Night of the Assassin (Assassin Series 4_prequel) (19 page)

El Rey
waited patiently for the inevitable, and was rewarded after seven minutes by the sight of the third sentry rounding the corner of the house. Another well placed shot took him down before he could draw his weapon. The threat from the security force was neutralized. He watched the grisly tableau for a few moments to ensure nobody was moving, then placed the rifle in the bottom of the boat before shrugging into a scuba harness. He double-checked the waterproof bag for the cell phone and two pistols before propelling himself backwards with a dull splash into the cold water of the bay.

It took him a few minutes to swim the distance, and when he pulled himself onto the shallow beach in front of the house, he paused to unclasp the tank and remove the scuba rig, dropping it where he stood on the sand, along with his flippers. They, like the boat, would be recovered later that night by Victor’s cleanup men, so he wasn’t worried about leaving any traces.

He padded in his neoprene dive booties to the grass that separated the patio from the beach and extracted a silenced Beretta 92FS pistol from the bag. Quickly gliding to where the corpses lay, he put a muffled slug into each man’s head, purely out of professional diligence. There was nothing more disruptive to a well-planned sanction than a wounded man with a gun exhibiting second-wind heroics. The niggling housekeeping chores concluded,
El Rey
studied the locking mechanism of the rear pocket doors before fishing out a foot-long stainless steel strip that looked much like a ruler, which is what in fact it was, albeit modified with a jagged hook ground out of one end. He slid it carefully through the center section, and with an abrupt pull, opened the lock. Back into the bag it went, and he fished out the second pistol – an odd-looking gas-powered gun that fired a horse-tranquilizer dart.

The house blueprints Victor had sourced from the building department were still fresh in his mind as he stealthily ascended the stairs to where he knew the master bedroom was located. The neoprene made his steps silent – a fortunate by-product of his unfashionable outfit. As he drew nearer to the partially-opened master bedroom door, his ears pricked up, listening for any telltale warning signs. Satisfied that the house was still, he pushed the door open, only to be rewarded with a creak from the hinges, corroded by the salt air.

The figure on the bed stirred at the sound and then lunged for the dresser.
El Rey
fired the dart gun left handed at him – the dart missed by a scant few inches and embedded itself into the pillow. The target swung around at him with a silenced pistol and began firing even as
El Rey
made a split second judgment call and charged him rather than shooting him. He ignored the white hot stab of pain that lanced through his upper leg as he hurled himself through the air at the prone, firing
El Chilango
, and within seconds had dislodged the gun and was grappling with his left hand for the dart as he slammed his Beretta butt into the man’s head with his right. The struggle was over in a matter of seconds, and the former cartel captain slumped into the mattress as the dart’s soporific venom, stabbed into the side of his neck, found its way into his bloodstream.

El Rey
lay still on top of the target for a few seconds, assessing the throbbing pain from his thigh. He felt blood seeping from the wound – but it wasn’t spurting, which meant the projectile hadn’t hit an artery. Still, it was bad, and the pain was significant. After looking around the room, he rose and limped to the master closet and flicked on the light. His eyes scanned the rows of neatly hanging clothes until they alighted on a bathrobe with a sash for cinching the waist. He pulled the fabric strip loose, then pulled drawers open until he found some white cotton undershirts, all folded in neat little parcels. He grabbed one and tied it in place using the sash, studying the makeshift bandage with acerbic satisfaction. It would do until he could get medical attention.

He returned to the dark bedroom and reached into the waterproof bag dangling from his dive belt to retrieve the cell phone. Peering at the target’s inert form on the bed, he pressed a speed dial number. Victor’s voice answered.

“Front door. Two minutes. I’ve been hit, so I’ll need a medic as soon as possible,”
El Rey
whispered.

“Hit? How bad?”

“I’ll live. He clipped me in the leg. Be there in two minutes, and send the cleanup crew to get the gear and the boat.”

“I’ll have the lads push the bodies into the bay as well, if yah don’t mind,” Victor suggested.

“No worries,”
El Rey
answered, in the ubiquitous manner he’d heard used countless times by the locals since his arrival.

Gimping over to the bed, he lifted
El Chilango
by both arms and dragged him roughly into the hall and then down the stairs. The man would be out cold for two hours, he knew, and when he awoke his head would feel like someone had hammered it with a board, which wasn’t far from the truth, given the gashes the pistol had left, the blood already coagulating and crusting where it had streamed down his face.

