Blood of the Assassin

by Russell Blake

  Cruz scribbled a terse missive on a piece of his stationery and signed it with a flourish. “Here. This will enable you to get whatever you need. I’d say a couple of ARX 160s with night vision scopes, a couple of UMP 9s, extra magazines, body armor, and night vision gear for both of us. And two silenced Berettas. We’ll have to go in hard, so we’ll need all the firepower we can carry. I want to be ready for anything.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to involve a few of my most loyal officers?”

  “I’d say make up a short list of five that you trust with your life, but don’t call anyone until I give the go-ahead. This might have to happen fast, and I want all the options I can get. Maybe it’s just the two of us, maybe it’s more. But for now, it’s only us.” Cruz studied him. “Are you up for this?”

  “Absolutely, sir. If he can deliver the goods it’s a major break. I’m honored you would choose me,” Briones said with quiet fervor.

  “You might not be so thrilled once the bullets start flying.”

  “Sir, I mean it when I say that I’ll make you proud.”

  “I’ll settle for not getting shot, and getting my wife out intact.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll go down to headquarters and hit the armory, then be back in a few hours. Is there anything else?” Briones asked, suddenly anxious to get going.

  “No. Wait. Yes. There is. Thank you. This is way above the call of duty.”

  “I’m absolutely sure you would do the same for me, sir,” Briones said, and then spun and left, leaving Cruz to his thoughts.

  A soft groan escaped Cruz’s lips after the door had closed, and for a moment, his resolve wavered as he watched Briones crossing the command center floor on the way to the elevators. The lieutenant was all about honor, loyalty, and pride, and had proved his mettle more than most of the other officers on the force. He was steadfast, and his trust in Cruz was absolute. But was that trust misplaced?

  Briones might have been sure, but was Cruz? Would he have done the same thing if it had been Briones being held instead of Dinah? Made a bargain with the closest thing to Satan he’d ever encountered?

  He mentally shook himself. After all the rhetoric, all the sentiment faded, his career had cost him everything. He had fought the good fight, and his reward had been a dead wife and daughter, and a command chain that was willing to take everything away from him that he’d earned in order to get its selfish needs met. Cruz might not have been sure of many things, but one was crystal clear to him: He wasn’t going to lose Dinah to the same monster that had claimed his family. Unlike that time, the assassin had presented a unique option, and as much as he felt like he had embarked on a road from which there was no turning back, he was equally sure that he had to do everything in his power to save his wife’s life.

  When all was said and done, and the flags stopped waving and the speeches were over, that’s all that mattered, and all he cared about.

  Getting Dinah back alive.

  Chapter 32

  The estate on the exclusive Paseo de la Reforma boulevard, host to the most expensive homes in Mexico City, was quiet, the dinner hour having come and gone and the privileged residents having settled in for the evening, some watching television or reading, others preparing for sleep. A massive villa with a pseudo-Roman façade stood proudly on the huge corner lot, jacaranda trees offering up their purple blooms to the gentle breeze, and its lights twinkled in the darkness behind the eight-foot-high walls topped with decorative ironwork.

  Traffic still rolled past, but it was sporadic now, most of the residential area having tucked in for the night. Behind the walls, seven armed guards patrolled the perimeter, another three stood inside, and El Rey watched from his hidden vantage point as a cloud of smoke rose from the closest of the men – a smoker, taking a break, chatting with one of the others to kill time and make the dull duty more bearable.

  Crime in the area was not unheard of, but it was rare, especially since so many of the residents had full-time security. Bodyguards were a necessary status symbol for the nation’s rich and famous, and the neighborhood boasted plenty of both – actresses, captains of industry, politicians; all called the twelve-kilometer-long boulevard home, and most had seasoned ex-police or military to safeguard them. This was rarefied air in a city known for its violence and lawlessness, an oasis from the harsh reality outside its confines. Police patrolled the area assiduously, and the response time was said to be the fastest of anywhere in Mexico.

