The money wasn’t the big issue for the drug kingpin. Rather, it was that his problem with the new head of state hadn’t been solved, and El Rey could be perceived as having bilked him out of the down-payment. That wasn’t the case, but it didn’t matter. Aranas had issued a contract on the assassin, and that was that. Negotiations weren’t an option.
El Rey had learned that he had a real issue at month number two of incarceration. As he took a shower, alone, a prisoner slipped in and tried to shank him. Thankfully his bones had healed sufficiently to enable him to blind his attacker with an eye dig, then snap his neck like a piece of dry kindling, but he understood that more pretenders to the throne would follow. The guards had seemed surprised when he’d limped out of the showers, fresh and smiling, anxious to be taken back to his cell. El Rey recognized immediately that there was both risk and opportunity in the situation. Money could also work for him if some of the guards were bent. It was merely a price discussion at the point of discovering a receptive one.
And El Rey wasn’t cost sensitive.
But the usual contrivances that made the prison economy work weren’t of any interest to him – drugs, cigarettes, a weapon, access to another prisoner for retribution. The only thing he wanted was to escape. He’d sent a flurry of whispers that there was five million dollars waiting for whoever helped him achieve this ambition. There was no point in bargain shopping, and anyone involved would have to disappear forever.
So far, he’d gotten some nibbles, but nothing firm, and in the meantime, other guards were circling to pluck the easier money to be had by turning a blind eye while a Sinaloa goon killed him.
Ah, well. Life had never been perfect. He just needed to be vigilant. It would keep him from getting complacent, he reasoned. Help him maintain his edge.
Good practice for his new life once he was back in the world.
Which he had no doubt he would be, eventually. Even if things looked bleak at the moment.
It was just a matter of time, money – he had lots of both.
A bouncing favorite sounded from the little speaker at the far end of the hall, and El Rey began whistling along with it, nearly silently so as not to raise the guard’s ire. He tapped his foot against the thin mattress, enjoying his daydream of an eventual prison break. Being incarcerated was a setback, but he’d come back from worse.
He was infinitely patient. And good things came to those who waited.
Of that he was sure.
Chapter 2
Present Day, Mexico City, Mexico
Music pulsed and throbbed from the speakers surrounding the massive dance floor, the throng of celebrants moving with abandon, arms thrown in the air, hair flying, asses shaking as the mating ritual of the young and wealthy roared into high gear. Strobe lights flickered to the beat and multi-colored spotlights swept over the crowd, punctuating the carefully contrived gloom in time to the music.
Sak Noel’s ‘Loca People’ boomed its trance groove to the appreciative dancers, who duly screamed the song’s trademark What the Fuck refrain, as if doing so was the height of wit. It was two a.m. – the party was gaining steam and would continue until daylight, fueled by alcohol, chemical stimulants and a flood of airborne pheromones.
The women were fit, gorgeous, and wearing little more than smiles as they bumped and ground against their partners, or in groups, holding drinks aloft and emitting cries of glee every time a song ended and a new one began.
Bacchanal was one of the hottest nightspots for the privileged and pampered children of Mexico City’s aristocracy. Broodingly handsome young men with carefully groomed two-day growths regarded the gyrating femininity with studied indifference, as the women cast sly sidelong glances at their counterparts. Flashes of tanned skin and lithe, long legs complemented the perfect features of many of the dancers, whose movements would have been at home on the set of any decent porn film.
Beauty was a given in this crowd, as was the ability to stay up all night for days on end, untroubled by responsibilities like studies or a job. Hereditary wealth ensured that for a short but glorious period, Mexico City’s lucky youth could party like the world was ending, in preparation for their ascension to the ruling ranks of the nation’s prosperous.
