Rage of the Assassin: (Assassin Series #6)

by Russell Blake

  He’d heard that even the poor wore hundred-dollar shoes and had iPhones in America, and he hadn’t believed it until he’d seen it firsthand. The prosperity was unimaginable to him – the entire city was comprised of endless rows of monolithic skyscrapers, and the sense of harried wealth was palpable, especially here on the Upper East Side.

  The assassin crossed the street, one of the few pedestrians who waited for the light to change, and was happy to see that as he neared the river the crowds on the sidewalks thinned out until he was one of only two or three others on the block. The neighborhood was quiet, reeking of genteel old money. The line of brownstones stood like senile sentries, vestiges of the past in a time that had long since passed them by. He’d been worried by the number of doormen only a couple of blocks back, but this section was devoid of the towering apartments that clogged the area by the main artery.

  He munched on another chestnut as he ambled past the brownstone, noting from behind his sunglasses that the curtains were drawn. He continued to the end of the block and rounded the corner, calculating the best way to get into the building without being observed. He quickly appreciated the challenge he faced when he saw that there were no back alleys he could skulk along, only more dwellings crowded together.

  That left the roof or the front door.

  El Rey would have dearly loved to wait until nightfall for his incursion, but he was running on borrowed time. So it would be the worst kind of operation: a daytime sojourn in a highly populated area he hadn’t had the time to reconnoiter. He’d worked under worse circumstances, but that scenario was close to the top of his list of undesirable ones.

  He studied the manholes as he took his time circling the block, looking for easier adjacent targets where he could get onto the roof and make his way to the brownstone. But his perusal of the homes quickly convinced him that he’d have to take the most direct route and walk up to the front door and ring the bell.

  An hour later he returned wearing a different windbreaker, his other tied around his waist, his baseball cap on backwards and a courier service envelope in his hand, with the address slip made out to Dr. Helen Garland. He waited until the sidewalk was empty and then hurried up the steps to the front door and pressed the bell, fidgeting as he imagined a messenger in a rush might. When there was no answer, he knocked loudly and waited, his ears straining for any sound from inside.

  A window scraped open on the second floor of the house next door and an old woman’s voice called out, “She’s not here.”

  “Oh. Well, I have a package here for her. Any idea where I can find her?”

  “I think she’s at her place on Long Island. You got that address?”

  El Rey smiled. “I’m sure they do. I’m just the hired help.”

  “Well, don’t waste your energy here. Nobody’s home.”

  El Rey gave the old woman a jaunty salute and a wave. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  The old neighbor woman had seen him, but it was a stretch to believe that she’d remember him in any detail by the time the doctor’s body was discovered, much less make the connection between a failed package delivery and a murder many miles away, so he decided to risk letting her live. Besides, he had to work fast, and silencing her would take time he didn’t have.

  The walk back to Park Avenue went by quickly as he calculated how long it would take to get to the Hamptons for his meeting with destiny. Probably the better part of the afternoon, given his knowledge of the geography. He pulled up a website on his new cell phone and checked for the shortest route, and decided that a combination of the subway and taxis would get him there fastest, if the traffic was anywhere near as bad as it had been coming in from the airport. He glanced at his Panerai and turned onto Park Avenue, and then made for the nearest subway station, anxious to get on with his search before the neurotoxin made the odyssey a moot point.

  Chapter 30

  Mexico City, Mexico

  Norteño sat at a different conference table on the main level, in a much larger room than the president’s office. The meeting with the Security Council was over and the course of action decided. The president had ordered an attempt to defuse the museum bomb against his recommendation, and extracted a promise from two of the strongest advocates of that approach that if the device detonated, they’d take the fall. It had been a tense meeting, but he’d gotten what he was after, and now Norteño and the others were briefing key members of the Federal Police and the army on the situation.

  Both had been mobilized and had cordoned off the buildings, but there had been no details given other than that there was an emergency and that the president’s office would be directing the response. That had been sufficient to get boots on the ground, but now the top brass wanted answers. After forcing everyone in the room to sign national security clearances swearing them to silence, Norteño had given a fifteen-minute presentation on the nature of the threat, using the terrorism explanation everyone had agreed upon.

  The head of the Federal Police was scowling during the questions that followed, and allowed his subordinates to ask most of the questions before cutting them off with a dark look.

  “So let me get this straight. Thousands of people are being held hostage by terrorists who intend to kill them if their demands aren’t met? Within forty-four hours, approximately?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And they want a billion to call it off.”

  “Also correct,” Norteño agreed.

  “And the plan is to play along while we try to disarm one of the devices.”

  “Yes. Which is why we need your cooperation.” Norteño tilted his head and dropped the other shoe. “We’ve already contacted the U.S. State Department to see if they can help – they have a lot more experience with counterterrorism than we do.”

  The Security Council had recommended that they reach out to the U.S. government, over Norteño’s objections, and the president had agreed, at least hesitantly, to put out feelers without making any firm requests or agreeing to anything specific. He wanted to understand his options and didn’t want his reaction in retrospect to have excluded anything that might have saved innocent Mexican lives.

