"Here they are." Clera left a stack of papers on Diana's desk. "The target profiles and a floorplan of the Plaza."
Diana took and sifted through them. Satisfied, she gave the slightest nod. "Thank you."
"If that's all, I'll be going. There's been a lot of contracts coming my way from the Middle East, and I've been knocking them out like no tomorrow."
Clera had only touched the doorknob when Diana spoke. "Actually, would you mind staying for a bit?"
Hesitantly, she let go of the knob. A biting chill set on her nerves. "Sure. Did you want to talk about something...?"
Some of her anxiety melted away at Diana's smile. "I'm aware we haven't been speaking as much. I have a habit of zoning in too much on my work, I realize, and I'm sorry. I hope we're still friends."
"Of course!" Clera nodded energetically. "You don't need to apologize. I know you get a lot more work than I do. That comes with being the best."
Diana planted the papers on her desk with a surprising amount of force that made Clera flinch. "Then, as friends, when were you planning on telling me about this experimental chip you had inserted into 47's brain?"
Clera froze. Her mouth ajar, only dry croaks of the word "I" escaped.
"I wasn't informed about an experimental program. More or less that Agent 47 was part of it—especially after the fact that he already took part!"
"It wasn't my call," she finally responded, much less chipper than moments ago. "Myung gave the order—I just passed it along."
"And you didn't think to tell me?"
Clera winced. One little thing, and she was being talked down for it. Clenching her fingers, she took a breath. "Why are you so cross? It was 47's choice."
Diana scoffed. "I don't buy that. You know as well as I do what procedure dictates. It's chain of command—what goes to the agent must go through the handler, first." Diana sat calm and composed, keeping her hands in her lap. "As it is, I don't know any other handler in the Agency who would be willing to bypass that. Not with me."
Clera curled up on her seat, fingers writhing. "I don't like what you're getting at..."
"And what do you think I'm getting at?"
Clera looked at the ground.
"Ever since you covered for me in the Sidjan killings, you've looked at me in a different light." The air grew tighter for her peer. "Where you would ask me how my work is coming along, you started asking how 47 is doing. I've seen the way you interact with our co-workers; you've become easy to irritate. When you—"
"Not everyone is perfect like you, Diana!" Clera jumped from her seat, covering the ground between them in an instant, even stunning Diana. "Any normal person would see their agent die again, and again, and again! Not everyone gets to have an Agent 47! You have no idea what it's like to always play behind someone's shadow! I have to put up with everybody talking down to me like I'm some kickable puppy. In the few seconds I held your earpiece, I was more significant than in the past 30 years of my life..."
The room fell silent, save for the ever-running air conditioner and Clera's heavy breathing. It was Diana who broke the pattern. "I know. I know that I'm more 'fortunate' than many others. I also know what it's like to see forces beyond my power ruin my life."
The breathing slowed.
"I may not understand the type of person you see me as, but you cannot let others dictate your life, indirectly or not. Had I let myself be driven by revenge on others before the Agency found me, I'd likely be dead and stuffed in a barrel courtesy of Blue Seed."
It was only the air conditioner, now. In a low cadence, Clera said, "Now even you like talking down to me."
A knock at the door. The guest poked her head in, eyes settling on Clera. "The board meeting is over," Myung said. "I need you to write the summary."
Without a moment's hesitation, she stormed out, walking around the board member and disappearing into the hall.
Diana set the papers at her desk the way she liked, trying to fall into work mode and push aside the ordeal. "Director Myung," she greeted, not even glancing at her.
"Diana." Rather than leave as she expected, Myung entered the office and sat where Clera once was.
Diana huffed, turning her chair to face the smiling old lady. "Is there something you wish to talk about? An apology or an explanation, perhaps?"
Myung furrowed her brows but soon realized she was talking about the chip. "You know, Diana, nobody in the Agency has ever spoken to me like you have."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
She held in a laugh at Diana's masked frustration. "I'll leave you to your duties. I see your agent is already on site."
Diana spun to her monitor where 47's tracker was indeed in the plaza. She sighed as Myung took her leave. Back to work.
"Ándale! Come on, La Parca!" Santiago, adorned in blinding sequins and threads of gold, cried. "I know you want me!" A cape of vibrant pink and yellow hung from his two hands. Under the burning sun and to the hollering whistles and cheers from the stadium, the matador stood sideways to his nemesis.
The hulking bull charged, kicking up dust. Santiago turned on the spot away from its direction, making the cape wrap around his waist. A stroke of wind brushed him as the bull raged past.
"Olé!"
La Parca slowed, and another's shout drew its attention. The horse-riding picador waved his arms at the animal; it didn't need much else to charge.
As it rammed the horse padded with armor, the picador drove his lance into the bull's neck, specifically its shoulder muscles. He kept his horse on its feet, directing it in a leftwards circular movement while making distance with his spear. When La Parca turned away, the crowd roared, for his third and final jab ended with success.
Santiago shouted, making it double back to him while the last picador left the ring. He held the cape from behind, leaving most of it on the right side. As the bull passed, Santiago half-turned toward the opposite side of the attack, lifting the cape and sliding it over the bull's back.
"Olé!"
Overlooking the arena in his box, the bullfight president raised a white handkerchief. A sprightly bugle signaled the end of the first stage and the beginning of the next.
Replacing the picadores were three banderilleros walking into the arena. They fanned out around the ring, one waving his cape and leaving La Parca disoriented. Santiago walked out of the bull's attention, observing for now.
Amid the crowded stands was an open space bordered by guards. One of the two people inside, Salvador Clemente, watched as the only silent viewer. The only thing he thought of was being anywhere else. Unfortunately for him, his guest didn't share the same sentiment.
Rico Delgado hollered his delight as the banderilleros closed in on the bull, with their mission to lodge barbed darts—the banderillas—into its shoulders.