  It didn’t surprise El Rey that the man who was currently at the top of the city’s most wanted list was staying in the most lavish section of town. The media made a great show of how committed the government was to cleaning up organized crime and ridding the nation of the death grip exercised by the cartels, but the truth was that their leaders had lived for years without being caught, their hundred billion dollars in annual revenue buying a certain selective blindness from law enforcement – after all, nobody was paid what they were worth, and that was especially true with the police, who might average four hundred dollars a month in pay. Throw a few grand the way of a commanding officer every so often, and it was hardly surprising that they were unable to apprehend their benefactors.

  It was all a game, he knew, just as it was everywhere in the world. The smugly superior U.S. played by the same rules – it just took more money to buy immunity from prosecution. But human nature being what it was, those with the gold got to make the rules, and as always, they tended to operate by a different set than the rank and file. His nemesis and former employer, Don Aranas, the head of the Sinaloa cartel, whose ten-million-dollar bounty for his head was still the hushed topic of cartel gunman dreams, couldn’t be caught, even though his romantic dalliances included a wife who spent much of her time in San Diego, a beloved firecracker of a pop singing star who was a pin-up sensation and the object of countless male fantasies throughout Latin America, and a shockingly gorgeous television star who defined the new breed of Mexican glamour queen in spite of her tender youth. Even with these well-known associations, the police hadn’t been able to find him for two decades, and yet he managed to operate the most lucrative drug smuggling business in the world from his numerous hideouts in Mexico.

  The power of the cartels was staggering, the income from their operations an inevitable part of the economy, as hotels, markets, casinos, gas station franchises...anything that could be used to launder the tsunami of greenbacks from the U.S. was purchased by anonymous corporations and operated by front men.

  And those that laundered for the cartels, whose battles in Mexico killed over ten thousand a year, including many women and children, shared the cartels’ miraculous ability to dodge the laws that everyone else had to obey. When a mega-banking conglomerate was revealed to have been acting as the laundering bank of choice, right down to where cartel soldiers were bringing in their cash deposits in specially designed containers that would just fit through a teller window, it did a deal with the American Justice Department, agreeing to a fine of $1.8 billion dollars – equivalent to roughly five weeks of its operating profit.

  None of the executives or managers who had been assisting the most bloodthirsty, ruthless criminal gangs in history to launder their money were indicted. The toothless American law enforcement apparatus declared that if the mega-bank was actually charged under the law and the profits from the partnership in the illegal scheme clawed back, it would endanger the world economy. Likewise, the executives couldn’t be prosecuted for their roles because it would jeopardize the stability of the bank. Some of them had to forego a small portion of their bonuses as punishment, while kids caught with a few ounces of marijuana went to jail, and anyone suspected of being involved with trafficking at a lower level forfeited all their assets, the assumption being that everything was the fruit of illegal gains.

  None of the mainstream media outlets covered the outrage, of course, just as none of the Mexican media dared highlight the mockery of justice that was the daily cartel norm. The citizenry of the Uni
ted States continued on its merry way, dutifully paying its taxes and sending its children to die in undeclared wars, while its law enforcement agency made sweetheart deals with murderers and criminals.

  At least Mexicans understood that their government was hopelessly corrupt, and that any claims to the contrary were lies. El Rey had been raised in an environment where the double standard that money bought was celebrated by his mentor, who gleefully butchered whole families while remaining impossible to prosecute. The evidence that life wasn’t fair, nor ever would be, was an accepted part of his existence. You did what you had to do to get by, and hoped that you wouldn’t get squashed when the elephants were dancing their cash-fueled fandango. It had never occurred to him to speculate that things could be any different; it was naïve and simple-minded to do so. Money bought insulation, and the greatest crime in any country was to be weak and poor. It had been that way forever: under the Spanish, the French, and then Mexico’s own rulers, just as it had been true in Europe for as long as there had been recorded history, as well as it had been in the rest of the world.

