Miguel peered through the rifle’s scope, adjusted the magnification, adjusted for the wind. Locked in the crosshairs, the man, fat from the suffering of his people, sat at breakfast as his plump, laughing wife swept in coffee and scones. He poured syrup on his son’s waffles and cut his daughter’s cantaloupe. He kissed his wife. His jocular demeanor veiled the reptilian gaze that sent chills through the bones of his victims, the steely voice that sentenced innocent fathers and sons to death, the callused hands most comfortable on the hilt of a knife or the trigger of a gun. The children ran to him to tickle his jowls, pull at his sideburns.
Miguel pulled the trigger.