Rage of the Assassin
Russell Blake
Book VI in the Assassin series
Copyright 2015 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:
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Contents
Books by Russell Blake
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
Excerpt from Ramsey’s Gold
Books by Russell Blake
Co-authored with Clive Cussler
THE EYE OF HEAVEN
THE SOLOMON CURSE
Thrillers
FATAL EXCHANGE
THE GERONIMO BREACH
ZERO SUM
THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY
THE VOYNICH CYPHER
SILVER JUSTICE
UPON A PALE HORSE
DEADLY CALM
RAMSEY’S GOLD
EMERALD BUDDHA
The Assassin Series
KING OF SWORDS
NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN
RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN
REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN
BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN
REQUIEM OF THE ASSASSIN
RAGE OF THE ASSASSIN
The JET Series
JET
JET II – BETRAYAL
JET III – VENGEANCE
JET IV – RECKONING
JET V – LEGACY
JET VI – JUSTICE
JET VII – SANCTUARY
JET VIII – SURVIVAL
JET IX – ESCAPE
JET – OPS FILES (prequel)
JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT
The BLACK Series
BLACK
BLACK IS BACK
BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK
BLACK TO REALITY
BLACK IN THE BOX
Non Fiction
AN ANGEL WITH FUR
HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS
(while drunk, high or incarcerated)
About the Author
Featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Times, and The Chicago Tribune, Russell Blake is The NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of over forty novels, including Fatal Exchange, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, Requiem for the Assassin, Rage of the Assassin, The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, JET, JET – Ops Files, JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance, JET IV – Reckoning, JET V – Legacy, JET VI – Justice, JET VII – Sanctuary, JET VIII – Survival, JET IX – Escape, Upon a Pale Horse, BLACK, BLACK is Back, BLACK is The New Black, BLACK to Reality, BLACK in the Box, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, and Emerald Buddha.
Non-fiction includes the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time (even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.
Blake is co-author of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel King of Swords has been translated into German, The Voynich Cypher into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.
Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include Less Than Nothing, More Than Anything, and Best Of Everything.
Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog: RussellBlake.com
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Chapter 1
Twenty years ago, Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico
Peals of laughter rose into the afternoon sky from the school yard. The bell had rung a few minutes earlier, excusing the day shift’s students in preparation for the evening class’s arrival two hours later. Tall palm trees swayed in a humid breeze heavy with the distinctive aroma of the brown river just over the rise mingled with the pungent dankness of the freshly turned dirt of the surrounding fields. Stray puffs of clouds drifted west toward the Sea of Cortez, the final remnants of a morning storm that had flooded the town’s streets.
A group of youths in white jerseys and blue trousers stood in a rough circle near the entrance of the fenced yard, where a befuddled boy in the middle of the gathering looked around with a panicked expression as the others taunted him. A few disinterested teachers ambled near one of the crumbling building façades, ignoring the fracas, their job done once they left their classrooms after a long day of mindless repetition.
“What’s wrong with you, moron? Can’t talk?” Paolo, one of the tallest of the boys, none of whom were older than eight, baited the unfortunate. Paolo spit on the ground by his victim’s feet and glanced at the others in disgust. “I swear he’s a total retard.”
Several nodded at the insight, and one sneered as Paolo took another step toward his prey. “I said I want your backpack. It’s mine now.”
The encircled child shook his head, eyes wild, clutching the bag to his chest. “N-no,” he managed, his voice cracking with obvious desperation.
“Why? What do you have in there? Come on, give it up.”
“I won’t.”
The throng closed in and fists flew. The boy with the backpack fell to the asphalt and his assailants kicked him. He curled into a ball, protecting his treasure with his body as blows fell, and then everything went black when a particularly vicious kick struck the side of his head, snapping it back against the hard pavement.
~ ~ ~
“Ynez? What’s the big emergency?” Don Aranas asked as he marched into the kitchen of his hilltop home, his shoulders square, his bearing erect. Three of his men followed at a prudent distance, the pistols in their belts as common on the grounds as the trees that ringed the hacienda’s lush periphery.
Ynez, the head o
f the housekeeping staff, knelt in front of Aranas’s nephew, blotting at his face with a crimson-stained towel. Martin was covered with bruises and had two nasty gashes on the side of his head. One of the boy’s eyes was partially swollen shut, and he was pressing a plastic bag filled with ice against a lump on his head.
