Tijuana Noir

The white Lincoln Town Car with polarized windows lined up behind the black Chevrolet Suburban and the Kevlar armored Cutlass. Then it stopped its motion for only a few seconds. Toward the right front of the vehicle, a sleepless man with dark circles under his eyes so purple they looked tattooed, who was in charge of the parking lot boot, made a semi-circular motion with his hand to the driver.

The chauffeur of the Lincoln concurred with a slight nod of the head, as if thanking him for not saying a word.

In the privacy of the back seat, Cardinal José Maria Pizano, dressed in a black suit and bowler hat, looked indifferently out the window as people exited the main entrance of the airport. The Cardinal watched the Guacamaya yellow and green cabs, VW minibuses, North American medical students, promiscuous teenagers and a child or two.

His gaze was lost among these images, absorbed in his own thoughts, far away from everything.

Neither the noise from the street, the smell of the wet soil, or the driver’s sudden expression of terror and his speechless scream, made him realize what was taking place.

He was able to see his killer bending over and pointing an AK-47 less than one meter from his window. Its reflection could be seen in the thick gold chain and crucifix, which he wore around his neck. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t.

The Cardinal’s life left his chest as if it were air escaping from a balloon. Small red bubbles burst upon touching the atmosphere spattering over the official Vatican seal on the Samsonite portfolio at his feet.

“God be with you, sir!” cursed the hired killer.