The First Test

I stand perfectly still as Vargas's eyes bore into me. The smoke from his cigar rises between us, creating a hazy barrier I wish was thicker. My heart pounds in my chest, but I force my breathing to remain steady. This is the moment, pass his test or end up dead in a ditch somewhere.

"You have a weapon?" Vargas finally asks, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. The question hangs in the smoke-filled air between us, loaded with implications.

"Yes," I answer, keeping it short like Miguel advised. No unnecessary details, no nervous rambling.

Vargas leans forward slightly, the leather of his chair creaking under his weight. His piercing dark eyes never leave mine as he takes another long drag from his thin cigar. The scar on his left cheek seems to deepen with his expression. "Revolver or pistol?" he demands, exhaling a cloud of pungent smoke that drifts across the desk between us.

"Revolver," I say, feeling the weight of it pressed against the small of my back.

He extends his hand, palm up. "Give it to me."

I reach behind me slowly, making sure my movements are deliberate and non-threatening. The gun feels heavier than usual as I place it in his outstretched hand.

Vargas examines the revolver with practiced eyes, turning it over in his hands. He pops open the cylinder and removes five bullets, placing four of them on the desk. The remaining bullet he palms, then closes his hand around it.

His movements are methodical as he snaps the cylinder shut and spins it. The clicking sound fills the room. He keeps the gun under the table for a moment, and I hear a soft click as he inserts the bullet.

"Take it," he says, sliding the revolver across the desk.

I pick it up.

"Aim at yourself and pull the trigger."

Miguel shifts nervously beside me, but stays silent.

"Russian roulette?" I ask, unable to stop myself.

Vargas's eyes narrow. "You scared?"

"No," I lie, then reconsider. "Maybe a little."

A thin smile crosses his face. "You should be."

I aim it at my heart. It's better this way. If the bullet fires, I'll have a chance to rewind, assuming I can focus through the pain long enough to burn some bills. But only if I act fast enough. Vargas doesn't mind that the rules of Russian roulette have been slightly deviated. Big relief.

I place the barrel against my chest, right over my heart. The metal feels cold even through my shirt. I have hundred in my pocket. That's enough seconds to rewind if things go wrong. More than enough. Still, my mouth goes dry.

"You believe the bullet is in the last chamber?" Vargas asks.

I nod, trying to look confident. "I trust you put it there."

"Then pull the trigger."

I take a deep breath and squeeze.

Click.

Empty.

I only twitch slightly, but sweat breaks out on my forehead in cold, heavy beads that threaten to roll down into my eyes. My shirt collar feels suddenly tight. The revolver seems to gain weight in my hand, becoming heavier with each empty chamber, each narrowing of the odds.

"Again," Vargas commands with sharp voice. His eyes never leave mine. The smoke from his thin cigar curls upward.

Click.

Another empty chamber. The odds are getting worse.

Click.

The third pull makes my hand shake noticeably. Three down, two to go. The math is simple and terrifying, the chances of hitting the bullet are increasing with each pull.

"Continue," Vargas says, watching my every reaction.

My finger trembles against the trigger for the fourth pull.

Click.

Four empty chambers. The bullet has to be in one of the next two. My throat constricts as I rotate the cylinder for the fifth time.

Click.

My hand jerks violently at the sound, and the revolver nearly slips from my grasp. I fumble to keep hold of it, my fingers slick with sweat. Five empty chambers. The bullet must be in the last one.

I lower the gun, my hand still trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. The weight of it feels wrong now, almost deceptive. Miguel crosses himself in a hurried, desperate motion, mumbling what sounds like a prayer under his breath, fragments of "Santa María" and "protégenos" barely audible in the tense room. I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, the fabric coming away damp as I try to regain some composure. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I'm surprised Vargas can't see it through my shirt, and the hundred dollars in my pocket feels suddenly inadequate. A pathetic insurance policy against whatever sick games this man has planned next.

Vargas remains silent, watching us with those penetrating eyes that seem to catalog every reaction, every micro-expression. The sounds from outside filter in, like cars being washed, people talking, life continuing as normal, but in here, the silence feels deafening.

What else can this paranoid bastard come up with? I wonder, my mind racing through possibilities. Will he force me to take some blood oath of allegiance, slicing open my palm to mix blood with his? Or maybe he'll send me to steal a rival gang's car as some kind of initiation test? The possibilities seem endless and equally unpleasant.

I place the revolver on the desk, sliding it toward him. Vargas doesn't reach for it immediately, just stares at it like it's telling him something about me that I don't even know myself.

The clock on the wall ticks loudly, marking each second of this excruciating silence. I've passed one test, but something tells me Vargas is just getting started.

"You passed the first test," he says. "Now for the second."

My stomach drops.

"I didn't put the bullet in at all."

The words hang in the air between us. I stare at him, processing what he just said. The cylinder was empty the whole time? Or is this another test?

"You have to believe me," Vargas continues, his voice soft but commanding. "And do it again."