Night of the Assassin: Assassin Series Prequel

by Russell Blake

  Encarlo owned a recycling plant that shipped its product to the United States once it was processed, which had provided excellent cover for shipping other items north as well. His operation was one of many responsible for the growing methamphetamine traffic that was slowly displacing crack cocaine in many areas of the U.S.. It was a booming market with a rock bottom production cost, so the profits from trafficking in it were swelling his accounts. It made the cocaine trade seem like small potatoes, if the growth curve kept up.

  He picked unconsciously at a scabbed area above his left ear. It was a nervous tick, one of many he’d developed from the constant pressure to stay one step ahead of the rest of the wolf pack. Encarlo used his own products and consumed a fair amount of both meth and cocaine in a cocktail of stimulants that enabled him to sleep only four hours at a stint. He firmly believed that much of his success was thanks to the long hours he worked, in addition to an innate cunning borne of the streets. Those traits, combined with a relentless sadistic bent and a sociopathic streak that would have been the envy of any serial killer, made him the perfect mid-level cartel functionary. His men and his competitors were terrified of him, for good reason – the chemical supplementation often resulted in erratic mood swings; he could be set off on a bloody tirade by virtually anything.

  Right now, his antennae were picking up the vibrations of opportunity from the early news of Altamar’s mysterious disappearance. He knew that if he could confirm that the man was actually gone for good, he’d be perfectly positioned to capitalize on the situation and take out his rivals before they knew what had hit them. It only got dangerous if all facts were known by all the lieutenants at the same time – that’s where it became a killing field until only one was left standing. He’d gone through that multiple times and there was never any guarantee that you would make it through the next one, no matter how much of a badass you were.

  The idea of creating a loose coalition like Altamar had never entered his head. Why would he look to his weaker competitors for cooperation when he could simply eliminate them and claim their networks for his own? The outreach approach had worked for Altamar, but in Encarlo’s opinion it was the flawed plan of a weak man, which would be evidenced by his having been taken out after only two years at the top of his little hub.

  He needed to know what was going on, and he needed to know now. The anxiety was building and he knew from harsh experience that he had to do something salient. Anything. Sitting waiting for feedback was too reactive for his tastes.

  Restless, he tapped out a line of cocaine to help him focus, and quickly snorted it using a gold tube he carried for the purpose. He brushed a little on his gums, and shook his head, as if to clear it.

  The drug now coursing through his system, Encarlo resolved to see if he could shake loose some information himself. He’d hit the street and see if anything came back from his personal contacts. He had confidence in his men but he couldn’t just sit still and wait. Glancing at his watch, he noted that it was already ten-thirty in the morning. Time to move. He stabbed at the keypad of his office phone and barked orders into it, calling for his car to be brought around. He next dialed his second in command and told him to get three men, packing heavy heat, to meet him at his vehicle in five minutes. Encarlo opened his file cabinet, retrieved a Berretta 9 mm pistol and slipped it into his windbreaker pocket. It was a small gun but packed a decent wallop, and he hated having to wear a shoulder holster like some undercover cop. He’d tried an ankle holster, but it had bothered him; it was easier to carry the thing in his pocket.

  Encarlo made his way downstairs to the ground level and walked out of the office doors, past the heavy industrial equipment in the yard toward his truck – a silver fully-loaded Lincoln Navigator with custom rims and steel armored plates welded into each of the four doors. Three men joined him, all toting a variety of submachine-guns. He didn’t like to fuck around when he went out on the town, and believed in being prepared for an assault at all times. It wasn’t so much paranoia as occupational hazard, and it had kept him alive so far. His driver nodded at him as he climbed into the passenger seat, the three enforcers climbing in behind him in the rear seat. One of the reasons he liked the SUV was because it had enough room for three grown men in the back.

  The truck moved toward the front gates, which opened via a configuration of hydraulic pistons activated by the security guard in a booth by the street, and then exploded in a blast of orange fire. The concussion from the plastique affixed to the gas tank broke the windows in the nearby buildings as pieces of the truck spiraled through the mushroom cloud of black smoke above it, before inevitably dropping like Icarus back to earth. Nothing survived that sort of a blast, and the men that came running did so with slim hope of salvaging anything.

