The Aztec Avenger

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What happened to me several months ago was what a psychologist would call an identity crisis. The symptoms were easy to identify. First, I began to lose interest in my work. Then it turned into a gnawing discontent, and finally into an outright dislike for what I was doing. I began to get a feeling of being trapped and was faced with the fact that I was well into my life and what the hell had I accomplished?

I asked myself the crucial question.

“Who are you?”

And the answer was, “I’m a killer.”

I didn’t like the answer.

So I walked away from AXE, from Hawk, from Dupont Circle in Washington, D.C., and swore that I’d never do another job for them as long as I lived.

Wilhelmina, the 9mm. Luger that was almost like an extension of my right hand, was packed away along with Hugo and Pierre. I had run my fingers lovingly over the deadly, honed steel of the stiletto before I laid it down and wrapped the gun, the knife, and the tiny gas bomb into a chamois lining. All three went into my safe deposit box. The next day I was gone,

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