Beginning to End.
December of 1992.
I thought it would be easier if I knew everything about him.
Arin was born first. He was always the strongest, always the one ready to jump into the ring and solve any conflict with his sharp mind or his fists – whatever it took. He led his mob of brothers through the tough streets, finding them food, finding them shelter, keeping his drug addicted mother afloat until she died. He always wondered where his father was, but only because he wanted to kill the man for leaving. His brothers all had different fathers, but they were no less his blood. He loved them, protected them, and taught them everything they knew.
He grew up fast and mean, starting to sell drugs for a small-time producer near his village. His sharp mind had him running the joint a few years later. He knew his supplier was small potatoes, so he killed him. His brothers took over production, and, later, distribution. He recruited others, expanded his empire, slipped into the gun trade, into contract kills. He spread like a virus across El Salvador, becoming everything that had gone wrong to create him. He sold drugs to other kid's mothers, recruited other children to run packages for him. He fed the addictions that killed hundreds of people, and those thoughts kept him up at night.
He would lie in bed and wonder if this was what he was meant to do. He was smart enough to know it was wrong, that what he had done ruined lives, but it was all he had ever known. He had no formal education, no way to get out. He had his brothers to think of, especially the youngest, who had been born into relative wealth.
He wanted so badly for them to live better than he ever did.
But the consequences arrived today.
Arin was up at dawn. He liked to get out and go jogging as the sun was rising, so he came upon a break in the trees, way up in the mountains, the moment the sun struck out from behind them. He stood there for over fifteen minutes, soaking up the view, his dark eyes bright for once, his heart soaring. It was the lightest part of his day, maybe of his life.
He went from his jog back home – to a mansion built into the mountainside. His two youngest brothers lived with him, but they were still in bed. He went to the kitchen and carefully prepared a breakfast for himself. He cooked all of his own meals, never trusting anyone else to do it. He never specified if he was worried about being poisoned, or just poor-quality meals. He was an excellent cook. From cold half-eaten bagels in the backs of dumpsters to filet magnon.
He started his day in his office, making calls and sorting out numbers. He had a mind for math. He could have been an engineer, or a mathematician, or anything else, if someone had gotten to him before this all began.
He left the office around ten in the morning, greeted his brothers in the living room – it was their day off today – and headed out to meet his security team by the garage. He never took a day off. He preferred to be busy. So did his security team.
He made his way around his operation, inspecting factories, talking to his brothers, and to other people he had hired and trusted to keep it running. Everything was going well today. Sales were up. Deaths were up. Everything was in order for the big operation to go through. It was nearly time to get their biggest payout to date, just for shipping out some bad drugs. He was leading this organization to the next level, to the peak of his own success.
But he should have been paying more attention.
He missed me sitting outside his house with an infrared scope, watching him prepare for his jog.
He missed me out on the trail, waiting at that picturesque location. He barely survived, because the scene would be too messy, and his guards were too close.
He missed me at three of his factories, watching him hug his brothers, or scold them. He missed me when he looked out the windows at the beautiful jungle, where I was perched in a tree.
He missed me again when he got home, when he dismissed his security detail a little early in good spirits, leaving a tiny gap before their relief showed up.
And there he was.
His red smile, his red carpet, his red clothes.
We had never met, and we never would. It was better that way. I did not need to know him, although I felt that I already did. Arin was now inside of me, ingrained, every little aspect of his life floating around. Was it all true? Were the things I imagined he dreamt of real? Or was I just projecting some humanity into a killer?
I was careful.
I was meticulous.
I arranged the world the way I wanted it to be seen.
Larry had taught me well.
It was them. It was Los Cazadores.
It was not me. It was not Michael Westen.