  He glanced at his watch, the oversized luminescent hands of the Panerai Luminor glowing in the gloom, and resigned himself to a long night. El Jaguar wasn’t showing any signs of getting down early, and El Rey was at the mercy of the cartel boss’s nocturnal habits, which at present involved two stunningly beautiful exotic dancers from one of the most expensive clubs in Mexico City, a bottle of tequila, and a whole lot of cocaine, from what he could see through the small binoculars he’d brought. El Jaguar apparently liked to party. Not surprising, given the business he was in. El Rey just hoped that he would wear himself out sooner rather than later. What he was planning would be better carried out under cover of night; and while there were many hours to go before the first light of dawn streaked the orange-tinged sky, time could get away from him quickly, complicating things.

  He watched as the drug lord whipped off his dress shirt and twirled it around his head, howling like a wolf to an unheard melody as his young companions cheered him on, fortified with alcohol and Peruvian coke. One thing was obvious to the assassin, as he watched the kingpin’s paunch jiggle: The cartel boys knew how to blow off steam.

  Enjoy it, my friend, he thought as he smiled with a humorless grin.

  It will be your last night on the planet.

  Chapter 33

  El Jaguar stirred, the combination of alcohol and drugs having disturbed his sleep cycle, and one eye flittered open as he registered a sound: a tearing, like fabric, only louder. He was just coming to when a strip of duct tape smacked across his mouth, and then every nerve in his body radiated pain as a blow struck him just below his right ear. By the time he had regained control, his hands were bound behind his back and he was lying face up on his king-sized mattress.

  “Shhh. Don’t struggle,” a soft voice whispered, and then, when he ignored the instruction, another starburst of agony shot through his body from another strike, this one at the junction where his neck met his chest. Everything went numb after a few seconds, and then as his nerves resumed transmitting, pain washed over him in waves as he struggled to breathe, tears streaming down his face.

  “That first pressure point is called Dokko. The second, Hichu. Both are extremely effective, I think you’ll agree. Should I continue with my little demonstration, or are you going to behave?” the voice asked reasonably.

  El Jaguar nodded meekly.

  “If I take the tape off your mouth, will you agree to stay quiet? Not that it will do any good for you to scream. This room is so well insulated it’s almost soundproof – a big plus to dampen the traffic noise, but not very bright if one considers the other implications. That door is really something, by the way. What is it – steel with a foam core? You could stave off an army with that thing.” A dark hand motioned at the bedroom door twenty-five feet away.

  El Jaguar nodded again, and El Rey tore off the tape, ignoring the muffled cry of pain when he did so.

  “You’re so fucking dead. I’m looking at a dead man,” El Jaguar hissed.

  “Well, no, not really. But you’re close. What you’re actually looking at is death. My specialty is relieving people of their obligation to continue breathing. It’s an exhausting affair, all the blood circulating, air entering the lungs, lymphatic system flushing toxins, organs filtering…”

  The crime boss’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time his fury was replaced with something else. Awareness. And fear. He felt a tickle of the unexpected sensation in his stomach, and struggled to swallow.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “Ah, much better. A man who asks good questions. My nom de plume, which you might have heard of, is El Rey – The King of Swords. And what I want is information. Actually, a very simple piece of information. Trivial in the scheme of things. A trifle,” El Rey whispered, as if telling the cartel man a secret.

  “El Rey? The El Rey? Fine. Whatever you’re being paid, I’ll double it. In fact, I’ll triple it for you to go back and kill whoever your client is.”

  “That’s a very attractive offer. What if I told you that your life cost a million dollars? That is the price tag for eliminating you?”

  “Then you just made an extra two million. Now untie me,” he snarled.

  “If I’d known it was this easy to get rich quick, I would have changed my business plan a long time ago.”

  “Stop screwing around. Let me go. I have enough cash here to pay you the whole thing. Now.”

