With each taste, a wall inside him crumbled.
The jar sat on the zinc bar top, catching the greasy noon light. It was labeled Salsa de la Astucia – Sauce of Guile. guile's sauceguillermo fraile
He should have stopped. But the lightness was intoxicating. He took another spoonful. Then another. With each taste, a wall inside him crumbled
“Taste it, Guillermo,” cozened the woman behind the bar. She had a knife-scarred face and eyes like polished obsidian. Her name was Soledad. She was the last person you came to when you needed to disappear. With each taste
The sound of his partner choking on a silenced round in Prague—because Guillermo had seen the shooter and stepped aside. Gone. He felt heroic.