Aranas took in the damage with a grunt and glowered at Martin.
“What happened, Martin? Damn it, boy, speak up!”
Martin looked away, shame obvious in his averted face, and Aranas scowled as he neared the youngster. The man’s deeply tanned face was already lined from a life spent outdoors, as well as the constant stress that came with being the most powerful drug lord in Mexico – the head of the Sinaloa Cartel, the entity that had given birth to all the other criminal enterprises engaged in narcotics trafficking to the United States.
Aranas’s voice softened when he spoke to Ynez. “Enough. Leave us for a moment. There will be time to attend to his scrapes later.”
Ynez nodded and stood, and Aranas’s entourage followed her out of the kitchen. When the last of their cowboy boots had clumped down the hall, Aranas turned his attention to Martin, who had a thin stream of blood working its way from his brutalized nose to the corner of his mouth.
“Who did this to you?” Aranas whispered, reaching out with his handkerchief and stemming the flow of red.
“Boys. A…at school,” Martin said, his voice so tentative it was almost inaudible.
“Why?”
When Martin looked up and met his uncle’s eyes, the little boy’s contained all the misery of the human condition in them. “They hate me,” he said with the simplicity of youth. “Because…you know. I’m different.”
“Did you fight them? How many were there?” Aranas demanded, his tone hardening.
“Seven. Eight. I don’t know. Too many.” Martin winced as his free hand probed his ear and came away smeared with red.
“Did you hurt any of them?”
Martin’s eyes returned to his scraped shoes and the torn knees of his uniform pants. “N-no.”
Aranas stepped back and cleared his throat. “You must not let them pick on you. I can intervene, but that won’t help. This is your battle, and you have to show them that they can’t do this and get away with it.”
Martin licked away a fleck of blood from his upper lip and remained silent. Aranas’s eyes narrowed as he considered his nephew – who was indeed different and needed to learn life’s harsh lessons early if he was to survive. The first of which was that he wasn’t a victim – he was a threat to anyone who would harm him.
“There are two kinds of people, Martin: predators and prey. These boys are aggressive because they are in a group, so they feel powerful. They see you as weak. So you need to find a way to prove to them that you’re stronger, and that to hurt you brings consequences that makes it too costly for them to consider. It is the only way.”
Martin looked up at his uncle, who seemed a hundred feet tall from where he stood. The older man’s face was impassive, unsympathetic, with a hint of anger flashing in the depths of his chocolate eyes. The message conveyed was clear – Martin had disappointed him, and in his uncle’s hierarchical world he’d brought shame to the family by allowing himself to be beaten like a dog. Martin had heard the stories about the Don, about his merciless rise to power and his reputation as a killer. How could he not, even if they were only whispered snatches that quickly died when the speakers saw Martin lurking within earshot?
“I…I don’t want to go back.”
Aranas nodded. “Of course you don’t. But you have to. Take a few days to heal, and then you will return with your head held high, and you’ll show these boys what you’re made of. Do you understand?” Aranas’s tone left nothing to be discussed.
Martin nodded. Aranas turned to the empty doorway and called out, “Ynez! Get this warrior cleaned up. He looks hungry. Call the doctor and have him look him over, stitch him up, whatever he needs.”
Ynez scuttled back in, wringing her hands, worry written across her normally placid face. “Yes, Don Aranas. Of course.”
Aranas gave Martin another hard stare and turned on his heel. His stride covered the Saltillo tile floor in three long steps and then he disappeared through the doorway, other business to attend to. Ynez moved to a rack for a fresh towel and waved Martin over. He shuffled toward her, his mind churning at his uncle’s words, a core of fury searing in his stomach like a hot ember.
He would find a way to show them all.
He had no choice.
~ ~ ~
Don Aranas glanced up from his newspaper when Ynez approached. He set it down in his lap and eyed her, his coveted moment of evening relaxation disrupted.
“What did the doctor say?” he asked.
“Dr. Alioto put two stitches in one of the cuts and swabbed the rest with antiseptic. And he gave me some ointment. He said that the bruising should go down in forty-eight hours. Nothing’s broken, thank heaven.”
“How’s Martin holding up?”
“He’s quiet. Doesn’t want to talk.”
Aranas nodded. “Then not much different than usual.”