"In case you forgot, we were discussing logistics!" Salvador had to yell over the crowd despite sitting right next to Rico.
Rico turned to him, nodding as though he never lost track. The audience let out a collective gasp when La Parca clipped one banderillero, sending him rolling across the floor. "Get up!" Rico yelled. "You're a man! Show that thing what you're made of!"
Salvador massaged his temples. He regret letting Santiago have his way. "Rico."
The bullfighting team was on their feet again, and he sank back in his seat. Grinning innocently at Salvador, he said, "Yeah, yeah, I'm listening."
Salvador sighed, although he couldn't help but chuckle. "Fernando definitely raised you... As I was saying, my men came up with a new plan. We can take your product across the Americas and then some. The best part is, the DEA won't know shit."
Behind his sunglasses, Rico's eyes widened. "Color me impressed..." His gaze quickly turned into one of sympathy. "Did you brave Raul's manor to get into his network?"
Salvador grimaced at the very idea of that. "Nobody who goes in there is 'brave.' They're either Raul or greenhorn pendejos!" Just remembering his dinner invitation revived the putrid taste in his tongue. When that finally subsided enough, he could answer. "Remember Faustino? After Brielle died, he left the crew and came home. He still remembers most of the routes, and that's been a godsend."
"Ah. Brie." Rico nodded. "It's funny. Used to be that whenever you needed something to go from one country to another quickly and cleanly, everyone would say 'Brielle.' Nowadays, they tell you, 'tough luck!' Not even a word about her old competitors!"
A banderillero shouted at the bull, making it turn to charge at him. As La Parca approached, the banderillero ran in a curved line towards the bull. Upon crossing paths, he leaned over the horns to stick the banderilla in, barely avoiding a serious goring. When the bull spun to give chase, he clambered over the barrier into safety.
Rico rose with the rest of the crowd, his enthusiasm blending in with the hundreds of others. He saw a vendor passing beer around and immediately called him over.
A few rows away, Agent 47 watched everything quietly from his seat—including the individuals ahead. "Good evening, 47. Welcome to Spain's largest bullring, the Plaza Toros Las Ventas. Your targets are Don Salvador Clemente and Santiago Serrano, the affluent partners of a clandestine drug trafficking business. They are currently meeting with the head of the Delgado Cartel here to discuss details of a planned collaboration that will extend their reach around the globe.
"Once the head of the prosperous Clemente Cartel, Salvador's power collapsed following a devastating raid on his compound. It left his wife and last child dead, and everything to his name confiscated. Only he and his adopted son, Santiago, made it out.
"With help from their longtime family friends, the Delgados, the two went into hiding until they could stand on their own two feet again. While Salvador went back to the drug trade, Santiago turned to a more public escapade. Already a rising matador before the raid, he returned to his profession with the new background of a reformed gangster looking to make up for his actions in the ring. A classic, sympathetic rags-to-riches story.
"Salvador's side of the business is still healing. However, he recently got his hands on a trade route reaching across the world. He reached out to Rico Delgado, hoping that this offering would provoke his goodwill and lead to a generous cut for his business. If this plan comes to fruition, the Delgados will no doubt become the most powerful drug cartel in the world.
"Unfortunately, these routes take them deep into Italy, trespassing into pre-established territory and businesses of the Antonelli crime family—who happen to be our client. The Antonellis have drawn their line in the sand with the Delgados before, and they believe they need a reminder of who they are messing with. By eliminating the last of the Clemente Cartel, the Delgados will hear their warning loud and clear.
"The bullfight is currently on its second stage, the tercio de banderillas. Santiago is in the ring and is the center of attention. Salvador will be beside Rico somewhere in the stands. Good luck, 47. "
Location: Madrid, Spain
Targets: The Kingpin, The Matador
One banderillero stood in front of the bull, provoking it with his shouts. La Parca treaded near him, slowing down. He made eye contact with the bull, and his blood ran cold—he stopped shouting.
La Parca charged.
The moment his mind settled, the bull was on him. He pushed at its head. The banderillero hopped away, barely keeping himself on both feet. A horn tore into his colorful attire, ripping a sleeve as he lost his footing.
Covering his head, the others' yells entered. One of the two ran up, stomping the ground. La Parca huffed, stepping over the prone banderillero before hurrying after the other.
Someone picked him up by his arm, patting his shoulder, and he met Santiago. "Don't be scared!" he said with a laugh. "La Parca will know if you are, and that is when he gets you." Santiago wrapped a cape around his exposed arm, motioning to the bull. "You're still good. Now do us proud!"
Agent 47's earpiece rang. "That is Santiago Serrano performing in the ring. Once a street orphan, Salvador took him in following his oldest son's death. His career only took off after going public with his background and supposed 'reformation.' Judging by the full stadium, it worked."
47 rose from his second-floor seat, sidling around the audience and toward the stand's entrance.
"What a surprise. You didn't listen to me at all." The voice came from one of two people idling at the walkway. Judging by the way he kept his hand dangling at a pouch latched onto his hip, he was one of the Delgados' sicario guards.
"But Miguel," his friend began, drawing out his name in a whining tone, "you know what they say... when someone offers you drinks... you... you..." He burped, sitting against the wall.
Miguel, turning his head away from his breath, shook his head. "You're going back to the hotel, cabrón. Come along..."
47 left the festive air and the merciless sun, heading inside the outer ring.
The hall circling the amphitheater's perimeter was all concrete, with murals of bulls and matadores painted on the walls. Every dozen steps, a plaque was attached with the likeness of a deceased or present matador. The only thing keeping the place lit up was the sun coming through the arched windows.
Around Santiago's plaque, a group of other people peered out the window at something toward the ground. Making his way to the front, 47 looked at what caught their eyes.
