking laugh at this, the question amusing him to no end as he placed the bottle of wine back on his desk. "No, no. God, no. I simply appreciate the sentiment behind their beliefs." With another wry laugh, he returned the book to its shelf and sat back down. "Nothing goes to waste. Nothing is taboo. The dead, urine, faeces, for heaven's sake! Nothing is off-limits so long as it ensures the survival of their culture. It is the very pinnacle of survival. While I may not approve of some of their doctrine, I respect all of it. They are unrestrained by social normalities. They are free. And so, to express my love for their people, I have mimicked their techniques. That is the story behind this skull." Leaning forward expectantly, Santigo flashed another smile at the Cuban. "What do you think?"

"I do not get paid to offer my opinion." The Cuban said, simply. "I do not have one."

His smile fading and taking his enthusiasm with it, Santigo nodded his understanding and leaned back in his chair. "Right. I suppose I did get carried away. Onto the matter at hand, then."

Pulling a draw free from his desk and reaching into it, Santigo retrieved a small file from its depths and presented it to the Cuban, the burly man picking it up and flicking through it.

"Your target, though currently unidentified, is reported to be an African-American male, which means he is working with the Americans." Santigo elaborated, taking another sip from his chalice. "What he has so rudely stolen from me is a young white girl. Black hair, short-cropped, roughly eleven. She will be brought back alive and uninjured."

"And the American?" The Cuban asked, already knowing the answer.

"Kill him." Santigo said, bluntly. "Kill him and anyone who stands between you and that girl. She is priceless to me. Retrieve her and you will be paid the standard fee, plus a sixty percent increase factoring in the value of the package and the high-risk target."

Looking up from the file with cold eyes, the Cuban jumped straight to the next question. "Where are they?"

"They are thought to be somewhere in Libertador, just outside of the barrios." Santigo answered. "Their last known location was at a local motel. He was shot. Injured. Check local hospitals and ask around for any suspicious activity. If you find a blue pick-up truck, it may be his."

"I will do this." The Cuban said, with a nod, grabbing his briefcase and standing with a nod.

"You may also want to find a change of clothes." Santigo added. "This is Venezuela, friend."

The Cuban nodded once more, turning to leave. As he exited the large office and closed the door behind him, Santigo reached for his chalice and turned it towards him, staring into its empty eye sockets. "Bring me the American's skull." He shouted after the Cuban, still staring at the dead thing on his desk. "I'll double your pay."

Nate popped an aspirin in his mouth and washed it down with bottled water in an attempt to soothe the headache that had been plaguing him since leaving Javier's house. The supermarket itself did nothing to help his condition. It was a warm Summer's and the biggest supermarket in the area was populated by busy mother's catching up on their grocery shopping, schoolchildren seeking refreshments after a long day at school and staff rushing back and forth to keep the entire operation afloat.

Iris walked beside Nate as he pushed a rickety shopping cart through the stuffy aisles of the store, watching as he occasionally stopped by some product that caught his eye, pushing it into the cart before continuing his slow-paced journey. Frowning, Iris looked at the contents of the cart. When Nate had introduced her to his idea of shopping for supplies at the local supermarket, her mind instantly flew to visions of shopping carts full of candy, ice cream and pretty dresses. The reality of the situation, however, was much less satisfying. Nate's cart contained a range of supplies. Several bags of trail mix and pretzels, a few cans of baked beans, some tins of sardines, a stack of energy bars, a collection of bottled water, a handful of prepaid phones, assorted fruit, a six-pack of beer, a lot of coffee, three dozen eggs, a hot plate, a portable coffee maker and two large duffel bags. It did not, however, contain any noticeable candy or ice cream.

It must've been some sort of mistake. Nate, a grown man with a good head on his shoulders, must've known about the nutritional value of candy and ice cream. Had he not been informed of their importance? Had he suffered some sort of heavy brain damage? Her frown intensifying, Iris reached out to tug on Nate's shirt, quickly grabbing his attention.

"What's up, Iris?" He asked.

"Maybe we should get some candy." Iris suggested, thinking the logic behind such an action to be obvious.