A well-known television actor arrived at the foyer to the admiring gaze of a host of fans before wading into the mass of humanity with his entourage. The heavy smell of moneyed cologne battled against the floral perfume wafting from the revelers, competing with the incense that drifted from wall-mounted holders. Private booths ringed the dance floor, bottles of designer vodka and expensive champagne atop most of the tables, their number and brand signaling the status of the occupants. Thursday was the official early beginning of the weekend’s festivities, lending a sense of abandon and urgency to the gyrations of the writhing flux.
Outside the front door, in the club’s improbably run-down neighborhood, a line of hopefuls waited anxiously for a coveted nod of admittance, a chance to see and be seen. Two burly bouncers loomed each side of the doorman in case anyone became unruly or objected to being turned away – a regular occurrence in the exclusive venue.
Fortunately, it wasn’t raining. When the heavens were opened, the line disappeared and revenue declined proportionately. Young money didn’t like to get cold and wet or be kept waiting any longer than was fashionable, and there were limits to what the partygoers would endure to get in. Mexico City boasted hundreds of hot nightclubs, and competition was fierce. Bacchanal had ruled the roost for three years, an almost impossible length of time in the business – testament to its ongoing popularity and slick marketing, which consisted of courting celebrities and remaining highly visible in the tabloids.
A silver Mercedes sedan pulled to the curb, followed by two black Chevrolet Suburbans. A young woman stepped out, chatting on her cell phone as the car disgorged two hard-looking men in suits who followed her like a shadow. The doorman’s eyes widened when he saw them; he smiled in recognition, nodded his approval and politely beckoned her to bypass the line and proceed inside.
Four more men exited the Suburbans and followed the girl in, leaving another pair at the street, standing on either side of the entrance, eyes scanning over the line for any hint of a threat. All the men had tiny earphones in their left ears, with suit jackets that bulged conspicuously from their shoulder-holstered weapons, in spite of the custom tailoring designed to minimize it.
The girl pushed past the doorman and kissed him on the cheek as she brushed by, never pausing her telephone conversation. Her long black hair framed a classically beautiful Mexican face with fine features and medium-complexioned skin set off by a white satin top and skin-tight black pants. She was petite, no more than five feet tall, but her four-inch-heeled designer boots gave her just enough of a boost to equal the average height of most of the other females in the club.
Once inside, she waved at one of the largest booths, already occupied by a group that had been there for hours. Glasses were scattered across the table top along with half empty bottles of Grey Goose and Johnny Walker Blue. Two thermal ice buckets did duty on either corner. One of the girls lounging on the upholstered cushions returned her greeting, jumping up to exchange hugs with the new arrival as though she was a long lost sister.
The young woman hung up her phone and returned the embrace, then kissed all the others at the table before sliding her phone in the waist of her hip-hugger pants and gesturing at the vodka with a raised eyebrow. A young man dropped three ice cubes in a glass with a clinking flourish and poured three inches of vodka in before topping it off with some freshly squeezed orange juice. He stood and executed a small bow before handing it to her with a mock salute.
Draining half the glass in two swallows, she smiled, then downed the rest. One of the girls whispered in her ear, causing them both to explode in giggles. She proffered the now empty glass expectantly – an invitation to concoct another cocktail, more of an order than a suggestion.
She took her time with the second
drink, talking animatedly with her friend as they moved in time to the music. By the time the glass was drained, her hips were swaying, and when Enrique Iglesias began crooning she grabbed her companion and pulled her, laughing, out of her seat. The suited men stood unobtrusively near the walls on either side of the booth as two more followed the girls to the dance floor and took their positions at the edge of the throng – eyes roving, never pausing.
Bodyguards were not unknown in higher-end Mexican clubs – a function of the ever-present danger of kidnapping or robbery. Bacchanal had its own security patrolling the interior, as well as discreet camera surveillance of most areas. It was as safe as clubs came, with only a single front entrance that was closely monitored. The men watching over the girl had been there numerous times and were more than passingly familiar with the precautions, yet were still on guard.
