Sam was frustrated, irritated, bored even, but not surprised.
Don’t try to be a hero, just take your cut and look the other way, he had been warned. But Sam’s conscience would not permit him, even though he knew that exposing corruption in the system was akin to snitching, and snitches are always put out to pasture.
Yes Sir. No good deed goes unpunished.
So here he was, patrolling the one place where no one ever came. Just him, the rocks, and moss. The only narco here was sea-weed, and unless those damn rocks were potentially a dealer in disguise, he had no idea why he was even approaching that barking dog.
Yet his gut told him to look, and Sam ignored neither his conscience nor his gut.
And suddenly he wasn’t bored anymore…
The face was bashed beyond recognition, but the neck bore the distinct tattoo of the Colombian cartel.
In response to the 125th Challenge of Flash Fiction for Aspiring WritersFlash Fiction for Aspiring Writers based on a photo provided by Louise with The Storyteller’s Abode.