The
beads of sweat on Sante’s pale face betrayed his anxiety all too clearly. The
guard next to him couldn’t help but chuckle as the lift began a slow descent.
“Don’t worry, amigo. We’ll be watching you all the
time.”
“How nearby will you be?”
“In the next room. Anything happens,
we’ll be in there faster than you can say ‘Hasta
la vista, cabrón!’”
The lift shuddered to a halt. The grimy
doors opened to reveal a grey passage, gloomily lit by the occasional lamp. The
stark white surfaces couldn’t have contrasted more with the grimy dregs of
society that they hid within.
Sante played around with his tie knot.
The suit was a bad idea – the way it clung to his skin from the sweat was too
itchy for comfort. Perhaps... no. He had enough to
worry about already.
Go in, get the interview, and get out –
preferably in one sane piece. That was all he had to do. He shuddered as he
took his first step out of the lift.
***
Marko Muerte.
The number of people he had sent through
the gates of hell could easily populate a small country. The scars on his
weathered face were brimming with diabolical stories, tales of terror inflicted
both on and by him. The man was a legend to his pursuers, and a myth to the
rest of the world.
How he had been captured, how he was reduced to a shabby man in chains sitting
across the table from him – these were the questions Sante wished he could ask
from the Maestro of Malice.
“Buenos días, Senõr Marko Muerte. My
name is Sante Hernandez. I was asked to interview you on behalf of Reader’s Digest. I hope you are
comfortable?”
The grave eyes had flickered on hearing Sante’s introduction. They were now
peering into Sante’s soul, almost trying to suck it out through his trembling
lips.
“Sante...Hernandez? Mmmm...do I look ‘comfortable’ to you?”
That voice. That chillingly calm voice. It was the last sound many a powerful
person had heard before their cold-blooded demise. Sante hoped he wasn’t next
in line.
***
“Your most famous victim was the Australian PM Mick Atkinson. What was it like
to kill such a popular, even iconic figure of the people?”
A snort.
“Atkinson was NOT my most famous victim.”
***
“Some groups have noted that many of your victims, regardless of their levels
of fame and fortune, were people with dubious morals and intentions. Was this
something you considered when choosing your victims?
The dark eyes flashed briefly. The sharp nose inhaled.
“ALL my victims were corrupt and devious! They were playing with the lives of
innocent people as though they were meaningless pawns, ready to be sacrificed
for some selfish greater purpose. I was doing the world a favour that no one
else could! All those so-called icons that I’ve murdered, they were pathetic pendejos with far too much power in
their hands. I may have killed thousands, but by doing so I have saved millions
from suffering! And yet, they call me a monster! A MONSTER! Hijos de putas!”
Sante’s lungs stopped working for a few minutes as the echoes rang in his ears.
***
“It has been rumoured that you have a family still living. Is this true?”
The icy glare lifted after a tense few seconds.
“My wife, she was una senõra perfecta.
She was my lifeline when the world had cast me out to rot. She gave me a son
before she was killed in a gang war. And he...”
Marko Muerte spat onto the floor.
“My son was – IS an absolute disappointment. He ran away when he found out
about my work, and began a new life in the big city. I pray that he can someday
redeem himself, but I am on death row. By this time tomorrow, he will be
forever scorned by the father he abandoned.”
Sante felt his insides squirm with fear.
***
“That will be all, Senõr Muerte. Mucho
gracias. I hope you will find peace in the afterlife.”
Sante nervously held out a hand, clearly having second thoughts about this act
of politeness. Marko grunted to himself before gruffly shaking it. The chains
on his wrist clanged ominously. Sante was out
of the room, leaning against the
door and breathing heavily soon after.
***
Marko Muerte escaped the next day.
The world woke
up to news so shocking that several notable public figures suffered heart
attacks soon after. The media was treated to a field day. Several countries in
Latin America had declared a State of emergency. Activist groups both for and
against the Muerte murders were spurred on by a renewed rush of adrenaline.
Sante was trying to calm himself down while watching a harried
reporter on TV:
“...it appears that Marko Muerte was able to break out of his cell somehow,
abduct and then impersonate a security guard and essentially walk out of the
prison scratch-free, leaving a trail of unconscious bodies in his wake. Prison
authorities are refusing to comment on the matter...”
Sante remembered the last image he had of the Maestro of Malice: the wrinkled
face, bushy and unkempt, glaring as icily as ever. But this time, there was a
faint hint of something else. Something... strange. A grin, maybe? A twinkle in
those murky eyes?
Sante poured himself a Tequila Slammer. As he brought the fizzing cocktail to
his lips, he murmured:
“I hope I have redeemed myself, father.”
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