Blood of the Assassin Page 5

  As they hit cruising altitude the young woman handed El Rey a package wrapped in pale blue paper and asked what he’d like to drink. He opted for water and orange juice, and as she poured him a crystal tumbler he un-taped the parcel. Inside were a pair of khaki slacks and a black long-sleeved button-up shirt – both his size, he noted. The stewardess returned with his drinks and then excused herself and slipped up to the front of the plane, where she pulled a sliding door closed, offering him privacy.

  He shrugged out of his tank top and shorts and donned his new clothes, then settled back into the seat, his rock climbing garments stowed in the backpack along with the rest of his gear, wondering what was so urgent that the government had pulled out all the stops to get him to Mexico City as quickly as possible. He took a sip of his juice and then drained the water bottle as the plane hummed along at thirty-eight thousand feet, and then leaned back in the caramel leather reclining lounger and closed his eyes.

  It had been almost four months since he had rescued the president’s daughter and done his deal with the devil, agreeing to exchange his services for the antidote shots that would sustain him. But this was the first time he had been called. He had spent his newfound freedom in rural locations, choosing to avoid the areas the cartels dominated, in the one-in-a-million chance that he was somehow recognized. Even though he was no longer a wanted man, his sins absolved when he made his arrangement with CISEN, there was still a substantial price on his head. Don Aranas had a long memory, and the multi-million dollar bounty he had offered was a powerful attraction for every hired killer in Mexico.

  El Rey wasn’t really worried about it, but it made matters simpler if he stayed off the radar, so he had moved from place to place, uprooting himself every three weeks, his last home a villa in the colonial town of San Miguel de Allende. He had been there for ten days before he grew bored and decided to explore the wilderness of the mountains around Copper Canyon, preferring the company of coyotes and mountain lions to his fellow man as he bided his time, waiting for the call that never came.

  Until now.

  He wondered who they wanted him to kill.

  His eyes flickered open and he looked around the jet’s interior, expensively appointed, all leather and polished wood, lacquered to a high gloss, then reached to his side and found his glass of orange juice. Fresh squeezed, he noted approvingly; then finished it and closed his eyes again.

  Whatever the government’s errand, he would know soon enough. Which was just as well. He’d been growing restless from inactivity. Truth be told, he would actually welcome an assignment. Whether he liked it or not, he was conditioned to seek out excitement, and the staid civilian life he’d been leading had been almost as bad as a prison sentence – unable to leave the country, inactive, each day the same as the last.

  The plane adjusted its course, a minor deviance, and he shifted, trying to get comfortable.

  Within an hour he’d be back on the ground, and soon thereafter at CISEN headquarters, being briefed.

  Might as well get a little rest, he reasoned.

  Things would get interesting soon enough. They hadn’t pulled him off the side of a mountain to check on his health.

  No, they had something they wanted him to do.

  And if they were drawing on him, it was sure to be something challenging.

  That was the only thing he could be certain of.

  Chapter 7

  Mexico City traffic was a perennial snarl, cars honking as they brooded in the morning haze, gridlocked on the overcrowded roads. El Rey stared blankly through the tinted windows of the Suburban at the crowds of well-dressed pedestrians milling in the downtown area, trumpeting the city’s prosperity with their expensive clothing and designer handbags, a far cry from the wretched poor lining the streets only a few blocks away. The city was a study in contradictions: fabulous wealth lived side by side with squalor, the less fortunate gazing at the wealthy with envy and bitterness and a certain quiet acceptance that was unique to Latin America. Unlike their more fortunate neighbors to the north, the impoverished in Mexico had no hope of ever being anything but poor. It was just the way things were, and it was considered largely pointless to fret over the natural order.

  A somber man in his mid-thirties sat in the passenger seat, his crisp blue suit tailored to hide the pistol he wore in a shoulder holster, his gleaming black hair conservatively cut, shining against his olive skin, the white of his oxford shirt in deep contrast with the dark bronze of his complexion. He hadn’t said a word since El Rey had gotten into the big SUV, which was just as well – the assassin wasn’t looking for a new friend.

  When the Suburban pulled to a stop at CISEN headquarters, two armed guards peered into the vehicle before waving them through the gate into a parking lot with twelve-foot-high surrounding walls that ensured nobody would be seen coming or going from the modern four-story building. They rolled into a stall near a side entrance, and the silent man in the passenger seat stepped out and spoke his first words of the trip.

  “This way.”

  El Rey slid from the rear seat, backpack in tow, and followed his guide to the entry door, which opened as if by magic, pulled wide by another suited man. They entered the building, and two security guards bracketed El Rey front and back as they made their way to a ground floor conference room, their footsteps the only sound in the marble hallway.

  Once he was seated they left him alone. El Rey studied his fingernails, confident that there was a hidden camera somewhere in the room and unwilling to give the observers any more information than they already had.

  Five minutes later the door opened and Rodriguez entered, trailed by three men, none of whom El Rey recognized. They took seats across from him, and then Rodriguez cleared his throat and slid a manila folder across the table.