Martin was an odd boy, Aranas knew. He’d wound up living with Aranas after his father had been gunned down in a bitter territorial dispute in Tijuana. A loyal associate of Aranas, he’d been murdered within shouting distance of the border crossing by a split-off faction of the Sinaloa Cartel headed by a group of brothers as vicious as pit vipers. Martin had been calling Aranas ‘uncle’ since arriving three years earlier, and by now it was fact, regardless of what a blood test might say. Aranas had grown fond of the quirky child, who was easily startled by noises and avoided human interaction as much as possible – one of the reasons Aranas insisted that he go to a public school, so he could become better socialized.
Martin had proven brilliant with anything mechanical and, if allowed, would sit for entire days tinkering with some discarded piece of gear, making it serviceable again. Aranas had never seen anything like it, but figured that Providence made up for what it withheld in strange ways. At least the boy would always have a trade, if he didn’t develop normally as he aged, and God knew that in Mexico there would always be broken items requiring a fix. Aranas liked to joke that it was a nation held together with sweat and bailing wire, where jury-rigging was the national pastime.
Not that if Aranas had any say, the boy would ever be relegated to a dirty shop somewhere in the barrio. But the future was uncertain, especially in Aranas’s line of work, and to expect to be alive the following day was a conceit he couldn’t afford.
He sighed and returned to his paper. “Thank you, Ynez. That is all.”
“Of course, sir. Let me know if you need anything else.”
~ ~ ~
The sun was high in the late spring sky, a blazing ball that scorched the town with unrelenting intensity. Three days after the incident in the schoolyard, four boys were splashing raucously in a backyard swimming pool, enjoying the relief from the heat. School would let out in another three weeks and then they’d have two months of slacking before returning to their studies – two months that at their age would seem endless at the start, pregnant with possibility, and yet far too short by the time it was over.
Paolo sprayed a sheet of water at his companions with a swipe of his hand. He laughed harshly when he caught them unawares, and they sputtered as they blinked away the drops and returned the favor. Soon it was an all-out water battle with the bully. Colorful insults were exchanged with the abandon of sailors on leave, the delight at using forbidden curses out of adult earshot heightening the delicious pleasure.
Paolo stopped mid-splash and stared at the doorway to his house, where a diminutive figure approached across the brownish grass. The others turned to follow his gaze, and watched in puzzled silence as Martin walked toward them.
“How did you get in here, retard?” Paolo demanded.
Martin didn’t answer. Paolo looked down at the object in Martin’s hands and bac
k at his face, which was still discolored from the beating he’d received at Paolo’s direction. “I asked you a question, dumbass. What are you doing here? How did you get in? And what are you going to do with that? Make us toast?”
Martin neared the raised cantera edge of the pool, hefted the toaster as if considering its weight, and then tossed it at Paolo with a shrug, the long extension cord that trailed behind it whipping through the grass like an infuriated snake. Martin watched with indifference as Paolo caught the appliance. Current shot through the water, electrocuting the boys in the pool; Martin had taken a few minutes to hardwire the fuse box to bypass the breaker that might have saved their lives. Martin’s only reaction to the horror was to hold his hands over his ears, the dying boys’ shrieking more troubling to him than the expressions of agony as they fried.
~ ~ ~
Ynez came running into the casita, where Aranas was meeting with his lieutenants. A thick cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke hung in the room, the overhead fan barely stirring the pungent pall, and the tabletop was littered with Tecate cans and empty shot glasses. She gasped when she saw whom she was interrupting, but Aranas held back on reprimanding her – he knew it had to be an emergency for her to dare the forbidden impertinence.
“What?” he snapped, the single syllable a whip crack.
“It’s Martin. The…the police are coming for him,” she blurted, one hand near her mouth.
Aranas pushed back from the table and stood. “Coming for him? For what? Where is he?”
“In his room. I asked him, but he won’t talk. You know how he can get. As to why, they say…they say he killed four of his classmates.” She glanced at the assembled cartel honchos and then gave Aranas a brief report on why the police wanted his nephew.
Ynez thought she saw the hint of a smile tug at the corner of Aranas’s stern mouth before he turned to his men. He checked his watch and eyed a thug with a face like a boneless ham. “Jorge, take one of the trucks. I want him in Hermosillo by sundown.”
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