  “So we’re going to have to work around the gringos, in addition to the rest of this?” the Federal Police chief sputtered.

  “Not necessarily. We’ll see what they propose. But if they have some experts they can put on a plane, the president sees no reason not to invite them here. As I said, they have more experience than we do at this.”

  “That didn’t do them much good, did it?” the chief countered.

  Norteño had anticipated the turf concerns. “Look, nothing’s cast in stone. We’re exploring all our options. I’ve been asked to request that you and our esteemed military counterparts here assemble a strike force that can go in and disarm the bombs. If any foreign involvement takes place, it will be under our direction. So don’t worry – we’re not inviting the American military to invade.” Norteño turned to the general to his right. “What’s the status of the quarantined areas, General?”

  “We’ve done as asked and sealed them off. We’re working with the Federales on crowd control. Nobody can get in or out without us knowing, although we have to expect that unrest will set in as time passes, and a certain percentage of those in lockdown will want out. Our people see that as the biggest hurdle, followed by containing protests by family members who want their loved ones safe.”

  “And you’re equipped to do that?” Norteño asked, obviously in charge of the meeting even though he was technically outranked by most in the room. He would savor the delicious power later. For now, he needed to be assertive without being abrasive, and get the various factions to pull on the same oar.

  “Of course. We’ve devoted all resources necessary.”

  “What about your bomb experts? Who are your best men?”

  “We’re flying in two instructors from our special forces program. These are seasoned men with for
ty years of experience between the pair.”

  “Excellent. What about the Federales? Who have you got?”

  “Nobody at that level, I’m afraid. This is relatively new to us,” the chief admitted.

  “Then perhaps we might want some American eyes as well,” Norteño said, voicing the conclusion he’d been reluctant to arrive at.

  “No,” the general countered. “It’s not like more people will make a better cake. Let our experts handle it. The likelihood that these devices are too sophisticated for them to defuse is about nil. Terrorists are usually amateurs; these are professionals. They literally wrote the book.”

  Everyone agreed to devote manpower to a task force that would work around the clock to manage the crisis, as well as to enforce a system ensuring there were no information leaks. Everything would be tightly compartmentalized, and each member would be required to sign the secrecy agreement before being briefed. A sleeping area would be set up, along with food delivery, so the members of the team wouldn’t have to leave the building, and there would be no communication with the outside world other than through monitored channels, with no exceptions.

  The rest of the meeting was spent agreeing on a short list of candidates for the team, which proved smaller than they’d imagined, largely because nobody had any relevant experience. The armed forces got six seats, the Federal Police four, with the option of adding more if necessary, and of course, Norteño leading the effort. Two of the Security Council members were on the military side, so there were really only eight additional faces to add, making the process expedient.

  Norteño watched the somber men leave the room with their marching orders, and rose to deliver a report to the president, who wanted to be updated hourly. The thrill of being so close to the epicenter of power was intoxicating, even after six months as chief of staff – this was the first time he had actually been in charge of anything material, and the president had made it clear that he had twenty-four-hour access, no matter what the time.

  In a world where access was everything, Norteño was now at the top of the heap, and he would do whatever it took to remain there. This crisis would resolve one way or another, but he would be remembered by everyone as a man of action who had stepped up when leadership had been required.

  He was effectively in charge of the most critical operation in the country’s history.

  Now he just had to live up to the responsibility.

  Chapter 31

  Mexico City, Mexico

  Godoy shivered as he came to on the cold cement floor of a darkened room. His head swam as he sat up, and his body felt like he’d been thrown down a flight of stairs. The last thing he remembered was being grabbed at Leticia’s apartment, and the rest was a haze. He reached to his right arm and felt a sore spot, and then squinted at where a small trickle of blood had dried on his dress shirt. He rolled up the sleeve and spotted the culprit: a dot where he’d been injected with something.

  He tried to stand but only succeeded in slipping back to the floor, his legs refusing to obey his mind’s commands, and kicked an empty metal pail by his legs in the process. He winced at the noise, everything amplified, no doubt from the after-effects of the drugs his assailants had shot him up with.

  The only door in the room opened and three men entered. Two of them hoisted Godoy onto a chair as the third sauntered behind them, his body language that of a man in no hurry. The third man stood in front of Godoy, staring down at him, and then turned to one of the pair.

  “Turn on the lights,” he ordered, and the man on Godoy’s right rushed to comply.

  The room illuminated, and Godoy grimaced and closed his eyes. The pain the light caused was excruciating, but the agony from the hard backhanded slap that came next eclipsed it.

  “Open your eyes,” the third man said.

  Godoy forced himself to comply, his eyes slits. The man’s face came into focus, and Godoy’s heart skipped a beat. He knew that face. The man was a cartel boss – but which one eluded him.