The grid-like pattern of bullpens sat in full view. White walls carrying walkways well above the individual pens created a maze-like appearance, although each path had clear directions. Save for one pen, the bulls wandered aimlessly with only stacks of hay and troughs filled with grain. The torileros—the bullpen keepers—patrolled the walkways.
One of the pens was empty, and unlike the others, it was riddled with cracks and dents in the walls.
Beside the crowd, two arena security were in conversation. "Is that Lambros brand?" one asked.
The other nodded, offering his pack of cigarettes. Browsing his phone on the other hand, he raised a brow. "Hey, has your Muchtalk been giving you a lot more anti-government shit or is it just me?"
"It's the algorithms; they cater to what you like..." He glanced at his friend's phone. "Didn't know you were so hardcore."
"No, no, no, I stay away from internet politics! I swear, I don't get why this is showing up!"
Their talk faded as 47 walked away. He headed for the stairs, taking him a floor down as he kept an eye out. He needed a distraction, and he knew exactly who could help.
47 found them nearing the amphitheater's main entrance. Miguel, only a few steps ahead of his friend and chatting on the phone, had just turned the corner. He did not see the bald stranger dart behind him.
Around the corner, 47 tapped the drunk's shoulder, making him turn to face the stranger. "There's a problem on the second floor. Near the staircase," he said in a low cadence. Miguel kept talking to the phone; 47's cue to continue. "Rico wants you to deal with it."
The drunk's jaw hung. "Me?"
"He has full faith in you. Can you do it?
A few steps out of the building and into the sunlight, Miguel rolled his eyes as he realized his friend didn't follow. "If they ask where we are, just say it as it is: Pablo found the drink vendors. Okay? Bye." He hung up, hurrying inside—just in time to see Pablo sprint away. "Pablo!" Miguel cried, starting after him.
Agent 47 walked after them.
At Santiago's plaque, Pablo and his slurred speech waltzed up, waving a gun around. "Run away! El Cuco is here to eat your kids!"
The arena security shouted. The bystanders screamed—some ducked to the ground, the rest ran. The guards tackled Pablo, grabbing his wrist and keeping the gun away. They brought him to the ground, all the while Pablo screamed with more joy than anything else.
Miguel arrived next, his shouts overlapping with the guards'. He took Pablo's gun away to disarm him, but the other guard assumed he was Pablo's accomplice. He jumped and wrestled with Miguel.
With their attention diverted, 47 vaulted out the window. He found footing on a ledge, planting himself flat against the wall. He was trapped between two bull-imaged corbels. The only way now was forward.
The one empty bullpen was right in front of him. He had taken note of the haystack—the only thing he needed to worry about was the walkway jutting into the pen as an overhang.
47 watched the torileros, none the wiser of the person above them. He waited for them to turn and walk. For the one moment where no eyes watched the empty pen.
At a faint eagle's cry, 47 jumped.
The air picked up around him in an instant. For only a few, yet eternal seconds, he was in free fall. 47 loosened his muscles as he flipped on his backside for the landing. It was... strangely liberating. This once, he did not need to keep his mind honed, or a reflex ready for defense. He was in the world's hands.
But as all things do, it came to an end. Straws of hay flew up as the hitman landed.
Agent 47 almost emerged, if not for the loud unlatching of the pen's gate. Three pairs of footsteps trailed in, and judging by the weight and clanging of their steps, they brought some tools with them.
"I cannot wait for the construction to come in with the sturdier walls. This chore is becoming a daily thing, and we have better things to do!"
They set their tools down near a wall. "I agree, but at the same time, I feel this kind of fatherly pride... Little Parca has grown so big and strong."
"True. There's a reason he's Santiago's favorite bull," the third man said.
"And it's the perfect story." The first torilero continued in an exaggerated, announcer-like cadence. "Santiago, seeking redemption for his past with the cartel; versus the seemingly unstoppable monster, who killed two matadores! People eat that shit up."
The second man mentally counted the objects, only for him to pause and scrunch his brows. He counted again, then clicked his tongue. "Damn it... We forgot the plaster." Before the others huffed their annoyance, he added, "I'll go get it."
The others turned back to the wall, doing some prep work in the meantime. The first torilero pushed through the gate, whistling. He was unaware of the person tailing him.
During the walk, he saw a distant entrance at the end of a lone walkway into part of the amphitheater. It was guarded by two sicarios.
The torilero made it to the tool shed, leaving the door swinging behind him. 47 stuck his foot in to block it. He stopped whistling, turning his head—only for a pair of hands to wrap around him. He tried to scream, but an elbow clamped over his neck.
47 hid him inside a tool chest, taking his outfit. He also grabbed a screwdriver from a nearby toolbox.
From there, he navigated around the pens and toward the amphitheater, and the scent of dry straw and farm animals followed. 47 saw other torileros going about their chores, minding only themselves as he passed.
The festive volume returned once again as the plaza's walls got bigger and bigger. Agent 47 went through a door and a bland hallway with sand crunching under his feet. The audience's ceaseless rambling reached its crescendo as he pushed through another door, gracing himself with daylight.
47 was in the ring, now, behind the safety of the barriers and as close to the action as one can be. The wooden barriers rose around 47's neck, held firm by each other and the supports bolting them to the ground. Santiago and his banderilleros danced around La Parca, now having placed three of the four banderillas into the beast.
"I'm not crazy. That is Rico Delgado out there, isn't it?" The voice belonged to one of the picadores from the first stage, still wearing his gold-braided outfit. He pointed up at the northeast stands, where the entourage of sicarios made space for their clients.
"Mhm," the other, a suited man with a bushy mustache covering his frown, replied.
"The leader of a Colombian drug cartel? A wanted man?"
