The Ghost and the Man in White
By J. L. Young
The Writer’s Guild of Spring Hill writing prompts ghost and who am I?

There in the patio of his expansive villa, Sergio “El Hombre De Blanco” Vicente. It’s funny, he isn’t wearing any white. I’m thirteen hundred meters from him on an ancient tower overlooking his estate watching him with my scope. As I enjoy my sandwich, without taking my eyes off him, I learn Vicente’s marriage was on the verge of collapse. In the three days, I’ve been perched here, the man has raised his hand on several occasions. I could see by his mannerisms that he has no compunction to follow through.

From my observation, Vicente runs his lucrative cartel from his villa. He hasn’t left for any reason since I arrived. His people either contact him via satellite phone or in person. In the morning, he stands smug on his patio, mustache, cafe, and nothing else.

As I lay prone across the tower’s thick outer wall, my rifle rests by my side.

A car pulls into the drive. I turn the wheel on my scope to sharpen the focus, my eye is drawn to a form, it’s Jamilet! A senorita from in the pueblo cantina. Two of his goons dragged her through the gate and onto the patio. My sources say that Vicente owns the towns and land for hundreds of miles. An impressive reach. She’s pleading with them.

The goons throw Jamilet at Vicente’s feet. Her silky hair is now disheveled and her face covered with dirt. Vicente extends his hand toward one of his goons who reaches into his vest and produces a flashy pistol. I struggle to remain cold to the moment. The man in white strikes Jamilet with the pistol and she falls to the stone.

His voice carries, yet distance obscures his words. His henchmen sit her back on her knees. Blood pours from her lip. I move the scope aside and retrieve my rifle. I call the number my handler gave me. A goon retrieved a phone from his pocket and unfolded the antenna.

“Bueno,” he answered.
“Poner a Vicente en el telephono, es el poqueno Jose.” Put Vicente on the phone, it’s Jose.
The henchmen didn’t recognize the voice on the phone. Vicente grabs it from the goon’s hand, “¿Quien es este?” Who is this?

Pretending to be insulted, I said, “¿Quien soy? Me conoces como ‘el Fantasma.’” Who am I? You know me as ‘the Ghost.’

His fear filled my scope. I slipped the bolt forward and squeezed the trigger. Vicente’s chest burst, painting the wall behind him. As his body falls, I pull the bolt back and cycle it forward. I take aim at one of the henchmen and I squeeze. His head explodes. The other attempts to flee. I cycle the bolt. He reaches the car. My bullet roars as it embeds itself into the engine block. He engages the starter and found his vehicle dead. I cycle the bolt again as the hombre settles in behind the front tire.

The round sits in the chamber ready, my finger ready. The henchman raises up to take aim with his pistol. I saw the scene in slow motion. The round burst from my barrel and traversed the thirteen hundred meters. Gravity pulls at the depleted Uranium. The round finds purchase in the stucco wall behind him. He fell back from the force, blood and brain seep from the wound within his ocular orbit.

I find Jamilet in the scope. Her face painted in blood and fear. I clear the chamber, breakdown the rifle, and police my brass. When the local police arrived at the tower, I was gone. When I reached the local cantina, I texted my handler. “It’s done.”

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