  “That’s the file of a man named Werner Rauschenbach. He’s in the same line of work you used to be in. German. There are two pages of summary on his exploits and history. Take a few moments to read them,” Rodriguez instructed.

  El Rey flipped the folder open and glanced at the photos inside, and then studied the documents. When he was done, he took a closer look at the top photograph, then dropped it onto the table and leaned back.

  “So?”

  “We want you to find him.”

  El Rey’s expression betrayed nothing. “And wish him happy birthday?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “You want me to kill him.”

  “That would be ideal. But it won’t be that simple, I’m afraid.” Rodriguez glanced at the picture. “He’s coming to Mexico. Might already be here.”

  El Rey nodded. “And it’s safe to presume he’s not coming for the beaches?”

  “Yes. We’ve gotten word that he’s been hired to carry out a sanction,” Rodriguez confirmed, irritated by the assassin’s tone.

  “Why am I required?”

  “Because you’re the best at that business.”

  “Right. But you’re not asking me to take a contract, are you?”

  “No. We need you to stop him. He can’t be allowed to carry out his plan.”

  “Which is?”

  Rodriguez nodded at the other men. The shortest, wearing a pale blue shirt and a retro tie, leaned forward.

  “He’s going to try to execute a dignitary. A very important figure. If he’s successful, it would be disastrous.”

  “Do you have any information on when and where?”

  “Negative. But we can guess.”

  “So guess.”

  “We believe he’ll make his attempt in ten days. Here, in Mexico City.”

  El Rey’s eyes narrowed. “So why drag me off the side of the mountain? This seems like a routine security task. Am I missing something?”

  Rodriguez dropped the pen he was toying with on the table. “We need you to find him before he can carry out the hit.”

  “Who’s the target?”

  “The Chinese paramount leader. The de facto ruler of China.”

>   El Rey blinked twice. “And why would an assassin come to Mexico to kill him?”

  “Because he’ll be vulnerable here – much more so than in China.”

  “What’s he going to be doing here? The paramount leader?”

  “He’s supposed to sign an agreement with the president to transition our oil industry into Chinese hands – or rather, have them partner with us to get it out of the ground and refined. It would be a terminal blow to the agreement if an assassination attempt took place while he was here. Worse yet, if it succeeded.”

  “Can I have some water?” El Rey asked.

  Rodriguez leaned over and murmured to one of the men, who rose and exited the room.

  El Rey and Rodriguez stared at each other in silence for a few moments. Rodriguez finally spoke.

  “That’s it? You’re told that the number one man in China is the target of an assassination plot by one of the world’s most dangerous assassins, and all you can muster is a request for something to drink?”

  El Rey shrugged. “I’m parched.”

  The door opened and the man returned carrying several plastic water bottles, which he set on the table. El Rey grabbed one, twisted the top off, and downed it. He set the empty container back on the table and regarded Rodriguez with dead black eyes.

  “I specialize in killing people. Not in security assignments.”

  “I understand that. But it takes a thief to catch one. And you’re our pet assassin, so it was decided to put you to some use. We need you to stop the German before he can carry out his plan. That’s the assignment.”

  “I’m the wrong man for that job.”

  “Perhaps. But you’re our best shot. And the clock is ticking. You’ve done these types of sanctions before. You’re a specialist. So you know how one would think – what he would look for in the precautions, how he’s likely to respond to events, how he would plan on carrying it out. We need that expertise. And I hate to remind you, but you owe us. Remember our deal...”

  “How can I forget?”

  “Good. Then it’s agreed. I’ll get you everything we have on Rauschenbach by tomorrow morning. And I’m making an office available for you...”

  “Absolutely not. I’ll take care of my own arrangements. I’m not going to work out of this building. That’s not my style.”

  Rodriguez frowned. “I don’t care what your style is. You’ll work out of here if I say you will.”

  El Rey smiled. “If you want me to be effective, you won’t push your luck, Señor Rodriguez. And a word of warning – men have died for speaking to me more politely. I understand I need to cooperate with you in order to get my shots. But there’s a limit to how much I’ll tolerate. You don’t want to discover the limits of my patience.”

  Rodriguez glared at him, but El Rey saw the telltale bob of his Adam’s apple as he dry swallowed.

  “There’s another condition, and this one you’re really not going to like. But it’s not negotiable,” Rodriguez said, eyeing him with hesitation.

  “Everything’s negotiable.”

  “Not this.”

  Chapter 8

  Cruz pushed his way through the entry of the latest condo the Federales had leased for him and sniffed at the air. A seductive smell drifted from the small kitchen, and as the door swung shut behind him he heard the sound of pans clanking against the stovetop – Dinah’s presence announcing itself in the muted clamoring of the dinnerware.

  “Sweetheart? I’m home,” he announced over the culinary din, setting his briefcase down.

  “Mmmm. Good. I need another pair of hands in here to help,” Dinah called, sounding her usual cheerful self. How she managed to remain upbeat after working all day in the school was beyond him – but he was always glad she did.

  “My hands have been itching to help you all day, my love,” he assured her. “Let me slip into something more comfortable and I’ll be right there.”

