Menendez’s head vaporized in a pink puff.
Just like the movies, thought Trio, shouldering her .300 Winchester Magnum. She crossed the Parque Central Tower roof, grabbed the zipline handles, and launched off the ledge.
Ten yards from Banco Mercantil, the line pinged like a guitar string. Her peripherals caught the shooter, two roofs over, ducking out. The cartel wrapping up loose ends.
Then she was plummeting, glass windows flashing by – fortieth floor, thirtieth, twentieth.
Trio contemplated a death-defying acrobatic feat, crashing through mirrored glass in slow motion, landing ninja-style. Alas, this was no movie. She painted the sidewalk red.