The man—who Agent 47 knew from prior intel as the president's veterinary advisor—shifted uncomfortably. "The president wants us to treat him as just another member of the audience. That way, he won't suspect the authorities until they come.
The picador nodded gently. "Is that why those Colombians cordoned off part of our plaza?"
The advisor groaned.
"I'm not stupid! What if they're here to take revenge on Santiago for abandoning them? Are we going to let them kill our best matador?"
"No." His response was instant. "Santiago is not going to die, and that's all you need to know. Nothing good ever comes from digging too deep." In a quieter tone, he continued. "Anything valuable you can think of, the cartel will get their hands on it before you even think about them."
Though still bearing a look of frustration, the picador backed down.
Meanwhile, 47 walked to the northeast barrier. He knelt to its supports, attacking with the screwdriver, freeing the screws bolting it down. He moved onto the barrier beside it, repeating his actions until the supports chipped and splintered. 47 stopped when the barriers budged with a dying creak.
Satisfied, he retreated through a door leading back inside.
The room he entered was a dressing room. Since the show was in the middle of its runtime, it should've been empty. Should have, if not for the two sicarios talking inside. 47 took cover behind a rack of outfits.
"I've been trying to warn Rico, but he just won't listen! This mass expansion thing is going to get us killed!" the first man said.
"You're still worried about the Antonellis?" The second guy groaned as if used to this tirade. "This is a dog-eat-dog world, kid. And we are the bigger dog. The Antonellis are like bullies who steal people's lunch money."
The first interjected. "Their influence runs on that money! They may be housed in Sicily, but their reach goes across the globe." The second scoffed. "I'm telling you! Something bad is going to happen. There's just no way to know when."
"Yeah, fine, whatever. How about you go make yourself useful and fetch me my water bottle."
With a huff, the first stormed out, unaware that he just passed a bald intruder. 47 waited ten seconds after the door clicked shut. Then, rounding the clothes, he saw the sicario's back turned to him. 47 struck, bringing him down for a fresh disguise. He left the body in one of the changing rooms.
After that, he retread his footsteps, taking him past the bottle-wielding sicario and back to the bullpens.
He ventured down the isolated walkway, where the two guards let him in after a short quip about his baldness.
47 was met with a familiar sight. Working under constant rumbling from the stands and stuffy air, a dozen people in denim overalls and dust masks worked at metal tables. They were loaded with nondescript, brown plastic packages; cocaine.
The workers would look at the label written on them by marker, then pass them down where they'd be put into respective crates. These crates almost reached the ceiling, and their corners were marked with different colors of paint. The amphitheater was being used as a temporary hub to store the cocaine for later transport.
The cocaine workers, sweating bullets and engrossed in their jobs, didn't bat an eye at the gang member walking through.
Agent 47 went to the first door he saw, which he quickly realized was the restroom. On the sink, a mop-haired man high on product was devouring a moaning, half-naked woman. At the door clicking open, both of them looked at the intruder.
47 recognized the man as Hector Delgado, Rico's younger brother. Knowing his romantic relationship, he figured the woman was the brothers' longtime friend, Andrea Martinez. Clearly, he nor the couple wanted the other's presence.
"Try the lock next time," 47 said, closing the door on them.
The hitman walked along the walls, stopping to inspect a more crude area of its defense. Other than the usual stadium noise, he made out the faint voice of the torilero manning the gate from the bullpen and into the ring. The wall was a window for whoever was inside to watch the bullfight. Would have been, if not for the nailed boards completely hiding it. That explained the lack of air circulation.
After escaping the suffocating room of coke and heat, Agent 47 came back to the public areas. Passing the stand entrances, he saw that the banderilleros had stuck their third banderilla into La Parca. The bull looked as if it wore a vibrant green and yellow lei.
He emerged back into the stands. Through what little space 47 had to walk, he made his way to his primary target. As he neared, Diana promptly spoke. "That is Don Salvador Clemente. Following the destruction of his cartel and family at the hands of Spanish special forces, he and his adopted son went into hiding for years. They never fully recovered, and Salvador was forced to rebuild only a fraction of his power. After you assassinated his old friend, Don Fernando Delgado, he helped and mentored Fernando's nephew, Rico, into the cunning cartel boss he is today."
Salvador felt that he was too old to enjoy these events anymore. Especially when sat beside the promising heir to the Delgados' empire. He couldn't help but remember Fernando; there was a reason he retired to his vineyard in Chile. "When you've been in the business long enough, the most exciting thing becomes 'peace.'"
At the very least, this crowd knew when to respect the matador and his team with silence. Still, what he would do to escape this concrete seat from cramping his bottom...
"Rico. Don." The two turned to see one of their sicarios. "You're allowed to watch from the callejón instead."
A grin laden with crooked teeth flashed onto Salvador's face. His prayers had been answered! There was plenty of room and shade behind the barriers. Maybe he could even sneak a quick smoke.
"Santiago made sure you won't be interrupted."
Salvador's grin faded. Of course, it was too good to be true.
"Oh, sweet!" Rico said.
He and the sicario took note of Salvador's perplexed expression. "How kind of him," he said with a forced smile. Not that it convinced anyone.
"Do you wish to stay?" the sicario asked, not expecting his hesitation.
Salvador's face grew tense. He didn't have to think too hard—the sun was already killing him, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand the sweaty stench of the stands. Still, his tongue rolled and kept his lips quiet for a while until at last, he uttered, "Fine."
Rico pat Salvador's shoulder as he and the other guards rose. He appreciated the gesture. Rico knew about his standing with Santiago, and though he initially tried remedying it, he quickly learned its futility.
47 led them around the arena until they finally entered the callejón. He brought them to the northeast barriers, where they stretched and situated themselves comfortably. After a quick goodbye, he left the cartel leaders to enjoy the show among themselves.