"Sorry, cupcake." Nate answered with a sympathetic frown. "Candy's not on the list."

"Can we get ice cream, then?" Iris tried. Surely ice cream was on the list, or it would be no list at all.

"Nope." Nate said, reaching to grab a few pots of instant noodles and subsequently throwing them into the cart. "That should do it for food and water. We need some medical supplies next. After that, we'll grab some clothes and get outta here."

"Could I trade my clothes for ice cream?" Iris asked, not willing to let the ice cream issue fade away.

"Look, Iris, I'm going to be as straight as I can be with you." Nate responded, his voice taking on a firmer tone. "You and I are in a lot of trouble right now, alright? We have some bad men coming after us and they won't stop until we either get you back home or they take you from me. Now, I'm not gonna let that last one happen, but if I'm gonna make sure it doesn't, I'm gonna need supplies that'll actually keep us going, okay?"

Iris nodded her affirmation, her head lulling dejectedly. Grimacing at her change in body language, Nate quickly looked over to a nearby shelf, scanning for a means of lifting her spirits. His eyes finally settling on a purple hairclip with a little plastic flower attached to it, Nate made sure Iris' attention was elsewhere before sneaking it into the cart.

Pushing aside her disappointment with a sigh, Iris peered back up at Nate. "Where are we going to go next?"

Halfway through throwing a bundle of t-shirts into his shopping cart, Nate paused for a moment to consider his answer. "Somewhere safe. Somewhere I can figure out our next move." Pushing his cart through the girls' clothing section, Nate gestured at a rack of small shirts. "Pink or yellow?"

"Purple." Iris answered, snatching a purple shirt from a nearby rack and throwing it into the cart and smiling up at her guardian.

"Good pick." Nate said, smiling back at her.

Stopping beside a revolving display of cheap sunglasses, Nate reached for a pair of thin-rimmed shades, sliding them onto his face and turning to face Iris.

"What do you think?" He asked, peeking over the rim of his shades to see her.

"Good pick." She replied, approvingly.

It paid to be methodical in the Cuban's line of work. In fact, one would be hard-pressed to find a single hitman, enforcer or mercenary who didn't agree that the only way to be even remotely successful in any of those fields is to be precise, quick-witted and methodical. The Cuban was all three and there wasn't a day of his life that he didn't prove his effectiveness because of those qualities.

There was probably a time where the Cuban had been inexperienced or reckless. He was undoubtedly a man who had stared into the bleak face of failure and pulled himself free of its clammy grasp. At a glance, one could conjure up a host of legends and myths detailing the events which had transformed him into the cold, remorseless killer he was today. They could entertain themselves with absurd notions revolving around intense shootouts and lost love, a few of them may even stumble upon some semblance of truth amidst the melodramatic excerpts lifted from a realm of rough-and-tumble killers and suave desperados seeking their fortune in the unforgiving world of crime. Only the Cuban truly knew the mysteries of his past, though, and one look at his stoic expression informed the wonderers and daydreamers that their curiosity would beget nothing.

To the Cuban, the past meant very little. To him, the past was merely something to lock away within the dark corridors of his mind. Occasionally, he would revisit memories. In his dreams, he would vividly relive his most glorious feats of conquest or his most crushing failures and would wake driven by the intangible subconscious wisp slowly drifting from his mind. For the most part, however, the Cuban trained his waking thoughts on the present. His clients could spend their days planning their future endeavours and ensuring their continued prosperity. His victims would reflect on their past experiences as they lay unmoving in a pool of their own blood. The Cuban was a professional by name and a killer by nature. A killer's thoughts resided in the present, where the weight of their past decisions and the future consequences of their actions could not follow them.

The black sedan came to a halt outside of the local hospital and the Cuban, now dressed in more civilian clothing, emerged from within. His sights locked onto the hospital's entrance, he leisurely walked towards it and stepped through its threshold, eyes sweeping the room for his first target. Spotting a portly, old nurse attending to a patient's charts, the Cuban distorted his once emotionless face into a friendlier one, approaching her with a throat clearing cough.

