The Merchant of Death

 The smell of ripe tomatoes had never fooled anyone, but Marky liked to think it did. Every morning, he arranged the fruits in neat pyramids at his stall in the city’s open market, his hands were steady, but his eyes restless. To everyone around, he was a quiet immigrant from Mexico with an accent too heavy to place. He smiled easily and spoke little. He had fled Mexico years ago after a botched heist left ten policemen and four trusted cartel members dead. This incident made his name burn into every wanted list from Tijuana to Chihuahua. After a successful escape from his country, he landed in Africa and reinvented himself taking up a new profile. The downcast forest edge of Kambala, made he a new home for himself. He swore he had buried the man he used to be. **** “Tomatoes fresh?” A man asked, his voice sharp as broken glass as he sized Marky up. Marky had a skin tanned to a permanent bronze, with thin white scars tracing along his jaw. His face, angular, with cheekbones standing high. His eyes, the color of metal cooled in ash, and brows thick. His hair was charcoal black, streaked with early gray, cropped short on the sides but long enough on top to fall when he leaned forward. He stood around six feet tall, lean but muscled with broad shoulders. The man, average in height, around 5,4, dark, sturdy with a lean smile that didn’t touch his eyes picked up a tomato, rolled it his palm and glanced at Marky smirking. Marky sucked in air, wiped his hands on his apron and pushed aside the bowl of stew and eggs he was eating. “What do you want to buy?” Marky asked, his eyes scanning the market for possible threats. “You don’t look like a farmer, MarKY.” He said with emphasis on the name. Marky froze. No one had ever said his name like that before. “Who are you and what do you want to BUY?” he inquired, forcing a smile. The man leaned closer. “I am Soveli. And you, you used to go by Marcos de la Fuego. The ruthless thief slash drug lord who vanished after that biggest bank job in Durango” he whispered, a satisfying smile on his face when he saw Marky’s jaw lock. “Relax. I’m not here for the bounty on you. I just need something from you. A shotgun. I know a man like you still knows how to find one.” “I sell tomatoes, Soveli.” Marky replied, his tone tight. “Sure,” Soveli said, setting the tomato down. “But if I whisper your name loud enough, don’t you think the people who want your head will find you before the market closes? Help me, and your secret stays safe.” Marky’s muscles were straining under his shirt and his palms had become a hard ball of fury. He thought he had gotten over the ghost of his past but now it stood before him. Marky arched his head brow and swallowed. “Meet me here tonight.” “Good choice MarKY,” Soveli responded, accentuating his last word. The moon sliced silver lines across the leaves of the towering trees that bordered the small path to the forest. The forest loomed ahead, locals called it the downcasters forest, a place where fugitives hid and rarely came back out. “Nice hideout,” Soveli said, eyeing the crooked shack by the trees. “It’s quiet,” Marky muttered, unlocking the door. “That’s all I need.”  He walked in first and lit the lanterns that hung close to the wall. The air smelled nothing like tomatoes but of oil and rust. Without hesitation, he reached beneath the floorboards and pulled out a long-wrapped bundle. It was a shotgun, its metal glinting faintly in the lantern light. Soveli whistled. “Beauty, isn’t she? Must’ve missed the feel of it.” Marky gave a thin smile. “Some ghosts don’t stay buried.” Soveli reached to get the gun from him but Marky drew back, waving his pointy finger in Soveli’s face, “money first.” Soveli gave a wry smile and reached into his pocket but a knock on the door and several sounds of boots on the gravel that Marky had laid on his front porch made him pause with a wide grin. Marky’s breath hitched. “Who did you bring here?” he hissed. Soveli didn’t answer. He only smirked. “You didn’t really think I’d come alone, did you? There’s a bounty on your head worth more than your whole market stand. Come on!” Marky’s pulse thundered. The men outside had closed in, probably the cartel or maybe bounty hunters. He was sure it wasn’t the police. Those ones closed a case too quickly without a care in the world. Either way, it didn’t matter. They’d found him. Marky gripped the shotgun, but he knew it was useless. There were too many of them. But, something old and feral stirred inside him. He groaned and reached into his pocket, finding the cold edge of his knife. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he whispered, swiftly grabbing Soveli. Soveli laughed softly. “You’re done, Marky or should I say MaRrrcos”. The blade flashed, quick as lightning, pressing against Soveli’s neck. "We'll both die a merchant’s death, Marcos,” Soveli remarked rather fearlessly. Outside, a voice shouted orders as Marky dragged Soveli backward, using him as a shield. “Tell them to back off!” Marky barked. Soveli winced, blood glinting at the knife’s tip. “Who do you think I am? A cartel lord? They’ll kill you either way,” he spat. “I know,” Marky said, a strange calm settling over him. “But I’ll choose…” Before he could finish his sentence, a bullet shattered the window. Soveli screamed as Marky shoved him forward, into the open. Picking up the gun, Marky fired once in return, the shotgun kicking back hard. Chaos erupted, gunfire, shouting and wood splintering. He managed to shoot twice more before a bullet found his shoulder, spinning him to the ground. He was really trapped as pain exploded through him, the men rushed in, raining more bullets on him. When the gunfire finally stopped, Marky was lying face-down in his cabin, his eyes open. The next day, he was called the *Merchant of Death* in the papers and news of his death spread across Kambala and Mexico. >PS: The names, characters, and events in this story are entirely fictional and bear no intentional resemblance to real persons, living or dead. This piece was written purely as a creative response to the Freewriters [Daily Prompt](https://peakd.com/hive-161155/@daily.prompt/30-october-2025-mariannewests-freewrite-writing-prompt-day-2906-merchant-of-death) ^{[img1](https://pixabay.com/photos/afghanistan-merchant-man-village-79490/) [img2](https://pixabay.com/photos/old-merchants-house-detail-84334/)}