He walked as if to the beat of a drummer. Perhaps in his head he was following a march or some song he especially liked.  The pace wasn’t slow or fast, just steady. About five minutes more and he’d be finished. Then it was a shower, getting dressed and a nice leisurely breakfast. He hoped they had a piece of papaya in the fridge still. He liked cold papaya for breakfast. Along with steaming coffee and reading the newspaper.

Ruben and Carlos pulled alongside the curb and parked the late-model Peugeot.  It had tinted windows and a Bogota license plate.

“What if he’s not walking this morning?” Ruben asked.

“He should be, but if he isn’t, we’ll return another day,” Carlos responded.

“Hope it won’t take long,” Ruben said. “I’m already bored.”

“You won’t feel bored counting the money in your grubby little hands,” Carlos offered.

Ruben looked at Carlos with that ‘ha ha’ look of his. “Very funny, man. Why don’t you get a TV comedian’s job?”

The old man turned the corner. He wore white socks and sneakers, grey flannel shorts, and a loose black T-shirt. His white hair blew slightly in the morning mountain breeze. He was seventy if a day, but seemed still strong physically.

“Here’s your man, Ruben,” Carlos said. He sank lower in the driver’s seat. It was nearly nine a.m. and the posh neighborhood was quiet as usual. The old man did not seem to notice the parked car. That was good for them. Anyway, cars could fairly well get parked anywhere their drivers wanted in this Andean capital city. ‘The more the merrier’ seemed to be the philosophy regarding vehicles and parking.

The shot was aimed at the old ex-general’s heart. Ruben, an expert marksman, was sure he’d got it right. The old man didn’t cry out or anything. Simply fell to the sidewalk. Blood was spurting wildly all round his body.

The sleek car left quickly without rousing any special notice.   

(Note:  This story is based on a true incident. Sadly.)