  “See, that’s the problem. I don’t completely trust you. I’m a man of my word; but, well, with all due respect, under the present circumstances, I could see you exaggerating or misstating. A sad state of affairs that the world is so distrusting, but there it is.”

  El Jaguar was starting to feel trepidation again. The discussion wasn’t going the way it should have. “How do you want to do this?”

  “You tell me where to find the money, I count it and take two million, and then you go back to sleep and I disappear.”

  “How do I know you’re not going to rob me and kill me?”

  “You don’t. But do you really think that I came here to rob you? Not very smart, are you?” El Rey asked, almost to himself.

  El Jaguar flushed with anger. “Nobody talks to me like that and lives.”

  “I believe you. Now are you going to tell me where the money is, or should I put the tape back on, rape you for a half hour, and then we’ll resume the discussion? I’m sure the rumors about your adventure will raise your standing considerably with your men. Are you feeling experimental?”

  “You...fine. In the closet – there’s a panel on one side. Slide it forward. Behind it is a safe. There’s about five million in it.”

  “I figured you might have a little walking around money. Very prudent.” El Rey walked over to the closet and had the safe exposed in seconds. “What’s the combination?”

  El Jaguar told him, and within another few moments the assassin had the safe open. He whistled softly.

  “Wow. Crime really does pay.” He reached past the neatly bundled stacks of hundred dollar bills, and withdrew a pistol – a custom .45 made by JPL Precision, with a lightened slide, ion bond coating, Bomar sights, and a black oxide grip treatment. “This is beautiful. A work of art,” he said, hefting it, then checking the magazine before chambering a round. “You must love this gun.”

  El Jaguar didn’t say anything. Something was badly wrong, he could sense it. “You have the money. And my gun. Now let me go and our business will be concluded. There will be no consequences.”

  El Rey stepped away from the open safe, the pliant soles of his boots soundless on the Italian marble floor, and approached his captive again, slipping the gun into his waistband.

  “Not completely. I still need a piece of information. Where are you holding the woman? The wife of the task force captain?” El Rey asked, as nonchalantly as if he was asking for cream in his coffee.

  The drug lord’s blood froze.
“What the hell are you talking about? What is this? You have the money–”

  “Yes, and your gun. We agreed on that. Now I need the information I came for. Where is she?”

  “No. I can’t.” The fear in his eyes was real.

  “What do you think will happen if you don’t?”

  “I’d be a dead man – and they’ll get my family, too.”

  “You aren’t paying attention. You’re a dead man if you don’t tell me.”

  El Jaguar glared at him defiantly. “I’m not afraid to die.”

  El Rey nodded. “I believe you. I see it in your eyes. You’ve known much death, and you know how easily life ends – how little drama there is. But there are worse things. Much worse.”

  “I can’t tell you. I won’t. I don’t know.”

  “Now you’re insulting me. The top dog for the Zs here doesn’t know where the kidnapped wife is? Please.” El Rey sighed, a sad sound, part impatience and part resignation. “I guess we’ll do this the hard way, then.” He reached for the roll of tape he had placed on the night table, tore off another piece, and placed it over El Jaguar’s mouth as he screamed for help and tried to pull away, and then drew a switchblade from his pocket and flicked it open. The drug maven’s eyes widened as the evil blade gleamed in the dim moonlight from the street-facing window, and the assassin turned it slowly, as if inspecting it.

  “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll start with your balls, then work up. By the time I make it to your neck, you’ll have told me everything I want to know. You’d kill your mother for relief. I believe you aren’t afraid to die. But I wonder if you’ll be afraid to spend the last few moments of your life being slowly dismembered? I can control the bleeding and keep you alive for hours. It’ll seem like an eternity to you, but I have a lot of practice at this, so I know what it will take to keep you breathing. Maybe I’ll leave you alive, without your manhood, so that every waking moment of your miserable life is spent in horror. We’ll see how I feel once I’ve gotten done with the first bit.”