[ WP ] A villian who thinks he 's a hero realizes he 's the villian . What is he thinking ?

It was n't that hard. He was exactly where they said he'd be, and the so called `` resistance'' amounted to four poorly trained bodyguards that could n't shoot for shit. 
 
 Two months ago the first whispers in nearly ten years of his whereabouts made their way to the ears of some higher-ups. Three separate agents were able to confirm the validity of the claims, and a surveillance had been established. 
 
 He never left his compound. 
 
 Two gardeners were constantly not gardening on the property, more just standing around, and two house cleaners who carried a lot of cleaning equipment came and went in turns. 
 
 There was a woman and a boy, who was estimated to be around ten years old, who would visit everyday. 
 
 Someone chose Saturday. There was some significance, but it was n't communicated to me. I had my orders. 
 
 My men had been `` my men'' for the past seven years. We knew each others strengths, weaknesses, fears, and turn-ons. Secrets do n't exist when you're constantly in the shit. And the shit we'd seen and been in was who we were now. 
 
 The sun, still making its way into the sky, was at our backs as we blasted a hole in the compound wall. The two gardeners necks were broken before the blast had finished ringing in their ears, and the cleaners did n't have time to wipe the dust from their eyes before two bullets did a neat job of wiping them away. 
 
 He was standing behind the couch with his back against the wall. His eyes told no lies: he was not afraid. He had obviously expected it; after what he had done, after all these years. 
 
 The boy was sobbing in the corner. 
 
 One of my men lifted him by the collar of his dusty green shirt. He pulled a knife out and slit the boy's throat. 
 
 His mother cried out. She had been crouched behind the couch. She dove to the body of her once beloved son. She tried to hold in the blood spilling from his throat; she tried to hold in her breath and pain. 
 
 One of my men shot her in the head. 
 
 He did not flinch. He stayed staring at me. 
 
 I suppose he thought he was telling me something with those bulging, bloodshot eyes of his. 
 
 I suppose one day they'll tell me. 
 
 I keep them in this little jar.