  El Rey took several snapshots with his little camera from across the thoroughfare. He put the Ford Lobo into gear and pulled away down the road to rendezvous with Valiente, and see if he had any more chores that needed tidying up. And to collect his money, of course. Not that it was only about the money, but a job well done deserved its reward.

  Fair was fair.

  The lushly verdant acreage around the Luis Barragan inspired mansion in the hills outside Culiacan was still in the late morning doldrums, the absence of breeze a seasonal effect that made being outdoors in the swelter unpleasant even for the most seasoned natives. Armed sentries prowled the immaculately manicured grounds around the house, jittery from adrenaline and sweating from the heat. Ever since that morning they'd been on guard, in a state of high alert.

  Ricardo Pilar sat with his inner circle at a square mesquite table in his dining room. The five men who were his closest counselors had serious demeanors, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke and anxiety. He'd gotten several frantic phone calls alerting him about the explosion at Encarlo's plant, and he was troubled by the implications. Pilar sensed that a move was being made, but he wasn't sure who was behind it, and he'd dispatched a group of armed men to see what information they could get from the network of lower level cartel soldiers that acted as the informal communication channel on the street.

  The preliminary reports that had come back weren't good. Two of his four rivals had departed the earth that morning under violent circumstances. There could only be one explanation, and it warranted swift and decisive action. Pilar's nemesis, Valiente, was making a play for the leadership position that Altamar had held, now that the cartel underboss had been officially missing for a significant enough time. That could only mean war to Pilar, a seasoned veteran of countless purges and fights.

  Pilar was educated, having attended the university in Monterey, and held a degree in business administration that had served him well when creating and managing his network. He'd studied and taken to heart the lessons of business school, and fancied himself to be superior to the ignorant thugs who'd ascended to equal footing through sheer brutality and the barrel of a gun. While he understood the place for bloodshed, he liked to think of himself as above knee-jerk reactions involving indiscriminate slaughter. But he was no fool, and he sensed that it was time to put down the diploma and strap on the pistols.

  His captain, Eduardo, was arguing passionately, and his lieutenants were nodding approval.

  “This is our chance. We’ve been patient, but it’s foolishness to sit here waiting for the war to come to us. If Valiente is on the offensive, our best chance to avoid a blood bath is to make a pre-emptive strike. Cut the head off the snake, and the body stops moving.”

  Pilar considered the counsel, and then nodded.

  “I agree with Eduardo. The explosion that killed Encarlo, when combined with news of Remarosa's execution, is ominous. I have a bad feeling, and I think it's safe to conclude that Valiente is making a major offensive, which would mean we are next. But it’s not like we can just waltz in and start shooting to solve the problem. Valiente is far too smart to be taken that way.” Pilar pushed back from the table and stood, pacing compulsively while he spoke. “While I
sympathize with everyone’s passion, I’d argue that it’s misplaced. Yes, we need to act, but we also need a coherent plan. Right now, all we have is bluster and talk. Let’s finish with the discussion about whether removing Valiente is a good idea. It is. Now I want to hear some ideas about how we do so,” Pilar said, gesturing with his bottle of Pelgrino to emphasize his point.

  His men looked at him, none daring to advance an idea that he would shoot down.

  “Here’s what we are going to do. I want you to talk among yourselves and think through how best to eliminate Valiente by the end of the day. Then we can put the proposals on the table, and come up with something that makes sense. But don't waste your time arguing for something that's decided. I need ideas, not passion. And my instinct says that we're running out of time, so it's time to get busy.” Pilar glanced at his watch and sighed. “I have some commitments I need to attend to. But make no mistake. Valiente must die before the sun goes down, and I am relying on you to come up with how we achieve that.” Pilar fixed each man in turn with an intense stare that bristled with quiet menace. He may have had a veneer of civility from his education, but he was as dangerous as a cornered pit viper, and his men were quick to remember how he'd made it to the top of his group. “I’ll be back shortly. Make good use of your time.”