"<Excuse me, miss?>" He said, as non-threateningly as a man of his stature could. "<But I'm looking for a friend who checked in here. Black, American, male. Do you know where he is?>"

The nurse raised an eyebrow. "<Well, I'm sorry,>" She said with just a hint of suspicion in her tone. "<We haven't had an American patient here since last month. These are the barrios, after all.>"

The Cuban pretended to be disappointed. "I see. Thank you."

As the nurse walked away, looking over her back to eye the strange man, a greying doctor with a distinct air of authority walked out of the chief of medicine's office, his face flushed with anger. Instantly zoning in on one of the passing nurses, he grabbed her arm and pulled her aside, scolding her about something. Curious, the Cuban drifted towards a nearby vending machine, eavesdropping on the conversation.

"<No idea, sir!>" The nurse said, clearly flustered by the sudden inquisition. "<It wasn't me, and I know it wasn't Gloria.>"

"<Then find out who did do it, before I fire the lot of you.>" The doctor snapped, spittle flying from his furious mouth. "<Do you people think you can just sneak a patient into my hospital for a free operation and get away with it? Is Dr. Niebla behind this again?>"

The nurse shrugged, nervously, her words failing her.

"<This is a hospital, not a charity!>" He barked. "If Niebla smuggled another 'poor soul' into this place again, he won't hear the end of it! I'm not playing around!>"

The nurse nodded as she shrank into her chart. "<Yes, sir. I'll let the nurses know, sir.>" With that, she hurried away, head ducked low to avoid making eye-contact with anyone hoping to badger her some more. Still red with anger, the chief of medicine returned to his office, forcefully slamming the door behind him. Turning his gaze away from the vending machine, the Cuban checked to ensure that the nearby hospital staff were preoccupied before marching towards the office and letting himself in. His face cold and inexpressive once more, the Cuban stared the chief of medicine down as the man looked up from his paperwork.

"<Who the hell are you?>" He asked, alarmed by his sudden presence. "<Who let you in here?>

The Cuban's response was to pull a suppressed Taurus PT92 from within his coat, pointing it at the surprised man's forehead. "<If you scream, I kill you and everyone in this hospital.>"

Raising his trembling hands above his head, the chief fought the urge to break down in fear and managed to squeak out a quivering question. "<Wh-What do you want? Do you want drugs? I can get you them, just->"

"<Cancel your appointments.>" The Cuban interrupted, glancing at the phone on the chief's desk. "<Inform them that you are not to be disturbed.>"

The chief swallowed hard, reaching for his phone and dialling in an extension. "<Esmeralda? Cancel my appointments. I'm not to be disturbed.>" Hanging up the phone, he turned his attention back to the man holding him at gunpoint. "<Look, I did it, okay? J-just take what you need and->"

"<What do you know about the patient the nurses brought in?>" The Cuban asked, forcefully.

"<W-What? I-Is that what you want?>" The chief asked, his voice cracking. "<O-Okay, yes, I picked him up on last night's security feed this morning. The nurses and one of the surgeons brought him to an empty floor and operated on him and...Please, just don't->"

The Cuban removed the gun's safety with a threatening click, prompting the chief to recoil into his chair with a yelp. "<Who was the surgeon? Niebla?>"

"<Yes! Yes, I think so!>" The chief cried, defensively. "<He's done this before! W-With the homeless and the- Look, do you want to kill him? That's fine! Kill him, and just->"

"<Tell me where he lives.>" The Cuban demanded. "<So that I may shoot you.>"

The chief, now on the verge of tears, fell to his knees and began sobbing. "<Wait! P-Please...I gave you what you wanted! Don't do it! Please, no!>"

"<You repulse me.>" The Cuban stated. "<And you have seen my face. Seen my nature. Tell me where he lives, and I will leave your family alone.>"

With that, he pointed his gun at a photo frame resting on the desk, its photo depicting the chief of medicine with his arms wrapped around a young teenaged girl and an older woman planting a kiss on his cheek. Following his gaze, the chief broke down into uncontrollable sobbing. "<Oh, god...>" He croaked, dry-heaving with fear. "<Oh god, help me. Why, god? Why? Please, please, please..."

