Night of the Assassin

by Russell Blake

  Chapter 14

  Outside the warehouse, the streets were empty, save for a mottled, scrawny cat nosing its way down the sidewalk in search of edible bounty. It paused at a rubbish container thirty yards from the sliding metal door, sniffing for anything to feed on. It looked up, startled by the van swinging round the corner, and quickly darted off in search of safer pickings.

  Victor got out of the van and slid the door open before driving inside. He killed the engine, then returned to the door to close it.

  El Rey stopped him. “Let’s get him out of the back, and I’ll take it from here. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

  Victor eyed him. “It’s your party. You can play whatever music yah like,” he said, strolling to the rear of the van and opening the doors. El Chilango lay, still unconscious, with duct tape over his mouth, his legs bound with it and his wrists cuffed together in front of him. Victor rooted around in his pocket and wordlessly handed El Rey the key to the cuffs.

  They dragged the ex-cartel chief out and dumped him unceremoniously onto the floor.

  Victor took a quick scan of the workspace. “Everything yah asked for is here. There’s some clothes, the Sony, and all the rest.” He grinned, looking cadaverous under the harsh fluorescent lighting. “Just ring me, and I’ll be by in ten. I hafta go attend to making sure the clean-up boys did their job and didn’t miss anything. Good luck, mate,” he said, then climbed into the driver’s seat and started the van. It swung back out onto the street, and El Rey closed the large door behind it, latching it in place so they wouldn’t be disturbed.

  He took a good look at his prisoner and hobbled to the table in the corner, unfolding the clothes he’d left there before changing into them. Once he was done, he studied the items scattered around the table and moved to a wickedly sharp combat knife and a pair of surgical scissors. He’d set the camera up later. He wanted to get everything right for his performance art debut, and he had a very specific idea about how his project would begin.

  El Chilango came to with a start and instantly began shivering as he registered the cold cement floor against his naked body. He shook his head in an effort to clear it, tried to move his arms and legs. It was no good. He’d been bound. Out of the periphery of his vision, he made out movement, and he craned his neck to see what fresh hell he’d fallen into. A young Latino man stepped into view.

  “I see the smelling salts worked. How are you feeling?” El Rey asked in Spanish.

  “What are you doing? What do you want? Money? I have a lot of it…,” El Chilango said.

  “I’m glad to hear that. Hopefully you have a current will, too. It would be a shame if it all went to waste, no?”

  El Chilango grimaced. “I can make you rich. Anything you want, I can give you.”

  “That’s an attractive offer. Really. It’s not every day someone offers to make all my dreams come true,” El Rey mused, walking over to a tripod where a small video camera was positioned. He looked through the screen and adjusted the height a little and then, satisfied, pulled a balaclava from his pocket and pulled the knit mask over his head. He depressed the record button and verified that it was operating correctly before moving back to El Chilango.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Did you hear me? I can give you any amount of money you want. Any. A million dollars. Five million. Ten. Anything. Just say the number and I can make it so…” El Chilango was panicking after seeing the mask – he realized what was happening. “Please. You don’t have to do this. I can make you rich for life–”

  His protestations were cut off by the clanking of chain feeding through an overhead electric winch mounted to one of the crossbeams. The motor whined, and he felt pressure on his ankles as it slowly started lifting him off the floor.

  “Oh God, no. Please. Name a number. Anything…”

  Once he was suspended upside down, he began shrieking and howling in stark fear, squirming and struggling in a futile effort to get free. The motor stopped when his head was three feet off the floor. He spun gently in a circle from his efforts, slowly returning to the central position, his face looking in fear at the camera.

  El Rey checked the image through the viewfinder one last time and nodded, satisfied with the composition.

  “It’s so hard to create an interesting film. Sustaining the drama, capturing the pathos, making the audience feel like they’re involved…,” El Rey lamented.

  “Let me down. You don’t have to do this. Please,” the cartel boss whimpered, saliva flecking from his mouth with every word.

  El Rey moved to the table and donned a clear plastic raincoat, taking care to snap up the front of it. When he turned to face El Chilango, he looked at his watch and ignited the tip of the welding torch he held in one hand with the long-handed fireplace lighter he held in the other. El Chilango’s eyes grew wide.

  “So you can give me any amount of money I want?” El Rey asked.

  “Yes. Anything. You’ll be rich. I can make you rich. Millions,” he pleaded, beginning to cry as he saw the blue flame and understood the implications of the camera and his complete nudity.

  “Tell me. What does it cost to bring a twelve-year-old ballerina back to life? How much is a little girl’s life worth? What’s the going rate?”

  El Chilango struggled to process the question, to make sense of what was being asked, and then awareness dawned on him.

  “Nooooooooo…” Urine streamed down his bare chest as he lost control of his bodily functions out of raw terror.

