Roberto Castillo crouched down behind the containers and cardboard boxes. The pain in his right knee from an old football injury, unbearable.
“Damn,” he muttered.
To him it seemed that his breathing resonated through the old warehouse. He hoped to God the Gonzalez family could not hear him. It was crucial to get all the information he needed before they packed up and disbanded. The chase was finally coming to an end. For the last two years he followed the family, from Los Angeles to South America, Africa, and then Mexico, building a very strong case against them. To the typical customer it appeared as if they ran a legitimate export company, bringing the best tequila to the US. But Roberto knew they made their millions from drugs and arms cleverly concealed in their shipments. Somebody in customs was turning a blind eye and becoming incredibly rich. Roberto was close to submitting his report to the DA and putting this crew behind bars for a very long time.
Suddenly… the familiar sound of a bullet whizzed past his ear, followed by another. Adrenaline coursed through his body. Sweat made his shirt stick to his chest like a wetsuit. He looked down at a red pea-sized dot floating over his chest. His mind raced. Air exploded in his lungs. He gasped and choked clawing at his throat fighting to draw a breath. Blood seeped from between the buttons of his shirt and soaked the fabric. His eyes stung and would no longer focus. A warm wetness trickled down his legs. Glancing down he saw the blood. His blood. His head spun. Then the pain left him and his body felt very light; he thought about his beautiful wife Maria and his son Jamie.