MIKE's legs hurt. And his arms. And back. And just about everything really. Long hours at the construction site did wonders on his body. Aching, spraining wonders. As he walked down the sidewalk, he reassured himself that at the least he could talk to José. José was the owner of a local hardware/tool supplier store in downtown Miami. Despite the age gap of about 40 years, him and MIKE got along quite well. Their shared background of being escapees from Castro's regime, hatred for communism, and love of Cuban cigars and tequila drew them close. They'd talk for hours about memories and stories of their birthplace, and would be sure to tell the other of something new in their day.

As MIKE approached the store, he noticed the streetlights turning on all around the market place. "Huh," he said to himself. "¿es la noche ya?" MIKE was worried. This area in Miami wasn't the safest at night. He had to talk to José quick, maybe ask to sleep in his spare bedroom in his apartment upstairs. Despite what the other operatives in 50 Blessings had advised him, MIKE didn't carry any weapons. He had no experience, had never gone on any operations. He knew full well what the organization did, but he'd never participated. To him, they were family, but he barely knew some of them. He contemplated on this as he entered the door to the store and walked through. Regardless, he concluded, he felt he made the right choice. He'd need them someday.

MIKE's chain of thought was broken by something. A smell. He became alert. MIKE hadn't smelt that certain smell in a while. He couldn't believe it.

The old son of a bitch was burning a Cuban cigar without him.

MIKE started quickly walking to the back of the store, to the main office, ready to cheerfully scold José. But MIKE started to think as he walked. Somethings off, he thought to himself. José would've told MIKE that he had a couple of Cuban cigs. They were a luxury to get a hold of, and he wasn't sharing? He didn't even bring the subject up the last time they talked. And furthermore, the front door was unlocked. José wasn't stupid, he locked it all the time after hours, MIKE was the only other person who had a key. MIKE grew more and more worried. He opened the door to the back office, heart beating, and sweat building.

And he stopped.

José was sitting in his chair, with two bottles of tequila on his desk and a bullet hole in his head. The blood splatter covered the back wall, but even then the bullet hole was still visible in the plaster. MIKE remembered what the burning Cuban cigar meant. A calling card? No, no that wasn't possible, he couldn't be here, not possible whatsoever. MIKE stood paralyzed for a couple of moments, until he heard what sounded like someone coming down the stairs from José's apartment, directly down the isle from the back office. By the time MIKE was able to register that he had to move, or do something, the man had already made it downstairs, and noticed MIKE. He was slim, but muscular, about five foot nine, and had jet black hair and an accompanying mustache. MIKE noticed the small, black box-like object in the man's hands. An SMG, possibly an Uzi,with a silencer, and the man was raising it up with a clear intent on using it.

MIKE ducked back into the office, barely avoiding the barrage of bullets. He quickly ran over to José's desk, and after muttering a quick "forgive me," moved the chair containing his body, and removed a small revolver from one of the drawers in the desk. He displayed his inexperience by running out into the hallway and haphazardly waiving the gun at the man's general direction. The attacker, on the other hand, turned out to not be that skilled either. He apparently had emptied his entire magazine when he fired at MIKE, and now was fumbling for a second one to reload. Realizing what was in MIKE's hand, the Cuban dropped his weapon and ran towards the back door. MIKE inexpertly fired off five shots. Three missed, with two hitting their mark. The man fell and didn't move, but was still alive based off his moans of pain. MIKE walked towards the downed man, slowly, and turned him over. He propped him up against the isle of tools and supplies. MIKE slapped the man once, to get his attention, and raised his head.

"¿Que os ha enviado?" He asked, "¿Quien?"

The man started to chuckle, and then laugh, with blood flowing from his mouth. MIKE looked at him with slight disbelief, and then upon remembering what the man did, jammed his thumb into one of the man's bullet wounds. He repeated himself, more determined this time. He had the man's attention.

"¿QUIEN?"

The man looked at MIKE with a bloody grin, and said one word.

"Lupe"

MIKE stared at the man. No. That wasn't possible. It-it couldn't. MIKE stood up and walked a few foot towards the back door. Thoughts, feelings, memories flooded his brain, all at once. He was brought back to reality by the choked laughs of the dying man.

"Cómo?" MIKE asked.

"Usted." The man replied. "Dejaste los detalles de su escape en su casa"

MIKE was horrified. He stared at the man for a good ten seconds before he spoke again.

"¿Qué?" The man stuttered, in between coughs of blood. "¿No contento de saber de tu-"

MIKE fired the last round into the man's head, silencing him for good.

He stopped everything to analyze the situation. Lupe. Lupe was back. He was coming after MIKE, that was for sure. But then why kill José? To get to him? MIKE realized there was no choice but to try and do away with Lupe. But how? With his poor skills, he wouldn't stand a chance against him. An there was no doubt in MIKE's mind that the man he killed was probably not the only operative Lupe may have brought over. It was then MIKE realized he'd need help. Not only in training, but maybe even from the other operatives. He stashed the revolver in the back of his pants, and quickly recovered the failed assassin's uzi. MIKE took out his cell phone, and dialed up the number of one of the operatives. He was one of the best, and one of the original founders, he'd have some hint of what to do and what to teach MIKE. He'd be the best to reach out for at a time like this.

MIKE hit the call button, and waited for a response.

"This is Avery," the voice replied. "Whaddya need MIKE?"

"Señor Avery, is the training program still open?"

"Yea, if you need training come on over. Why, something happen?"

MIKE looked at the body of the dead Cuban

"Let's just say i got a call from home."