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The Cuban Connection by Kevin Surface Excerpt 12

Scouring the living room and the kitchen area, he finally found the liquor cabinet. Pushing a couple of bottles aside, he reached for the liter of vodka and walked over to the refrigerator and grinned widely as he found a full ice cube tray in the freezer. Twisting the tray and shaking the cubes loose, he tossed a few into the empty glass on the kitchen counter and poured himself three fingers of the top-shelf vodka. He walked back into the living room and plopped down on the couch directly across from the front door. After taking a long draw of the ice-chilled vodka, he placed it on the coffee table in front of him and withdrew the 9mm PM Makarov semi-automatic pistol from its shoulder holster and clicked the button, dropping the clip out to make doubly sure it contained the full eight rounds of ammunition. Snapping the cartridge back into place, he took the Scorpion 9mm perforated silencer from his jacket pocket and threaded it onto the end of the pistol. Even though they were in a secluded area, there was no reason to take a chance on someone hearing a gunshot.

An erotic sensation pulsed through his groin as he fingered the silencer clockwise onto the firearm. There was something sensual about the power the firearm gave him to snuff out a human life in the blink of an eye. He had known it since he was a young boy growing up in Ukraine, and had killed his first eland with his father. Killing - regardless of what or whom - gave him a high that couldn't be duplicated by any other means. A competent criminal psychologist would have labeled him a homicidal sociopath. In layman's terms, killing turned him on without the ordinary, inherent pangs of overwhelming guilt that usually accompanied such acts of violence.

He took the glass of vodka from the coffee table and put the pistol in its place. A warm feeling sated his stomach as he took another swig from his drink and reached up to the wall switch above the sofa and flicked off the light. It wouldn't be long now, he thought to himself with a feeling of satisfaction, as he patiently waited in the pitch-black darkness of the safe house for the infamous, but soon-to-be-deceased Yuri Cachencko.

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