This appears in a pre-2010 issue of Down in the Dirt magazine.
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The walls of the dimly-lit room sweat incessantly while cockroaches scurried on the floor. A lonely moth disturbed the only source of light, a light bulb that flickered constantly, giving the room an eerie ambiance. Two dark figures sat facing each other across a small rectangular table in the room’s center, faces obscured by the gloom. One of the shapes held a small photograph in his hand and studied it fixedly. He looked up from the picture with an annoyed frown. “Are you sure it was him?”
“Yes. You know our sources are always correct, Benito,” the other man replied matter-of-factly. He was quite handsome, apparently in his early twenties and his face was yet unmarked by the numerous wrinkles that covered Benito’s face. A well trimmed black beard grew on his angular features. “You think he poses a threat to our organization?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, my good Romero.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Still, I believe he needs to be removed, lest he goes and draws too much attention from the government. We want to keep all this strictly legal, right?” There was a slight hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“He might prove useful for us though. You know, his popularity with the people is considerable.”
“Yes, but we can’t let the puppy get out of control now, can we? Besides, you know those guerillas cause nothing but trouble for us.”
“Khrushchev wouldn’t approve of his elimination. You, of all people, should know that.”
“My good Romero, there’s no need to bring the Soviets into the game. They won’t even know of our involvement. A quick poisoning or maybe a shot to the head and it’s all over.”
“Khrushchev wouldn’t approve,” Romero reiterated in a firm tone. “Besides, he’s already receiving supplies from the Russians. They think this Guevara might be their trump card against the Americans.”
Benito’s smile slipped. He thinks he knows what this is about. Stupid youth, so full of confidence but no brains. No brains at all. He shrugged off the thought. The creases on Benito’s forehead deepened as he resumed his studying of the photograph. I might have to dispose of him...
“You know, Romero, I really don’t want to be doing this but...” Benito quickly reached into his coat and pulled out a pistol. Before he could fire a shot, Romero already had a gun pointed at his head.
“Now, now, my good Romero, put that gun down. Have you lost your mind? What do you think you’re doing?”
“I could ask you the same question, Benito.” Romero’s voice was calm and steady and his face betrayed no emotion. A cold bead of sweat formed on Benito’s forehead. “Remember, we’re in the middle of the jungle ... no one will hear you die.”
“Romero, I didn’t mean it like that. Look, we’ll forget this ever happened, alright? Here, I’ll pay you the money I promised. Take it, take it. We’ll go out and have a drink after this, won’t we?” He talked fast and his voice was the squeal of a cornered pig.
“I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere.” Romero pulled the trigger with a jerk of his finger. The light on the ceiling swung wildly, back and forth and back and forth. For a long moment the dripping water was the only sound in the room.
Romero stepped over to Benito’s corpse and felt for his pulse. Satisfied, he turned away and pulled out his walkie-talkie. “Is he dead?” a voice asked from the device.
“Yes, Your Excellency. He has been...taken care of.”
“Good. Did you find out the code?”
“Yes. Apparently it’s ‘Red Business.’”
“Good, good. You have done well indeed, Romero. I will miss your services. You are a good man, Romero. A good man! I will see you in heaven.”
“What? What’s the meaning of this? This isn’t what you promised! This isn’t what you promised!” Even as the questions formed on Romero’s lips, the door to the room burst open with a loud CRACK!, followed by sudden bursts of gunfire.
A spetsnaz officer entered cautiously, crouching low. He moved over to the two corpses and gave Romero’s head a kick. Dead. That seemed to suit the officer. He picked up the walkie-talkie and studied the blood-stained photo for a second. Gingerly picking it up in his hands, he turned off the light with a quick squeeze of his trigger, then turned to leave, closing the door behind him.