  Dinah glanced over her shoulder as he passed the kitchen and threw him a harried smile. Cruz made a mental note not to dally in the bedroom changing out of his uniform. He knew that look, and it meant he could earn some points by being a good domestic partner.

  Three minutes later he was back, wearing jeans and a rugby shirt, and approached her as she stood at the stove.

  “Mmm. You smell good. How did I get so lucky?” he cooed in her ear.

  “Somebody upstairs must like you. Now, can you help me with the onions? I need them chopped while I whip this into shape,” she responded, twisting to kiss him on the mouth.

  “Absolutely. Chopping, whipping...I’m all over it,” he assured her, and reached to the butcher block for one of the knives. “How was your day?”

  “The usual chaos. Misbehaving kids, too many reports to complete in too little time, backstabbing colleagues...nothing ever seems to change,” Dinah said.

  “Sounds like my job.”

  “Yours is probably less dangerous. And they let you wear that handsome uniform, and give you a nametag. I get none of that,” Dinah pouted as she stirred spices into the pan with the chicken she was sautéing.

  Cruz’s cell phone rang just as he was about to begin slicing. He cursed and put down the knife, then fished the phone out of his pants pocket.

  “Yes?” he answered.

  “Capitan Cruz. Sorry to call you after hours. This is Eduardo Godoy,” a smooth voice crooned.

  “What can I do for you?” Cruz asked warily. Godoy was his superior – an entirely useless political appointee who was nonetheless as dangerous as a snake.

  “I need you to come to my office tomorrow morning, first thing. Let’s say...nine o’clock?” Godoy said.

  Cruz paused. “Fine. What will be the topic of discussion, if you don’t mind?” he asked, wary of being blindsided. Whenever Godoy wanted to see him, it was usually bad, and involved Cruz getting the pork put to him in one way or another.

  “We have a delicate situation I need you to handle. I’m not comfortable speaking about it over the phone. Just be here at nine, please,” Godoy snapped.

  “Yes. Of course. It’s just that if I knew what this was about, I could come prepared...”

  “All I need is you – nothing else. I’ll see you in the morning,” Godoy said, and then the line went dead.

  He stared at the phone. Now what? As far as he knew he hadn’t crossed any lines, and he had been spectacularly successful with a number of delicate anti-cartel operations over the last few months. Godoy had no reason to reprimand him that he could think of. Which didn’t mean anything. In the real world, many of the top brass were nothing more than mouthpieces for special interests – and the cartels were some of the richest and most powerful special interests in Mexico. Being a multi-billion dollar criminal syndicate apparently bought a lot of political clout, even as public rhetoric condemned them.

  “Honey? Who was that?” Dinah asked.

  “Oh. Nothing. Just somebody from work.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine. They were just setting up a meeting. Nothing more.” He tried a smile, but Cruz’s tone betrayed his uneasiness.

  “They’re calling you at home, at dinner time?” Dinah wasn’t buying it.

  “It’s my boss. Godoy. He’s not really good with things like common courtesy.”

  “I got that. Are you going to chop those onions, or do I have to?” she asked, dropping the subject.

  Cruz nodded and returned to his duties, his eyes beginning to water within seconds of the first few slices. Dinah glanced at him, and in spite of herself, giggled at the sight of her husband, tears welling in his eyes like someone had wrecked his new car. Cruz’s easy laugh reflected that he thought he was the luckiest man in the world to have wound up with Dinah. Attractive, funny, smart, and in love with him. And willing to put up with a life that would have been a deal-killer for most – moving every few weeks, no sense of permanence, the constant danger that went with his career an unspoken irritant, like a glass sliver just under the skin.
<
br />   “Are we drinking wine or beer tonight?” he asked, wiping his face with the back of his arm.

  “Whatever you want, mi amor. We’ve got both in the refrigerator.” She reached across him and lifted the white plastic cutting board and then scraped the chopped onions into the sizzling pan, along with tomatoes and peppers.

  “Do you have a preference?”

  “I’m going to stick to mineral water. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.” She lifted the pan off the gas flame and adjusted the height, then set it back down. “Go on into the dining room. I hate to see a grown man cry.”

  “Thanks. How long until it’s ready?”

  “Maybe ten minutes.”

  He swung the refrigerator open and peered into the interior, then retrieved a Negra Modelo. But even as he moved to the counter to open it, his mind was already on other matters. Like why his boss, who typically avoided him, wanted to see him first thing.

  To say that it was irregular was an understatement.

  He padded into the small living room and sat on the couch, then groped around behind him and retrieved the television remote. The flat panel flickered to life and the day’s news rolled across the screen, mostly bad – a litany of corruption, senseless violence, tragedy, and heartbreak, punctuated by soccer scores and earnest politicians insisting that they were working hard to bring change.

  The same story as last night. And the night before.

  With one notable exception: The slaughter at the cartel house was the lead story and was reprised at the end, with an update that unconfirmed sources had leaked – El Gato had been apprehended and was in custody. Cruz swore under his breath, but he wasn’t surprised. The news was bound to get out eventually. He’d hoped for another day or two of breathing room before having to deal with the inevitable press circus that a high profile arrest would bring, but the toothpaste was out of the tube now.