The banderillero stood in front of the bull, yelling for its rush. He would not be taken by surprise again. La Parca charged. An instant before they met, he moved his leg toward the side where he wanted the bull to pass by. Just when it lowered its head, the banderillero recovered his initial position, stabbing the last barbed dart into its flesh.
The crowd roared. "Olé!"
Santiago shouted something and the three banderilleros hopped the barrier. The president raised a white handkerchief as the second stage drew to a close, and the torileros came in. They worked to corral La Parca through the gates, as the arena transitioned into a short break.
The areneros came out, fixing the white concentric circles that were muddled in the fight.
In the meantime, the torilero led La Parca to its pen. It was tired—he could tell from the way it breathed. But there was also a snort, as if amused. His friends had a theory that La Parca enjoyed the fight, but to him, that only meant their repair job on the walls would soon be for naught.
"Excuse me." The voice brought the man's eyes to the side, where the president's veterinary advisor stood. He never expected to encounter the guy in the pens, but he was a part of the bullfight as much as anyone else.
"Yes?"
The advisor retrieved a green handkerchief, and the torilero grew a look of concern. The president had several handkerchiefs for different occasions. A green one meant there was a problem with the bull.
"I need to take a look at La Parca. I can take him back to the pen in your stead, where I'll see if I suspected correctly." the advisor said.
"What's the issue with him?"
"Hardware disease." The torilero winced. When cattle ingest foreign objects, they collect in the reticulum. The objects could puncture anything in there, causing organ damage or infections. It wasn't an unreasonable assessment, either. "If I had to guess, something from the constant work in his pen got in his trough. Then again, it could be nothing, but I'll need to perform a checkup to be sure."
He passed the advisor the lead. "I guess I don't mind..."
"Thank you. It's good to catch these things early. It would be a shame if we let an easily preventable death happen in our hands."
The torilero nodded, and, hoping that La Parca would emerge healthy, he left.
Down the walkway to the cocaine storage, the guards at the door were playing cards with each other when a faint rumbling drew their attention. They glanced around, and their first thought was that of an earthquake. The rumbling got louder and louder; they held onto the door handles to support themselves.
Then the bald, suited man that was the veterinary advisor made a sharp turn, almost tripping on the ground. He sprinted to the guards and said one thing: "Run!"
Before any of them could question him, the ebony colossal bull that was La Parca rounded the corner.
The doors burst open. The guards flew inside, unable to move as the wind flew out of their bodies from the bull's impact. Screams ripped throughout as La Parca flipped a metal table across the room. Bags of cocaine rained like spilled flour bags as the workers cowered against the walls.
La Parca pushed the row of tables around like a bulldozer, collecting them into a pile that almost crushed a worker. It ran into the stacks of product, causing an explosion akin to heavy snowfall.
Hector Delgado just left the restroom when he locked eyes with the bull. Letting out a girly shriek, he reached into the restroom, grabbing Andrea by her arms and putting her out like a shield. She, too, made eye contact with La Parca and screamed. She wrestled free of Hector, hitting him across the head with her shoe while shouting expletives.
Then, as La Parca charged, she dragged him into the restroom and locked the door.
At the callejón, Rico yawned as the break drew out with no more excitement. Waiting was never his strong suit—that trait belonged to Fernando or Salvador. His phone rang, and he immediately picked it up.
"Hello—?"
"Rico! You gotta come help! It-It, he's, the bull, it's destroying the cocaine! I'm locked in the restroom! We're all going to die!"
"What the f—" Rico recoiled from his phone as his brother's drug-infused sobs blared out.
"What's up with him?" Salvador asked in the middle of his smoke, not even bothering to turn to him.
"Trouble, I think. 'A bull in a coke lab.'" Rico laughed. "Hector has such a strange way with words when he's high. I'll pop by to see what's up."
"Take your guards with you."
"It can't be that bad."
"Remember what I taught you, Rico. There is no such thing as 'too safe' in this business."
Rico rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure, whatever." He whistled. "Come on, boys."
With that, Salvador had only his mind to keep him company. His mind, and whatever his cursed 'son' was about to do as he walked alone in the ring.
Santiago took a position underneath the president's box. Holding his montera hat with his right hand, folded muleta and sword in the left, he spoke. "I would like to dedicate this kill to the only parent I ever knew." He took a breath to compose himself. "He was the only person to recognize me as a human, back then. I owe my very life to him... and yet, I did something unforgivable to him. He made his ultimatum very clear to me, and I know nothing will ever be the same... But I also know he came at my request. And that he is watching. I dedicate the death of La Parca to my papa, Salvador!"
He smiled to the northeast stands, and—after quickly realizing Salvador was now behind the barrier for whatever reason—threw the montera in his direction. It fell short, landing upside-down. A few superstitious viewers winced at that, but it delivered the message.
Salvador's scowl faltered; his mustache shifted as he blinked away something in his eyes. It was only for a moment, then he furrowed his brows and bore the look of frustration Santiago had grown accustomed to.
The crowd cheered for the matador. And as he blew kisses to the stands, it took a while for him to realize they transitioned into screams.
Bursting through a boarded window and into the arena, La Parca introduced himself with a running sprint. Santiago spun around just in time to see the bull.
His blood ran cold; his next thought was of how foolish a mistake he made.
Santiago felt the air escape his lungs and his feet leave the ground. Something lodged into his hip as he tried to dodge, dragging him across the sand. He pushed and hit the bull's head, yelling out in agony.
After what felt like hours, La Parca threw its head up, and Santiago was released. He landed prone on the ground.
The banderilleros entered the ring, surrounding the bull and waving capes. La Parca twisted and turned, stunned by their shouts and twirling movements. The three led it away from Santiago, whose blood began pooling beneath him.