The leader of the team despised these nocturnal trips that she insisted on – part of her rebellious nature that ignored reality and created incessant headaches for him. But his job wasn’t to keep her locked up twenty-four hours a day – it was to keep her out of harm’s way, and he was very good at his job. Claudio had been a special forces lieutenant for a decade before moving to an elite team of security personnel considered the best of the best. Now, at thirty-eight, he was at the top of his game and ran operations for all secondary security.
He watched the dancers grinding lasciviously to the thundering bass and realized that he was old compared to them. Most of the girls were barely out of their teens. To them, he must have looked ancient – a different generation.
Claudio hated it when Maria had the whim to hit the town at the very last minute. But she was a wild one and loved the nightlife as much as she seemed to enjoy putting him through hell trying to keep her safe. She was stubborn as a burro, and there was no talking sense to her. He, her father, her mother…everyone had tried, and she routinely ignored their pleas of prudence. Nobody was going to tell her what to do, and she went out of her way to push the envelope to drive home the point. Tonight was just the latest in a string of ill-advised escapades that would keep Claudio up most of the night. Once she got her party on, she would go till dawn, or later, he knew from harsh experience.
Maria spun and threw her head back to laugh, her face animated by joy, her moves fueled by the surge of alcohol in her blood. The beat seemed to intensify as the song changed yet again, and Claudio lamented internally that the new breed of young females knew how to shake it in a manner that would have been illegal in his day. Part of him was jealous of the periphery of young men who were likely to sample their sweet wares before the evening’s end, and another part was angry at the decline of morality in the culture in general.
But mostly, he was bitter that he was having to stand in the club, in a suit, playing babysitter for a spoiled brat who put herself in danger for fun.
After a half hour of carousing on the dance floor, Maria abruptly stopped dancing and waved her friend back over to the table with her. They strutted tipsily, arm in arm, to the booth, where another vodka concoction awaited her. She took a few thirsty gulps, then set the glass down. Glancing around, she spotted Claudio and approached him, hips swaying provocatively as if aware of his ambivalent ruminations.
She looked up at him. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
Claudio grunted assent.
“Give me three minutes. I’ll come get you,” he responded. Scanning the crowd, he raised his cuff to his mouth and muttered into it.
Maria glared at him, impatient with this ludicrous formality, and debated going to the restroom without waiting for him, but then dismissed the idea as creating unnecessary problems. As much as she resented it, Claudio was just doing his job, and even though it amused her to torment him, she didn’t want to cause a scene.
She returned to the booth, took another swig of her screwdriver and waited, shouting a conversation over the music to the collected group.
Two men joined Claudio, and they made their way to the rear of the club, where they conducted a hasty discussion with one of the waitresses. Money changed hands, then she set down her tray on a nearby bar counter and led them to the bathrooms.
Several minutes later, a group of annoyed-looking women stalked from the back where they’d obviously been disrupted by Claudio, who then emerged and nodded to Maria, waiting at the booth. She set her cocktail down on the table and slid past her friend to join him. He darted his eyes in the direction of the restrooms. Maria walked the length of the long hallway, between walls painted black and lit with crimson-shaded lamps. Annoyed at all the precautions, she studiously ignored the two men stationed on either side of the door with an elaborately painted female devil on it and entered the now-deserted facilities to go about her business.
Nobody noticed the woman across the floor texting on her cell phone. Half the people in the club were texting someone, so there was nothing noteworthy about it.
Her message sent, she made her way to the exit, her involvement in the night finished.
~
Maria hated that if she wanted to go out somewhere it became a national crisis. While a relatively new experience for her, she’d already quickly decided the whole production was one she would have rather skipped. She missed the freedom that came from anonymity – from just being a normal person. And everyone made her feel so damned guilty if she just wanted to have a good time with her friends every now and then. What did they expect her to do? Sit in a plastic bubble reading a bible while life raced past her? She was only twenty-two, and there was a lot of living to do. Being a recluse wasn’t in the cards for her.
