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  Requiem for the Assassin

  Russell Blake

  Copyright © 2014 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:

  [email protected].

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  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  JET – Ops Files Excerpt

  Thrillers by Russell Blake

  FATAL EXCHANGE

  THE GERONIMO BREACH

  ZERO SUM

  THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY

  THE VOYNICH CYPHER

  SILVER JUSTICE

  UPON A PALE HORSE

  The Assassin Series by Russell Blake

  KING OF SWORDS

  NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN

  RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN

  REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN

  BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN

  REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN

  The JET Series by Russell Blake

  JET

  JET II – BETRAYAL

  JET III – VENGEANCE

  JET IV – RECKONING

  JET V – LEGACY

  JET VI – JUSTICE

  JET VII – SANCTUARY

  JET – OPS FILES (prequel)

  The BLACK Series by Russell Blake

  BLACK

  BLACK IS BACK

  BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK

  BLACK TO REALITY

  Co-authored with Clive Cussler

  THE EYE OF HEAVEN

  Non Fiction by Russell Blake

  AN ANGEL WITH FUR

  HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS

  (while drunk, high or incarcerated)

  About the Author

  A Wall Street Journal and The Times featured author, Russell Blake lives full time on the Pacific coast of Mexico. He is the acclaimed author of many thrillers, including the Assassin series, the JET series, and the BLACK series. He has also co-authored The Eye of Heaven with Clive Cussler for Penguin Books.

  “Capt.” Russell enjoys writing, fishing, playing with his dogs, collecting and sampling tequila, and waging an ongoing battle against world domination by clowns.

  Visit Russell’s salient website for updates

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  Chapter 1

  Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico

  Cars clogged the Transpeninsular Highway that stretched along the waterfront, running from the border all the way to the southern tip of the thousand-mile-long peninsula. Military vehicles added to the confusion, and troop transports filled with masked soldiers lined the sidewalk adjacent to the naval base as a cadre of marines waved the morning traffic past a temporary roadblock. A procession of limousines wound from the checkpoint to the base gates, where naval personnel directed them to a parking area near the administrative offices.

  A cool morning fog had ceded its dominance of the harbor to the ascending sun, its rays glinting off the water like yellow flame, the surface a greenish-blue with hints of petroleum sheen and its depths cloudy with pollution and runoff from the growing metropolis of three hundred thousand. The air smelled of salt and decaying sea life tinged with the noxious odor of exhaust belching from the stacks of nearby cruise ships tethered to massive docks. A concrete pier jutted into the harbor, where several naval ships tugged gently at their dock lines, the destroyer and battleship on the one side drab and gray beside the futuristic vessel on the other, its topsides decorated with colorful banners and streamers straightened in the sea breeze, its new paint gleaming, its lines aggressive and predatory.

  A contingent of marines in full dress uniform stood at rigid attention along the jetty road, ignoring the crowd of well-dressed locals making their way to the harbor. An occasional golf cart meandered between strolling families, ferrying dignitaries to the small stage that had been set up by the waterfront, where last minute sound checks of the public address system squealed in the air like wounded birds. Scores of brown sea lions lined the rocks, staring curiously at the ruckus, their slumber interrupted by the unwelcome feedback. A large bull raised its head and called out, his bark competing with the amplified noise, and the surrounding cows gathered closer, the male’s primacy reestablished in the din.

  At the cordoned gathering point near the stage, a harried officer checked his watch as he surveyed the surge of humanity approaching for the ceremony. The event had made his duty harder during a difficult time, with the city beset by a wave of violence as several cartels battled for dominance over Baja’s largest port. Captain Alvarez was overseeing security for the launch and had argued against allowing the general public on the base. But he’d been overruled by his superiors, who had insisted that a moment of pride like the christening of Mexico’s newest naval vessel would not be diminished by thugs with popguns.

  The spectacle would be attended by busloads of government bureaucrats, as well as any naval officer with enough clout to arrange for a long weekend in the port city. Dozens of private yachts floated nearby, decks lined with revelers for whom the relatively early hour was no deterrent, and the surrounding harbor was clogged with pangas – open-decked water taxis and fishing boats equipped with wheezing outboard motors and filled with the curious and the bored.

  Under ordinary circumstances Alvarez wouldn’t have been particularly concerned about the event, but the prior month’s series of grisly beheadings and mass executions had him jumpy, even though the victims had all been cartel-related.

  He was on edge because, in spite of his most compelling arguments, his commanding officer had decided not to search the spectators for weapons, reasoning that only a madman would try to start trouble on a naval base surrounded by armed men. Alvarez didn’t disagree, but his job was to plan for the unexpected, and right now he had a couple of thousand unknowns headed for the stage, the huge new high-speed warship looming behind it.

