Page 133 of Sinful
We cut them down.
The sound is deafening—gunfire echoing off walls, men screaming, someone crying for his mother in Spanish.
I try not to think about it. Try not to see their faces.
Just move. Just survive. Just complete the mission.
We clear the first floor in ten minutes.
Eight bodies. None of them are Sebastián.
"Upstairs," Phantom says.
The staircase is narrow.
Dangerous.
The perfect ambush point, but we go up anyway.
A soldier appears at the top with a shotgun.
Phantom shoots him before he can fire.
The body tumbles down the stairs, lands at our feet.
We step over it.
Upstairs is quieter, more expensive.
This is where Sebastián lives—thick carpet, artwork on the walls, the kind of luxury built on blood money and suffering.
Doors line both sides of the hallway.
We clear them methodically.
Bedroom—empty.
Bathroom—empty.
Another bedroom—a woman cowering in the corner, unarmed, crying.
Phantom waves us past. She's not our target.
Then we reach the office at the end of the hall.
The door is heavy wood. Locked.
Shadow kicks it open.
And there he is.
Sebastián Salazar looks exactly like his photos. Mid-forties, well-dressed even at 5 AM, standing behind an expensive desk with a pistol in his hand.
Two bodyguards flank him.
Both armed. Both look nervous.
"Gentlemen," Sebastián says in perfect English. "I think we can discuss this like reasonable men."
