ASESINO

They never call him first.

By the time someone picks up the phone to dial Cain Taggert, the problem has burned three cities, shot the mayor in daylight, and left a body hanging off a highway overpass with no teeth.

Taggert isn’t a hitman.

He’s a conclusion.

A full stop at the end of a sentence written in blood.

There’s no agency behind him.

No badge. No team. No backup. No codeword clearance.

There’s just a name whispered in dead men’s lungs, and a reputation that leaves seasoned killers pissing themselves in cheap motel showers.

He doesn't do bodyguard work.

He doesn’t protect politicians.

He doesn’t negotiate.

He kills.

And he doesn’t leave loose ends. Only corpses.


In Mexico, power wears a suit but smells like gasoline.

The President’s a puppet.

The Cartels pull the strings.

The cops are hyenas. The army’s on the payroll. The press gets paid to keep quiet—or they get buried under bridges with their eyes gouged out and their mouths sewn shut.

One woman, Elena Lopez, didn’t shut up.

She printed names.

She printed faces.

She printed the truth.

Now everyone wants her dead.

Cops. Soldiers. Judges. Assassins.

Even the cartels can’t agree on who gets the honour of gutting her first.

She’s out of time.

Out of allies.

And the last man who tried to help her got left naked and bullet-ridden on the side of the road—his heart cut out and mailed to his mother.

Then a priest gave her a card.

No name, just a number.

Said if she was desperate enough to die, she might as well call the man who sends Death running in the opposite direction.

She called it.

And somewhere in a dirty room above a dive bar in Juárez, Cain Taggert picked up his phone and said only four words:

“Who do I kill?”


This isn’t a rescue story.

This is a revenge story.

And by the time it’s done,

Mexico will run out of body bags.