gunforhire
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2007
- Posts
- 4,224
It had been almost ten years since he had settled in the small Idaho town. It was a far cry from how he had lived the first 30 years of his life. Growing up in Miami, he had been exposed to many different cultures. But he was free, had money, and people left him alone.
He liked the isolation that his new life provided him, even if he missed the thrills of his prior life. As a teen he was a small time hood, selling drugs and committing larcenies. It was all petty until he gained the trust of Victorio "Little Vic" Esparanza, a Cuban American arms dealer. As he gradually made his way closer to his inner circle, he saw an opportunity. A once in a lifetime opportunity. If he failed, he would end up dead, probably in a very unpleasant manner.
He had managed to pull off the scam, selling the arms intended for the Columbians to a Somali upstart faction, right underneath Victorio's nose. Two of Victorio's henchmen had to be sacrificed but it was a small price to pay for the suitcase of unmarked bills he had found himself in possession of. Life as he knew it was essentially over.
He looked around the small wooden ranch he bought under his assumed name. He spent way too much time here and when he did venture into town it was usually short and just to replenish his rations. He did allow himself the brief guilty pleasure of an omelette and coffee from Erma's when he was in town. The fresh eggs and vegetables she used were definitely not to be missed. The staff knew him by his assumed name "Michael" but they didn't pry, even in their attempts at friendly neighborly banter.
It was time to replenish. A snow storm was expected and the roads could be closed for a week out where he lived. He brushed his long black hair from his face and looked in the mirror at his weathered face. Sometimes he even forgot who he was - Joe Camacho, the mixed race boy who passed for white with the Latin name. He put on his jeans and boots and made his way down the dirt roads in his trusty nondescript Chevy Silverado.
He liked the isolation that his new life provided him, even if he missed the thrills of his prior life. As a teen he was a small time hood, selling drugs and committing larcenies. It was all petty until he gained the trust of Victorio "Little Vic" Esparanza, a Cuban American arms dealer. As he gradually made his way closer to his inner circle, he saw an opportunity. A once in a lifetime opportunity. If he failed, he would end up dead, probably in a very unpleasant manner.
He had managed to pull off the scam, selling the arms intended for the Columbians to a Somali upstart faction, right underneath Victorio's nose. Two of Victorio's henchmen had to be sacrificed but it was a small price to pay for the suitcase of unmarked bills he had found himself in possession of. Life as he knew it was essentially over.
He looked around the small wooden ranch he bought under his assumed name. He spent way too much time here and when he did venture into town it was usually short and just to replenish his rations. He did allow himself the brief guilty pleasure of an omelette and coffee from Erma's when he was in town. The fresh eggs and vegetables she used were definitely not to be missed. The staff knew him by his assumed name "Michael" but they didn't pry, even in their attempts at friendly neighborly banter.
It was time to replenish. A snow storm was expected and the roads could be closed for a week out where he lived. He brushed his long black hair from his face and looked in the mirror at his weathered face. Sometimes he even forgot who he was - Joe Camacho, the mixed race boy who passed for white with the Latin name. He put on his jeans and boots and made his way down the dirt roads in his trusty nondescript Chevy Silverado.
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