41
“Ah, Senor Traynor?” Rodolfo Herrera said to the man standing on the veranda. At his side he held his .45 hand g*n, c****d and ready to fire. He lowered his eyes and saw Traynor also had a weapon at his side. “You are Senor Jackson Traynor, right?” he asked. The man on the veranda did not respond. He stood unmoving, staring back at him in silence.
“Finally, we meet,” Herrera said. The man still offered no response.
Twenty metres separated the two men but Herrera sensed there was something about the way the man on the veranda stood silently staring down at him, something about his demeanour that conveyed more than words ever could. It was like he could see, even feel the hatred in Traynor’s eyes burning into his own despite the darkening night and the distance between them.
Rodolfo H