  Pilar strode from the room, shaking his head. This was a classic turf battle, and he needed to get on top of it before Valiente’s goons showed up with machine guns. He wasn’t afraid of that – his compound was well equipped with all the latest alarms, electronic sensors and advance warning devices, and he had enough firepower to stop a battalion. He felt safe at his home, and he was confident that if an attempt against him was going to be made, it wouldn't happen there. The dense foliage that extended for miles created a natural barrier, and there was only one road in. So for the moment, at least, he was safe.

  Pilar had thought through Valiente's likely next step, and he wasn't overly concerned about a frontal assault. But he was vulnerable in ways besides the obvious. If this power struggle lasted very long, business would be negatively impacted, and that would cause disruption among the lieutenants, which could be as dangerous as a shooting war. It was bad enough that Pilar's rivals were homicidal psychopaths without him having to worry about younger, more junior aspirants to the throne cutting his heart out while he slept.

  He moved to the pocket doors that separated the great room from the rear deck and took in the beauty of his grounds. It was times of extreme adversity that defined leaders, and even though he fancied himself a civilized man, he understood that it was necessary to be swift an unequivocal in his response to this threat. Pilar had no problem killing – it went with the territory. But he’d always tried to keep the violence at arm’s length, which while not always successful, enabled him to maintain his presumption of superiority.

  Something in the tree line caught the sun, and Pilar squinted to make it out. The hair on his arms bristled as he detected movement and a flash, and the neurons in his brain were ordering his body to drop to the floor as the high-velocity partially-jacketed round blew his cheekbone apart, taking the better part of his cerebrum with it. By the time the guards had a chance to respond to the single shot from the perimeter, the shooter had long since departed, the sound of the dirt bike he’d pushed silently for a half mile a noisy memory in the woods.

  Mexico City’s sky was laden with hulking, dark clouds when El Rey pulled over the hills and into the infamously dangerous metropolitan traffic. The Toyota had run like a champ, was a pleasure to drive, softening the blows of the rutted patches between Culiacan and DF, or Distrito Federal, as the locals referred to Mexico City. He’d gotten the contact information of a man Valiente, his new patron and sponsor, had known since childhood. Valiente had made a phone call and proposed a relationship that his friend couldn’t possibly refuse. The man owned a pawn shop but he’d fallen into leveraging his contacts in the underworld and being a facilitator for extermination work – the human kind. It was a difficult role for him because he was basically a good and decent man, but the money was simply too attractive to turn down for a no-risk proposition. He had three contractors who handled domestic disputes and business disagreements, and he took twenty percent of the contract price to handle the money and vet the clients.

  El Rey needed someone trustworthy to launder his money and deal with the payments. If he was going to do this professionally, he needed a front office, so to speak – and pro representation. He could handle sourcing the jobs but he couldn’t haul around several million dollars in hundreds and be effective. He needed a banker and an accountant. Valiente’s contact seemed ideally suited for the role. And Valiente had warned his friend what he was dealing with, lest he get the bright idea to take El Rey’s money and run for the hills. In the cartels, if you vouched for someone and made an introduction, and then that someone screwed the person you’d introduced, you could expect to be held accountable for your recommendation’s actions. Valiente had seen more than enough of El Rey’s handiwork in a short period to know he didn’t want that coming after him.

  The narcotraficante chief had become El Rey’s biggest admirer and had promised to spread the word of his prowess in return for a commitment to never accept a contract on him. That seemed reasonable to El Rey, and Valiente was an up-and-comer in the most powerful cartel on the planet, so as sponsors go, he could do worse. His plan was to limit his activity to a few hits a year, but to steadily increase the fee he charged as well as the level of difficulty of the sanctions he accepted until he became the highest paid killer in the world. Mexico was the right place for that, given the amount of money flowing through the cartels, although he’d heard good things about Russia, too. Problem there was that he didn’t speak the language. He’d studied English in school and, of course, there was his Spanish. But that was it. So he wouldn’t be doing any work in St. Petersburg or Vladivostok.