As the broken man vomited onto his carpet, uncontrollable sobs wracking his body, the Cuban simply watched with uncaring eyes. He had seen a thousand men break down at his feet begging for their lives, retching and convulsing in panic, hammering their fists on the floor like petulant children. To him, this was simply another job. In a few moments, the man heaving before him would be a corpse and would fade into the past with the rest of them. The Cuban, however, would live on. He would cast his memories of another kill aside and turn his sights to the present once more. The Cuban was a killer. A killer's thoughts resided in the present. "<Compose yourself.>" He said, his tone as even as ever. "<Do not worry. I'll wait.>"

The sun was already in the process of setting over Venezuela by the time Nate and Iris made their return trip to Javier's house, their supplies resting in the back seat of their temporary host's car as they bumped along the uneven road. Iris happily enjoyed a small ice cream cone she had managed to eventually persuade the exasperated Nate to buy whilst Nate himself kept his eyes on the road and his thoughts on their predicament, his empty gaze hidden behind his newly purchased shades.

Although he had seen few other options at the time, the necessity of the situation did nothing to ease Nate's regrets about involving Javier in his mess. His mind briefly flitted to their time in Afghanistan, where Nate had made a habit out of saving the inexperienced Javier's life. A smile traced Nate's lips as he recalled his own lack of experience as a leader during the first month of his tour. Javier, empathising due to his own doubts, was quick to befriend him and even quicker to defend him. In all essentiality, Javier was the only person who had kept Nate persevering. And now, he was caught up in a conflict that even Nate couldn't fully wrap his head around. Some friend he was.

Nate leaned back in his seat and let loose a tired sigh, drawing Iris' focus from what was left of her ice cream. Flashing her a reassuring smile to ease her concerns, he turned back to the setting sun up ahead and found himself thinking of better times and sunnier shores. Since arriving in Venezuela, Nate had been shot at by a seemingly endless stream of faceless goons and henchmen who wanted nothing more than to bury him six feet under. He had killed men who hadn't even seen him coming. He had fired his Glock so many times he had lost count. So, with the future uncertain and the present uncomforting, Nate tried his luck with the past. He recalled his drinks with friends and harmless bar fights, his romances and frenzied romps, and he let himself smile, not just for his own sake, but for Iris'. To Nate, one of the most important aspects of being a protector of man - be it as a soldier or as a superhero - was to give those around him the hope and confidence needed to believe in him. In turn, he drew his confidence from them, fuelling their perceptions of his own capability through showy boasts and wisecracks. Of course, there were those who saw through his act, those who knew his arrogance was simply a veil to be draped over himself when things looked bleak; who saw through him and played along with his elaborate pantomime regardless. They were the ones worth cherishing, Nate thought, as the car stopped outside of Javier's house.

"What do you say we get Jay to help us out with these bags, huh?" Nate said with a cheeky smirk, getting out and hoisting their shopping bags out of the back seat. "He could use the exercise."

Iris giggled softly at his suggestion, stepping out of the truck with a hop and a skip. "You're the one who was whining about how heavy the cart was!"

"Well," Nate said, following his pint-sized companion to the front door and retrieving the keys from his pocket. "Excuse me for getting shot."

"Awwww." Iris responded, mockingly, holding the remnants of her ice cream cone up at Nate. "Want some ice cream?"

Turning the keys in the door with a soft clink, Nate pushed his way into the house. "Honey, we're home!"

Nate froze, his shopping falling to the floor and the keys quickly following. Before him, a bloodied and savagely beaten Javier say duct taped to a chair, his head drooping lazily as blood dripped from his broken nose and swollen lip, landing on his broken legs. At his side, a large man in a weather-beaten jacket splattered with his friend's blood casually pointed a handgun at Javier's temple, peering at Nate with cold, analytical eyes.

"Hello, darling." The Cuban said, almost humourlessly. "I have had the busiest day."