  El Rey set the torch on the table, pushing the surgical rotary saw aside to make room, and picked up a red suede muzzle designed to keep victims silent that Victor had gotten from a bondage store. With a final glance at his victim, he approached El Chilango, humming a song he’d heard that morning. Waltzing Matilda. For whatever reason it had stayed with him, the melody catchy in an odd way.

  Shortly thereafter he began his first film appearance in earnest.

  Three hours later, Victor’s phone rang.

  “It’s done. Dispose of the remains and hose down the shop. Thanks for everything,” El Rey said, before hanging up. He’d settled up with Victor earlier, so there were ‘no worries’ in that respect.

  He studied the three small video cassettes and labeled them one through three with a fine-tip marker, then slipped them into his pocket before turning off the work area lights. He was glad he wouldn’t have to clean up after the mess – it was all he’d been able to do to avoid getting soaked with blood in the end. The dismemberment and cauterization had been gratuitous, but then again his little cinematic epic was intended for a very specific audience. He suspected what it lacked in finesse would be made up by the subject matter. He’d stretched things out as long as they would go and, fortunately, El Chilango had been healthy and strong.

  It was amazing the amount of abuse the human body could take and still keep functioning.

  Still, when all was said and done, nothing lasted forever.

  El Rey limped down the street, still humming, his leg starting to throb but still largely numb from the two injections. He’d get out of town in the late morning and be back home within twenty hours of taking off, with any luck at all.

  A few minutes later, he saw the lights of his hotel and exhaled with relief at the thought of a few hours of rest.

  It had been a long day.

  The Qantas first class lounge was mostly empty so El Rey had the area he was sitting in all to himself. He nibbled on some cashews and drank some more orange juice while gazing through the window at the huge airplanes landing as he waited for his flight to be called. His leg hurt like hell, but he’d be fine. He didn’t want to take any pain medicine but reconciled to perhaps availing himself of the expensive free alcohol that flowed like water in the first class cabin. It wasn’t like he would need to be in total control while thirty-nine thousand feet over the Pacific Ocean. It would be safe to violate his prohibition against alcohol in cases of emergency. It was, after all, for legitimate medicinal reas
ons.

  Fortunately, his seat pod folded flat into a bed, so he would be able to sleep for much of the way if he had any luck at all. The trip over had been relatively smooth and he was hopeful that it would be equally uneventful on the return across the Pacific as well. His English was more than good enough to follow the dialogue in the in-flight films, so he could catch a movie or two while waiting to drift off. He never watched TV or movies back home, so it was a guilty pleasure he planned to indulge while aloft.

  The El Chilango contract would be the last of the year for him. He wanted to recuperate from the shooting, and also not be overly available to any of the cartels – preferring to select the assignments he accepted with care. He wouldn’t get to the point where he could command millions for a hit by being open to every job thrown his way. He intended to only take the truly challenging sanctions, thereby creating a reputation as a man who could do the impossible – the court of last resort when only the best would do. That would take as much stagecraft and pomp as it would competent execution. Everything in the end was a performance, and if he managed his career correctly he would soon be the star of center stage when it came to headline-making assassinations.

  The loudspeaker announced his flight and an attractive young redheaded Australian woman came to assist him with the wheelchair that sat waiting in a corner. He’d told the airline that he was disabled, a diving accident, and the staff had been more than accommodating. As the perky airline worker pushed him to the gate, he again remarked at how clean everything was in Sydney. It wasn’t home, of course, but Australia certainly had its charms. He could understand the appeal as a retirement destination, although for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what the people were saying half the time.

  Once onboard, he stowed his overnight bag and settled in for the long journey ahead. He had booked a seat at the very front of the 747, with nobody in front of him, and he hoped the section would be only a third full, as it had been on the way over.

  Eventually the door closed and he saw, with satisfaction, that nobody else was in his row. Thankfully, he’d be left in peace. El Rey plugged his headphones into the center console and adjusted the channel to the classical station, then thumbed through the onboard magazine to see what had been selected for his viewing pleasure by the attentive entertainment concierge at Qantas. A grinning stewardess came down the aisle and offered him a glass of Veuve Clicquot champagne, which he gratefully accepted while returning the woman’s smile. She brought it promptly, along with a porcelain bowl of warm, mixed nuts, and reminded him to simply ask if he had any other requests or needs. He leaned back in his seat with a weary sigh as he sipped the bubbly ambrosia from the glass flute, and peered through the window while the plane backed away from the gate. Shaking out an iron pill and antibiotic, he washed them down with the last of the elixir, and before long the massive aircraft was lumbering down the runway and up into the cold morning light.

 

  Excerpt from King of Swords

  A Thriller by Russell Blake

  © 2011

  Copyright © 2011 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 Books@RussellBlake.com.