  Alvarez wiped a trace of sweat from his face as his subordinate Lieute
nant Barrera approached, a handheld radio glued to his ear as the younger officer marched toward him.

  “The VIPs are arriving. Estimated start time’s been moved to ten thirty,” Barrera announced.

  “Figures. Everyone’s half an hour late. Some things are uniquely reliable,” Alvarez said.

  “So far everything’s pretty calm. The only wrinkle was a couple of guys in the parking lot who almost came to blows.”

  “Let’s hope that remains the case,” Alvarez muttered, and then his gaze shifted beyond the lieutenant to an advancing older officer, his bearing ramrod straight despite his corpulent physique. Alvarez stiffened and offered a salute, and Barrera mirrored him.

  The heavyset officer returned their salute and continued past, trailed by two aides. Alvarez watched the group move to the side of the stage, and squinted at Barrera.

  “I guess the admiral didn’t get the memo about the show not starting on time.”

  Barrera nodded. “He looks like he’s ready to break the bottle and have done with it.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t decide to do so prematurely. He’s not the only important person who’s shown up for this.”

  Admiral Torreon was one of the top officers in the Mexican Navy, in charge of Pacific operations. His reputation was of a sybarite, but a scrupulously honest one, and he’d earned the respect of his subordinates by being fair in his dealings and orders. He cut an imposing figure in his dress uniform, his gray hair gleaming like gunmetal in the sun, his girth somehow befitting a man who made momentous decisions. He’d come up the ranks the hard way, earning his commission rather than being favored through family connections or nepotism, and had an indomitable reputation that he wore like a medal.

  Pelicans wheeled overhead as the admiral engaged in a heated discussion with several other naval bigwigs by the stage, and after a few moments he shook his head and mounted the steps to take his seat in the shade, alongside a dozen other waiting chairs, all empty. One of his aides moved to his side and offered a water bottle, which he waved away, clearly unhappy at the delay, judging by his scowl.

  Barrera’s eyebrows rose as he studied the crowd, and he leaned toward Alvarez and spoke softly. “Holy mother of God. Would you look who showed up…?”

  A woman, accompanied by a cameraman and two grips, sashayed toward the stage. Her white linen pants and red silk blouse molded to her curves. A gust of wind tousled her chestnut hair, and Alvarez realized he hadn’t breathed for several beats as she neared.

  Carla Vega was one of the most recognizable faces in Mexico, and for good reason: she’d been a star reporter for the nation’s top network for a decade and had been linked to a Who’s Who of eligible bachelors – film and TV stars, soccer players, industrialists. Now in her mid-thirties, her stature as a celebrity was well established, and she was envied by her peers and desired by every male over the age of ten.

  Carla stopped in front of Alvarez and removed her Prada sunglasses. Alvarez swallowed hard. Her hazel eyes seemed to glow from within as she assessed him, and then one corner of her mouth tugged up in a half smile.

  “Captain Alvarez?”

  “Yes,” Alvarez said, noting that she smelled like vanilla and nutmeg.

  “Captain, I contacted your people about interviewing the admiral but never received a response other than being directed to you as the one in charge of everything connected to the ceremony. But your office didn’t return my calls,” she said, her voice musical but with a hint of steel in the tone. A woman accustomed to getting her way, she was clearly unimpressed by a mid-level naval functionary.

  “Ah, really? My apologies. I was unaware you’d contacted us,” he said, frowning.

  She eyed him with barely concealed ennui. “Well, I’m here now, and I’d like five minutes of the admiral’s time.”

  Alvarez and Barrera exchanged a glance. The admiral had been clear in his instructions: he was off-limits to the press.

  Alvarez smiled disarmingly. “Miss Vega, may I first say how honored we are to have you at our event?”

  “Right. But what about the admiral?”

  “Regrettably, he isn’t available for any interviews today. I’m terribly sorry. My office should have told you–”

  “Yes, well, they didn’t respond, and I’ve traveled halfway across the country to speak with him.”

  Alvarez shook his head. “Which is most unfortunate, although again, it’s humbling that you would think the launching of our newest ship worth your attention.”

  Carla studied Alvarez’s polite expression. He could see her calculating how to sidestep him and go directly to the admiral, and resisted the impulse to speak, to fill the uncomfortable silence with stammered apologies or dissembling. This was the admiral’s turf, and if he didn’t want to talk to one of the most beautiful women in Mexico, that was his prerogative.

  “Could you have a word with his staff and at least ask?” she purred, switching gears as she took in his blank gaze, her voice all honey and promises of paradise.

