The life of an assassin isn’t easy. I’m always on the run After a while, all the hotel rooms look alike—ground floor, cheerless modern.
When my latest assignment came in an encrypted email message, I slumped down in the chair. Ricardo Perez, the Mexican gang lord, had resurfaced in Cancun.
I was sad to see that he still existed. We’d crossed paths before. Why didn’t he stay dead?
Someone knocked at the door, and I closed the laptop. “Who is it?”
“Room service.” The accent was Spanish.
“Adios, amigo.” I grabbed my gun and jumped out the window.
I hope you’ll read what the other’s wrote with this prompt: https://www.facebook.com/WonHundredWords/photos/a.1697701293793386.1073741827.1697271893836326/1998507307046115/?type=3&theater