  He merged toward the right lane and took an off ramp from the congested freeway into an even more congested area of the city. After circling around for half an hour, he eventually located the pawn shop and managed to find a parking spot. He threw his black duffel bag over his shoulder and made his way two blocks to the contact’s store. The neighborhood was sketchy even by Mexico City standards, which was saying a lot, but then again, money lenders of last resort didn’t tend to be located in the ritziest areas.

  At the glass door to the shop, he noted bars everywhere, providing security against night incursions, as well as a roll-up metal awning that would completely seal off the storefront. With all the bars it seemed like overkill, but El Rey liked that – it hinted at a man who took precautions, and who over-engineered them. That was a careful man, which is what he needed. The establishment itself was modest by any measure, which suggested a lack of braggadocio or hubris. Again, strongly positive from El Rey’s position.

  He pushed open the entry door and walked into a small, somewhat shabby showroom with a few inexpensive glass cases showcasing the tarnished treasures of the impoverished and downtrodden. Silver infant cups, cheap watches, scarred gold chains, obsolete cameras. El Rey was liking this guy’s style more and more. This was the last place in the world he would expect to find a man who handled the affairs of high-end contract killers. Nothing about the shop spoke of money or success or high-rolling, which were usually hand in hand with cartel-related businesses. This just said boring.

  El Rey liked boring.

  He approached the barred window, which was fabricated out of inch-thick bullet-proof glass, and pushed the button next to it, listening as the buzzer echoed in the rear, behind the heavy steel door to his right. He studied the door; it was built like a bank’s, although this was probably heavier by the looks of it. He rapped a knuckle against the wall – at least foot-thick concrete. A meager enterprise with security like a vault. Interesting.

  Footsteps approached, and then a small man with a beret and a graying goatee appeared at the window.

  “Yes?” he asked by
way of greeting.

  “I’m here for an eleven o’clock meeting,” El Rey said.

  “Ah. Of course.” The steel door buzzed and El Rey rushed to grab the handle before it stopped. He swung it open and noted that he’d been correct. It was very heavy indeed, and the locking mechanism was industrial grade.

  “Nice door.”

  “Mmmm. Two one-inch steel plates with a titanium core. Custom made in Austria. Cost a bit, but worth it,” the little man said. He extended his hand. “Jaime Tortora, at your service. Please. Come back to my offices. Would you like anything to drink? Water? Coffee? Beer?”

  El Rey shook his hand. “No, thank you. I don’t drink coffee or alcohol. I’ll follow you.”

  Tortora walked down the dimly lit hallway and opened the door of his office. The two men entered and Tortora gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. He took his seat behind it and leaned forward, both hands on the surface, visible at all times. El Rey noticed this reassuring stance, and nodded almost imperceptibly as he sat, placing the duffle on the chair next to him.

  “A mutual friend of some distinction called and indicated there was an opportunity for us to help each other,” Tortora began, then hesitated. “You may speak freely. I have eavesdropping detection equipment in place, and if you were wired, I’d know. I also sweep the office once a week. Vocational paranoia, you could say.”

  El Rey fixed him with a tranquil gaze. “I am looking for someone who can help me; act as a back office and clearing system for my payments and due diligence on clients,” El Rey said.

  “Ah, yes. Well, that’s what I do. I take twenty percent if I source the clients, or ten percent if you do. I can deal with cash, although that’s ten percent right off the top for the bank to handle. I prefer wire transfers or bearer instruments, and have an extensive infrastructure to accommodate those. Austria and the Caymans, with a second set of accounts in Panama and Lichtenstein. All owned by dummy front companies out of Hong Kong or Cyprus.” Tortora reached over and took a sip of water from a glass near his computer monitor. “I can assist in setting up a structure for you, if that is necessary. My only advice if you intend to do so yourself is to hire a professional. The money trail is often the weak link.”