The torileros came in, next, wrangling La Parca through the gates. Only then did the arena's doctors enter the scene. A deafening silence pervaded the arena with everybody's eyes glued on Santiago.
Soon, they lifted the matador onto a stretcher. Santiago waved weakly to the crowd, and they could even see the pearly whites of his smile. They cheered.
Santiago was taken to the dressing room. It was out of sight, and the closest place they could bring him that was out of the pelting sun. One doctor cleared a table for them to put him on, and now the easiest part of their job was done. "Get Salvador over here..." Santiago said, dryly.
Salvador hadn't moved from the barrier—or at all, for that matter. For such a hot day, he felt strangely cold. "Sir." He touched his forehead, feeling it chalked with icy sweat. His went to his chest, and he realized how fast he breathed. "Sir!"
Salvador snapped his eyes to the sicario.
"Are you alright, Don? You're really pale..."
"I..." Salvador swallowed a choking wad of spit. "I'm fine. I'm fine."
The sicario didn't buy it but didn't push further. "Santiago wants to talk with you."
All at once, the scene replayed itself. The bull. Santiago being dragged across the floor. Him flying up in the air and landing motionless. Salvador's face flushed once more with color; a vibrant red. "Tell him I don't want any part of this!"
The gang member was taken aback. "Are... Are you sure?"
"All this is hubris at its finest. He thinks he can play this invincible, macho hero after what he did, and look where it took him!" Salvador rested on the barrier, focusing on his breath. "Let him suck it up. All that matters is that he's alive..."
In the dressing room, Santiago finally waved the doctors off, although it took lots of threats and power-waving to do so. They at least stopped his bleeding before leaving. Now the matador, wincing through the pain, kept his eye trained on the door. He had to come.
Outside the room, Agent 47 found its circuit breaker in a nearby maintenance closet. He flicked a switch, and the lights of the dressing room went out.
He let himself inside, appearing as a silhouette to the confused Santiago. After a moment, he said, "Salvador..."
'Salvador' messed with the light switches, as if confused by the state of the room.
Santiago shifted on the table, wanting to turn better at him, but too weak to do that. "Salvador! You've come...!" He laughed a scratchy, quiet laugh. "I'm sorry about the lights... and that you have to see me like this. La Parca always gets the better of me... But I'm sure you remember all my other matches? And all the trophies I brought home? Aren't you proud of me?"
'Salvador' stepped forward, closing the door behind them. The only lights coming in were through small slits in the wall, but it was enough for their eyes to make out the shapes. He stopped short of the table.
At his silence, Santiago's smile disappeared. "You still don't want to talk." He rolled his head to face the ceiling. "I know I fucked up, okay? All those years ago, you kept warning me against getting batshit drunk, but I didn't listen like a damn fool! It's my fault they befriended my drunken, idiot self; my fault that I led those agents to our home. But I loved your family. Dolores taught me how to read and write... Jaime showed me what it was like to have a friend."
His bombastic voice died into a choking cry. Try as he might, water tread down his cheeks, cleaning up the grains of sand stuck to his neck. "Do you think I don't beat myself up every day over that night? That I don't curse myself and my stupidity? I also lost everything... I lost your love, too."
'Salvador' walked around him, grabbing one of the doctor's cushions meant for Santiago's comfort.
"Say something, papa! You always wanted me to chase my dreams—to become somebody great—and I have." He couldn't muffle the cries anymore, heaving out ugly sobs that only distressed his injured hip. The pain led to louder cries, repeating in a cycle."I just want you to smile at me again... Tell me that I'm still your son..."
Agent 47 was in front of him, now. A glint of sunlight caught his clean-shaven face and his calculating blue eyes. Santiago's eyes filled with terror, as 'Salvador' slammed the cushion onto his face.
The matador squirmed and kicked. He grabbed 47's arms in futile attempts to pry him off. The more he tried to breathe, the more pain attacked his hip, taking away what little energy he had left.
Santiago fell limp. The last thing he could think of was his papa's proud smile.
"Santiago Serrano eliminated. One more to go," Diana said.
...
Someone whispered to the anxious president's ear. It was news he was praying to hear, not just for Santiago's health, but for the future of the arena. It was a once-in-a-generation thing to get a matador like him; popular, skilled, and sympathetic—good with the younger audience.
He pulled the microphone to himself, connecting to the arena-wide intercom. "May I have everyone's attention? I am overjoyed to say that Santiago is alive, and we are confident that he will recover fully when he arrives at the hospital."
The stands applauded, sharing his relief. "However, this means we must cancel the tercio de muerte." There was an expected lull in volume at that. It was an obvious conclusion, but the announcement still hurt. "If everyone could now—"
Like a volcano, where there was silence became an outpour of whistles, howls, and noise. One of his advisors came up to him, pointing down at the arena in excited gibberish. It didn't take long to see the cause of it all.
Walking into the ring was Santiago Serrano, outfit blooded and torn, wielding his muleta in one hand and the sword in the other.
"I am not going anywhere," he said through his mic. "La Parca is my fight, and I will see my mission through!"
The doctors behind the barriers looked at each other. A few of them ran off toward the dressing room where the lights were still on. But the matador was indeed gone. Not that they bothered to check inside the changing rooms.
Salvador watched on in disbelief.
The president was hesitant—he was just gored and trampled by La Parca. He almost became the third to die to the bull! However, the audience had never been so aflame before. "Olé!" they chanted in unison.
The audience would have what they want. The president raised his white handkerchief.
Agent 47, like many others, had no experience fighting bulls. The wise individual would not dare to travel anywhere near the hulking mass of muscle and its horns. Not even the fastest human alive could outrun a bull's top speeds. When the audience watches, they see an unrelenting animal that could only be avoided and slain with artful tactics and complete focus.