She considered her reflection in the mirror with approval. Her mother’s eyes stared back at her, deep and dark and brown, striking, as she’d been told many times since childhood. Maria had definitely gotten the good DNA in the family – her older brother, Emanuel, who she loved fiercely, shared her keen intellect, but took more after Papa than she did, and while he certainly wasn’t homely, he wouldn’t be gracing the pages of any fashion magazines.
Maria adjusted her satin top, admiring the swell of her breasts and the way the waist of the blouse cinched to highlight her flat stomach – and felt suddenly dizzy. She grabbed the polished black granite counter to steady herself but her legs lost their ability to support her.
The last thing she registered as she slumped to the floor was her puzzled reflection staring blankly back from the ornately-edged mirror.
~
Claudio saw the two sentries collapsed by the bathroom door a few moments after they’d hit the floor. He barked a command into his sleeve and then ran full speed towards the area, pistol drawn. Hesitating before he entered the hall, he took three deep breaths and held the third, and then moved to the door, hardly glancing at his downed men. His shoulder rammed the metal with a thud, but it was jammed shut. Seeing no lock, he slammed against it again, but it refused to budge.
His head pounded as he fought to hold his breath and then gave up, exhaling noisily as he jogged back to the restroom corridor entrance. Once back at the main room, he gasped for air while three of his men approached on the run.
“She’s in the bathroom, but the door isn’t opening. Don’t!” Claudio screamed as one of the men set off down the hall. “It’s got to be gas. Don’t go any farther unless you’re holding your breath.”
The man quickly backed away, unsure of how to proceed.
“On the count of three, take a deep breath, and then we’ll go in. One, two, THREE!” Claudio repeated his three breath maneuver, as he’d been taught in the military. They jogged to the door and threw themselves against it. The door moved a few inches. The air less polluted by now, they redoubled their efforts, and within a few seconds they were in, guns drawn, scanning the stalls.
The room was empty.
Maria was gone.
~
Miguel hoisted the inert woman and carried her on his shoulder out the back door of the club, taking care to lock the two deadbolts on the rear service exit
. It would buy them a few minutes, maybe more, which was all they would need.
He’d already made the call, and the vehicle was waiting. He hastily loaded her unconscious form into the back seat of a Ford Expedition, handing her to the man inside, who pulled her roughly towards him as Miguel pushed her legs, folding them so the door would close. Satisfied she was secure, he swung open the passenger door, pulled his gas mask off and barked an order as he climbed in.
“Get the hell out of here. They’ll figure this out before we know it. Go!” Miguel yelled to the driver, who crunched the heavy truck in gear and roared off down the alley.
“How did it go?” the man in the rear seat asked as they bounced towards the connecting street.
“Perfect. The gas knocked the girl out almost instantly, and it must have taken care of the guards as well because I only heard the door being tried after a good forty seconds. I wedged it shut, but that won’t hold for long. I’ll feel better when–”
They swung onto the street and the driver stomped on the gas, but not before a black SUV came screeching around the corner from the front of the club, heading straight for them.
“Gun it!” Miguel screamed, before gesturing to the man in the rear, who handed him an assault rifle. He checked it quickly, rolled the passenger window down and leaned out with the weapon. The Suburban was gaining on them.
The Expedition’s huge motor strained as the driver expertly negotiated a hard left onto another street, momentarily taking the Suburban out of Miguel’s line of fire. Headlights blinded them as he honked the horn, the oncoming traffic swerving to avoid them as they plowed down the one way street in the wrong direction. The Suburban followed them onto the thoroughfare, grazing a taxi and sending a shower of sparks into the night air.
Miguel hastily sighted and squeezed the trigger – a staccato burst spat from the muzzle. He was gratified when he saw the front windshield shatter. He fired again, hoping to hit either the driver or the motor.
Return of the Assassin (Assassin Series 3) Page 2