  “I see you recognize me,” the man said. “Which tells me that you’re a greater fool than I would have guessed. You knew she’s my girlfriend, and you still did it. I should grind you into hamburger and feed you to the dogs.”

  A name sprang to mind: Luis Hierro, the Mexico City head of the Gulf Cartel, now dissolved after a brutal territory war with Los Zetas.

  “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Godoy protested, his stomach twisting in a knot at the sudden revelation.

  “Leticia didn’t tell you?” Hierro barked, and then laughed. “Then the joke’s on you. She’s my main squeeze. And you’ve been dishonoring me by screwing her, you shit grub.”

  “I…had no…idea…”

  “That figures. She may be gorgeous, but she’s got the morals of an alley cat, and she’s greedy. Let me guess – you been paying for it?”

  Godoy tried to shake his head, but the pain from the effort was too much. “Just gifts. And help with the rent.”

  Another laugh. “That’s funny, considering I own the apartment and she stays for free. How much did she clip you for?”

  “Ten thousand pesos a month.”

  Hierro grinned, and the effect was chilling. “That’s not bad for tagging one that looks like her. Especially for a troll like you. Of course, now it’s going to get a lot more expensive.”

  “Anything,” Godoy managed.

  “I’m glad you feel that way. I need your wife’s contact information.”

  Godoy’s eyes widened. “No. Don’t tell her.”

  Hierro’s face darkened and he took a menacing step forward. “Let’s try this the hard way, then. Give me her info or I’ll cut your balls off and film you eating them for YouTube.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Godoy slipped back into unconsciousness after Hierro had entertained himself by using him for a punching bag. The cartel honcho stared down at his bleeding form and shook his head.

  “I almost feel bad for him. Nothing could have been worth this.”

  One of the two henchmen shrugged. “Seemed more worried about his wife than anything.”

  Hierro laughed as he rubbed his knuckles. “There’s a lesson in that.”

  Chapter 32

  After an hour of fruitless calls to get someone to extract Dinah from the hospital, Cruz contacted his conduit in the government, who told him in no uncertain terms that there could be no exceptions to the lockdown on the buildings. He swore Cruz to secrecy and switched to a landline when he called Cruz back.

  “They’re afraid there’s a bomb. Or bombs. That’s all I know. But apparently the terrorists’ conditions are that if anyone leaves, they detonate the devices when someone sets foot outside the building.”

  “This is my wife we’re talking about, damn it. She’s pregnant. There has to be a way. Underground, maybe?”

  “I’ll do what I can, Cruz, but it will take some time. I’ll call your office when I have something for you.”

  “Please. I’m losing my mind here. You have to do something.”

  “Let me talk to some people. That’s all I can promise.”

  Cruz spent precious time pacing in front of his window, and finally decided to keep busy while he waited for word. Everyone he’d talked to had repeated the official story, which was long on prohibitions but short on specifics. According to the press, there was a terrorist threat that involved explosives, and areas of the city were being sequestered for everyone’s safety. And of course, that the public was not to panic.

  The last being the most worrisome thing the administration could have said.

  Other than that, there was a complete news blackout, which was typical when the government clamped down on the media. Unlike some countries, there was no assumption of a free press, and it was well understood that the networks and papers danced to the government’s tune, or didn’t, as the situation warranted. Just as there was no mention of the massive cartel war being waged in Baja, lest it scare tourists away, there was also no mention of
anything else the government deemed too sensitive for public consumption.

  Cruz had already spoken with one of his favorite sergeants, Lorenzo Torres, and ordered him to round up a half dozen of his best men and be ready within fifteen minutes. He knew it was a long shot that they’d find the driver, but sometimes long shots paid off, and he felt the need to do something, anything, while he waited for a solution to Dinah’s predicament.

  Torres was waiting out on the task force floor when Cruz strode from his office. Cruz noted that the sergeant, and all his men, were equipped with the latest H&K MP7 submachine guns with sound and flash suppression. A deadly little gun, it was compact and could put a round through a car door and still penetrate a bulletproof vest – and the shooter wearing it – at two hundred yards.

  “Gentlemen, I should have told you – I want you in plainclothes. We’re looking for a silver Dodge Caravan. We need to take the driver alive if at all possible. Dead, he is of no value, whereas alive, we can convince him to cooperate.” The driver might not know where Aranas was now, but if he could shed light on who at the prison had helped him escape, at least that was something. And if they won the lottery…he’d lead them to the drug lord. “We’ll do a drive through of the neighborhood and see if we can spot him. If we do, depending on the layout, we can either box him in or approach on foot.”

  Torres and his men changed into street clothes, their compact weapons concealed by loose windbreakers. The outfits wouldn’t withstand a close inspection, but from a distance the deception might work. Cruz wished he could devote more resources to the search, but with the city on emergency footing, he was reluctant to pull more men from their duties. He still hadn’t gotten the green light from Godoy to commandeer staff, and anyone he took out of the pool would be officers Briones would need if he was to make progress on his file full of cases.