  Barrera caught his eye, and Alvarez nodded. The lieutenant moved out of earshot and murmured into his radio as Carla and Alvarez faced off like gladiators. Alvarez tried another friendly smile, but the expression never reached his eyes.

  When Barrera returned, he looked glum. “The admiral extends his apologies, but he doesn’t do unscheduled media appearances. He invites you to contact his office during business hours.”

  “I tried that and got nowhere,” Carla said, her tone as stiff as the pole behind her, from which a massive flag billowed in the wind, the golden eagle in the center, a snake in its clutches, rippling like a living thing.

  “I’m truly sorry, Señorita Vega. I wish there was something I could do, but he is the admiral…” Alvarez said, spreading his hands and offering a helpless shrug. “The good news, such as it is, is that I’d be more than happy to personally escort you to the media area and arrange every courtesy.”

  “That’s very hospitable of you,” Carla said, her voice glacial.

  Alvarez ignored her demeanor and gestured to an area on the far side of the stage, where several other camera crews were in position. She sighed and followed him to the press section, with its unobstructed view of the stage and the ship beyond. Barrera watched them walk away, she with the hypnotic gait of a prowling cat, and was glad that he wasn’t the one who’d had to disappoint Mexico’s media queen.

  He reluctantly tore his eyes away from Carla Vega crossing the grass and resumed his scrutiny of the gathering crowd. Alvarez had made it clear that he wanted the area locked down, and Barrera had full authority to detain anyone suspicious. As his commanding officer had said, “I’d rather apologize for you being wrong than you not act and have a bloodbath on my hands.”

  A trio of young men with shaved heads moving along the periphery of the throng caught his attention. They wore baggy jeans and loose jackets – which could have been to fend off the morning chill or to conceal weapons. Barrera whispered into his radio, and moments later four marines materialized and instructed them to step aside for a search.

  Barrera watched as his men herded them to an area by the water and went through their belongings. The ensign in charge of the unit radioed back.

  Nothing.

  Part of Barrera’s problem was that cartel thugs often looked like anyone else – construction workers, laborers, merchants, young men out for a little diversion on an otherwise boring day. The christening had been scheduled for a Mexican holiday, so in addition to families and older couples there were plentiful unattached men and women in groups of two or three, any of whom could spell trouble. He could still vividly recall seeing footage from a grenade attack in a crowd several years ago in Morelia, which had killed a hundred innocents with one explosion, and his worst nightmare was a similar tactic used at this gathering.

  “Anything?” Alvarez asked from immediately behind him, startling Barrera. He instantly recovered and concealed his surprise.

  “No, sir. We’re stopping the
more suspicious, but you know what it’s like in a group this size with no funnel to pass through.”

  “I do indeed. Let’s fall back to the stage and concentrate on security there. If anyone’s going to make a play, that’s where they’ll do it.”

  They moved toward the PA speakers and took up position near the riser. Five minutes turned into fifteen, and once the area around the stage was packed, a young officer strode to the microphone and announced the beginning of the event.

  Alvarez’s gaze moved to where Carla was talking earnestly to the camera, giving a blow-by-blow of the event. He wondered what the hell she was doing at a ship launching, and then an ear-splitting wail of feedback screeched from the speakers, shaking him back to the present.

  The mayor did his obligatory five-minute speech, followed by a navy minister from Mexico City and then the Baja California Norte governor. Polite smatterings of applause greeted their proclamations, which managed to be entirely self-serving, and then it was the admiral’s turn.

  Alvarez caught motion out of the corner of his eye to his right and, after a quick glance, shouldered through the assembled mass of humanity to where a man was pushing a wheeled cart near the water. Barrera was right behind him as they converged on him, and his eyes widened when he saw the two navy officers rushing his way, one with his hand on his service pistol. The man tried to turn his cart, but it was too late, and when Alvarez reached him, he was sliding his hand inside the fold of his black windbreaker.

  “Stop. Remove your hand from your jacket, slowly. This is your only warning,” Barrera said, his weapon drawn, the ugly muzzle of his Beretta 9mm aimed at the man’s head.

  The blood drained from the man’s face as he slowly removed his hand. In it was a laminated blue card on a soiled lanyard – a vendor’s license. Alvarez glared at it, then at the cart, which he could now see was a white ice cooler with a hand-painted depiction of a penguin wearing a multicolored beanie and holding a Popsicle aloft. Barrera stepped forward, his weapon steady, and ordered the man to put the license on top of the box and to remove his jacket, but Alvarez had already lost interest and was scanning the surroundings for anything out of the ordinary. An enterprising treat vendor who had talked his way past the perimeter security wasn’t the sort of menace he was concerned with, and the lieutenant was more than capable of dealing with the man.