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Rodolfo Herrera was a man well suited to his profession. Killing came naturally to him, almost like his life was predetermined to follow a particular path. He liked to kill. Killing did not give him a buzz or a high, like h****n or cocaine might to an addict, it was more a feeling of immense satisfaction at having completed an assignment successfully. It has to help when you are paid well for doing something you love to do.
For Herrera, killing was a way of life. It was his career, and he was damn good at it. He should be; he started at the tender age of thirteen when he shot and killed a neighbourhood bully with his father’s .45 semi-automatic pistol. He knew as soon as he pulled the trigger and saw the bully fall dead at his feet that killing was what he wanted to do. Now, at forty-t
