Cruz sat on the couch and appeared to be engrossed in a made-for-TV crime movie. In reality, with the suppressor already attached to his gun, he was waiting for the perfect opportunity to put down the brothers. With strict orders from John Vance, he wasn’t about to fail him, or he would be next. He watched as Mauricio and Antonio sat at the kitchen table and played hand after hand of poker.
In the neighborhood Cruz lived in, and with houses relatively close to each other, he couldn’t risk the sound of gunshots alerting everyone on his street. He tucked the gun in his waistband and adjusted his shirt to cover it.
Cruz paused the TV, rose from the couch, and strolled into the kitchen with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “I’m ready for a beer.” He walked to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. “Either of you want one?”
Mauricio turned, and a .45 tactical handgun was pointed straight at his head. “What the—?” He jumped to his feet, and the chair fell backward and crashed to the floor. Antonio spun around.
“I’m sorry, guys, but John ordered me to do it. If I don’t kill you, he’ll kill me.” Cruz chambered a round and took aim. Before the brothers could plead for their lives, he fired two shots into their chests. After he crossed the kitchen, Cruz looked down at the blood pooling beneath them and pulled the trigger twice more, this time to each man’s forehead. He cursed his own fate as he took pictures of their bloodied bodies as proof to send to John. Hal Morton was next. Cruz had no choice if he wanted to survive, but as soon as Hal was dead, he would make himself scarce and flee to Mexico. He grabbed his passports, phone, cash, guns, and wallet, as well as the phones and wallets from Mauricio and Antonio’s bodies, then jumped into his Escalade. Nobody affiliated with the Morton murder or to John Vance—especially John himself—would ever see him again.