So, 47 didn't see it as a bull. This was La Parca. And it was his weapon—one that needed those same things to use.
The bugle played. La Parca burst through the gates.
Agent 47 waved the muleta away from the ground, an act that likely confused some of the viewers. Altos (high moves) were typically used when the bull lacked energy, so it exerted less strength into its neck. La Parca had plenty to spare.
It charged at him, locking eyes with the hitman. 47 remained stone-faced as he stood his ground, letting La Parca run at the cape. 47 spun on his heel, leading it around his body. He saw its fur was matted with its blood, and the horn stained with Santiago's. He smelled it, too.
Eventually, he pulled the muleta over its head, and the bull ran off toward the center of the ring.
Agent 47 approached it steadily, keeping the cape at his side. La Parca charged him again, and they ran the same round.
On the third pass, they were now in the center of the arena. 47 tread enough ground to catch up and keep the bull where he wanted it. He waved the muleta, keeping the bull at arm's length. From the stands, it looked almost ridiculous—the two combatants spinning so much that they blurred. Then, he raised the cape, and La Parca's speed took it toward the barriers. Agent 47 followed.
The more knowledgeable spectators raised a brow. Rather than keeping it to the center, 'Santiago' was leading it to the other side. He was known to be a showoff; maybe he was demonstrating how much control he had over the bull?
This was the fourth round of passes. La Parca was running faster, and 47—for all his force-fed capabilities—felt himself losing ground. He raised the muleta, and his mind rattled as La Parca left high clouds of dust behind. 47 kept moving forward.
47 knew he was close enough that Salvador was scrutinizing him. There were things he intimately knew about Santiago that he did not see here. He felt the man's eyes digging into him as he drew closer.
Taking a few steps nearer, 47 dangled the muleta for La Parca to charge. He began the passes again, spinning the bull around himself.
Then, eyes wide with terror, Salvador shouted, "What did you do with my boy?!"
The bull shifted its attention to that. As it chased the muleta around 47, he pulled the cape over its head—revealing the shouting man's head. La Parca charged forward.
Salvador only had a split-second to scream. The barriers flew like paper. La Parca's horn pierced through his stomach, carrying him into the air like a ragdoll.
La Parca slammed him into the ground. He coughed out a spew of blood. Horn still inside him, the bull thrust Salvador into the stand's wall. His head curved off the wall, snapping beyond 90 degrees. His upper teeth dug into his chest as his lower jaw lodged backward into his throat.
Rico, Hector, and Andrea left the boarded room and its hasty cover-up just in time to see what happened. "Salvador!" Rico was first to cry out, but he instantly knew there was no point in running after him.
He fell on his bottom. His brother and Andrea knelt, consoling him in the ways they knew best—even if Hector's was to offer a smoke. Rico took the cigarette.
One day, he would rebuild his empire vast and high. His father, Fernando, and Salvador would be beaming with pride. All in due time.
The banderilleros jumped in once again, running after the bull and its victim.
Everyone's eyes were on the incident in the callejón when the matador left through the bullpen's gate.
Agent 47 found his suit in La Parca's pen, navigating through the walkways until he found the barrier gate separating the pens from the public. Sirens blared in the distance as he hopped over and disappeared into the streets of Madrid.
MATADOR MURDERED ON THE SAME DAY THAT BULL KILLS FATHER
Madrid's rising matador, Santiago Serrano, mysteriously murdered after bull gores his father!
The bullfighting community lies in shock following the bizarre death of one of its most promising matadores. This followed a disaster in the arena when La Parca, Santiago's favorite bull, and killer of two past matadores, broke through faulty barriers and gored his foster father—none other than Salvador Bello Clemente, the missing head of the dissolved Clemente Cartel. Authorities believe he showed up at the latter's request.
Before the third stage, during Santiago's brindis, La Parca somehow escaped its handlers and barged into the ring, where it gored Santiago's hip and left him heavily injured. But against all odds, he returned to the ring in his bloodied and torn outfit, demanding to fight with La Parca. He heroically led the bull around with unmatched skill and might have slain the bull if it had not caused another incident. In one of Santiago's pases, La Parca ran into the barrier where Salvador was watching from. It broke through the barriers and gored him to death.
Witnesses say Santiago ran away after the fact, likely due to the shock of witnessing his father's death. However, that would be the last time anyone saw Santiago alive. Hours after emergency personnel arrived on the scene, Santiago was nowhere to be seen. A search was performed, and they found his lifeless body hidden in the dressing room. He was suffocated to death, and his clothes and equipment were stolen.
Despite the relationship between both victims, authorities have found no correlation between the deaths. They do suspect that the Delgado Cartel was behind Santiago's murder, though. Investigation revealed the cartel was present in the arena, and in fact, housed hundreds of packages of cocaine in an unused room. Santiago was beloved for leaving the gang in hopes of a better future, and the cartel likely did not take kindly to that.
La Parca has currently been moved to a bull farm. It is believed that it will be permanently retired from bullfighting to prevent further incidents, and will be used to breed more fighting bulls of similar caliber...
EGYPT IN TURMOIL; PRESIDENT MORCOS ASSASSINATED
President Morcos was found dead in his home, alongside his entire security detail after a fateful night. Seif Morcos was the first democratically elected president following the 2011 revolution in Egypt that led to the end of the previous leader's 30-year reign. His son returned home from an embassy trip to Russia to find everybody murdered.
President Morcos' election marked a major step in Egypt's history of corruption and autocracy. 840 people were killed in the year before when the first protests began. Demonstrators clashed with police. Riots continued day after day and into the night.
Morcos' assassination revived much of the rage felt from last year. This was further bolstered by an anonymous leak detailing personal contacts from Egypt's richest families. These implicate that these billionaire families, unhappy with President Morcos' leadership and what his election stood for, had him deposed through various connections.
"It's like a deep wound was reopened," says an Egyptian who participated in 2011's uprising. "You don't undo spilled blood and hardship, and expect nothing to happen."
SOCIAL MEDIA TO BLAME FOR CIVIL STRIFE?
Polls show that continuing a decade-long trend, the majority of Americans are unhappy with the direction of the U.S. government. The percentage of "very dissatisfied" has jumped from last year's 51% to a record high of 66%.
Major politicians, including President Rogers, have persisted in a theory that Russia is behind the mounting distrust via fake news and media. This was brought forth after his most recent controversy: accusations of an affair between him and Justice Blanc, which theorists believe is the reason behind the Gold Codes being found at her estate. They also claim it explains how Sandra Blanc fled the country without anyone noticing. President Rogers reached his lowest approval rating at 28%.
However, studies have shown that Muchtalk (a social media app integrated into Nunchi and other company devices) algorithms tend to lead toward anti-government ideologies. 7 out of 10 times, letting the autoplay feature run will take the viewer to media featuring extremist right-wing content.
Others, such as presidential nominee Senator Davis, have called out what is "a desperate bid to seek re-election."
Seoul, South Korea
Technology has advanced at a rapid pace since her younger days. It used to be tireless months of digging and following leads, sucking up the frustration from every dead end. Sleepless nights working with police, waiting for test results to finish—and subsequently led to more testing needed.
Then technology pervaded everybody's home—and by extension, Myung Soo-min and her company. Now, all it took was the click of a button to list every intricate detail of anyone in the modern world. Another click, and it would sell for an easy billion.
It was clear why the ICA brought her on board. What was the point of spies and reconnaissance when everything was on a screen? Collected by digital footprints and cookies that the average consumer knew nothing about.
Myung was on call in her bedroom, waiting for someone. In the meantime, there was a minor issue to take care of.
"I think you're panicking too much, Madelyn. We have everything going for us. What's there to be afraid of?"
"What's to be afraid of?!" she asked incredulously. "Lee Hong. The Hayamotos. Beldingford. Vice. President. Morris!"
'Oh,' Myung mouthed. "I understand your concern, but Surtr already thought about it. The failsafe is in place. And he knows Diana; once she sees what we're fighting for, he will talk to her. She'll listen. And Agent 47 will follow suit."
She heard Madelyn groan and could imagine the prostitute pulling her hair out. "This guy isn't just a hitman; he might as well be the Red Death! Are we really going to be safe from him?"
"That's what the chip is for. And if anyone knows their way around the human psyche, it's the Khandanyangans." Myung checked her devices. No new messages. "Madelyn. I want you to breathe. As long as you play your cards right, your relationship with Diana will be in our favor. For now, keep canvassing the British gangs and any criminal you can find. I have a meeting to attend."
Madelyn said something in protest, but Myung already dropped the call.
Right on cue, the doorman sent a message to her line. She had a guest.
If not for the butler helping him up, Surtr would have had to take his time lifting his legs up the stairs. When he reached the top, he was already out of breath. Thankfully, Myung was there to greet him.
"Time has not been kind to you, Sherlock," she said.
If he recognized the old nickname, he didn't show any sign of it, although he returned her smile. "Nor to you; I remember you being a lot prettier." Only he laughed at his joke.
Pushing away the desire to groan, Myung walked him down the hall, toward her office. "I wish we were meeting as old friends, but with everything going on, I doubt that's the case."
Surtr nodded. "You've built yourself a nice life," he spoke softly, glancing around.
"Oh, I can't take the credit. If it weren't for my husband, I'd still be slaving away at the forensics lab."
As they entered her office, a more futuristic look decked with monitors on every wall, Surtr's face became unreadable. "Despite everything you've achieved, you're still the humble woman I knew..." His smile faded. "I wish I could say that. But that's not even close, now is it?"
Making her way behind her desk, Myung frowned. "What do you mean?"
"My mind has not dulled. It has aged like fine wine, and I have never been clearer. And at the bare minimum, it knows wrong from right, which is more than I can say for about anyone else on this planet." Surtr let out a long exhale. "This is not the Myung I knew."
Myung would be lying if she said she didn't expect this. Still, his bluntness never missed. "Lars," she said.
"You've abandoned our dream."
"Lars!"
He shoved the monitor on her desk, crashing it into Myung's lap. "We both saw a future of true justice and the will to do what is right for the everyman! You've shown your colors as a fickle woman!"
"That was a different life. We need to be realistic—!"
"We need to be better than this!" Lars slammed his next weapon on the desk: a plastic bag of airplane peanuts. Silence fell over the two. Myung quietly fixed her monitor, although scowling at the crack running across its screen. "I don't expect you to make up for what you've betrayed—our time is valuable, and you're still important. Despite how far you've grown, I still see the same ideas in you."
"You sure convinced me..."
Lars pulled a chair to face Myung. "I appreciate you putting yourself on the line, especially after the debacle with Thorakis."
Myung wasn't there for the Greek shipping magnate's comeuppance, but the ICA made a clear example of him. A board member or any other person selling out the Agency for whatever cause had its defined consequences. "Thorakis was never one to think ahead. He only thought for himself and his family; he was selfish."
"And you are doing this because you think this world could do under better management."
Myung nodded.
"That is what makes you better than him or any other corrupt individual. Do not let go of that."
"You're right..." He always was. Myung smirked at that; some things always remained the same.
Surtr rose, satisfied. "When I spent the last of my account on the O'Briens, that was supposed to be my farewell to this world. Then Xenia convinced me that I had more to say. When next week comes, consider who you are. Know that when the world changes, we won't play by the rich's rulebook anymore."
Indeed. Once they were out of hiding, there would be much to do.