On the ground floor, he slid the man to the front entrance foyer and watched through the side window for the vehicle. Twenty seconds later, he saw an outline pull up. He swung the door open, to be greeted by the sight of Victor trotting from the black delivery van they’d arranged for the evening’s festivities. He took a hard look at
El Rey
, standing in the doorway with blood oozing through the T-shirt affixed to his leg, and then wordlessly went to
El Chilango
and began dragging him to the back of the van.
El Rey
limped over, helped get the target into the back and climbed in after him.

“Get me a doctor. I think the bullet passed clean through, but I need to get cauterized and stitched up,” he instructed.

“I’ve got a call in. Should hear back any minute. Let’s do that before we hit the warehouse, shall we? I can secure our friend here so if he wakes up in the interim he can’t get up to any mischief,” Victor said.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Victor closed the back doors and ran around to the driver’s seat. Within seconds, they were headed down the carefully-manicured street, bound for the main road. Victor’s cell rang.

“Yeah. I need it now. Ten minutes out, maybe fifteen. Your shop? No worries,” Victor said, and hung up. He leaned towards the rear compartment. “We’ll swing by his office. He’s pretty good for this kinda thing,” Victor assured
El Rey
.

They drove through Sidney until they reached a rough looking section. Victor pulled to the curb in front of a small storefront featuring photos of yellow Labrador puppies bounding about in a grassy meadow. A short, bald, overweight man stood in the doorway, fumbling for keys to open it.
El Rey
looked up when Victor swung the rear doors open and gingerly slid himself out and onto the sidewalk, waving off the unspoken offer of assistance. He looked at the little man and then at the shop window, then glared at Victor.

“A veterinarian?” he whispered.

“Bloke’s top shelf. Have you running marathons in no time. Does all my sensitive jobs. No worries, mate. Nigel, come over and let’s get our man here inside,” Victor called out.

“I can make it. Let’s just get this over with.”

He limped to the door, which Nigel finally opened after locating the correct key.

“Name’s Nigel. Doctor Nigel to you,” he said, offering his hand.

“I’m shot in the leg. Let’s clean it and sew it up,”
El Rey
said, moving inside.

The walked to the back of the shop, where there was a small exam room with a stainless steel table in the center. Nigel flicked on the lights while Victor returned to the van to shackle their captive.

“Best get you up on the table, then. Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Nigel said, donning a disposable surgical apron and mask. He turned to where
El Rey
now lay and peered at the wound. “I’ll have to cut away your party dress, if you can deal with the loss.”

“Do what you have to do.”

Nigel expertly untied the dressing and snipped away the neoprene, cutting the entire wetsuit leg off just below the groin and pulling it off. Blood seeped slowly from the holes on both sides of
El Rey
’s thigh. Nigel moved to the medicine cabinet, filled a syringe with Novocain and injected it carefully on the edges of the wound, finishing by squirting some directly in. The pain receded, replaced by sweet numbness.

Nigel swabbed the bullet hole and then used a pair of forceps to examine it.

“You got lucky. Missed the bone, and nothing major hit other than muscle. It’ll smart for a bit, but I can stitch you up and you’ll be a new man in no time,” he assured
El Rey
. “The slug passed clean through so I’ll just dump some antiseptic in, give you some antibiotics, some orange juice, and do a bit of sewing. Job done, mate.”

“Give me two more syringes of the anesthetic, too. I need to do some more work tonight, and it’s helping.”

“Too right, then. Couple of sticks of feel good to go. Can do. Now let’s close you, shall we?”

Fifteen minutes later, the wound had been tended. Nigel sprayed both stitched areas with a metallic silver spray and stood back to admire his handiwork.
El Rey
sat up and began drinking a bottle of orange juice Nigel had brought him. The vet handed him two bottles of pills and two full syringes.

“That there’s iron, for rebuilding your red blood cells, and that’s doxycycline. Take one every eight hours for ten days. The numbing juice should be good for an hour or two each go. I’d remember to use alcohol to sterilize the area before you inject, and lose the syringe after using it once. Don’t want to introduce any more germs than you need to, right? Now, if you’ll take down your suit, I need to give you a shot in the bum so you don’t die of sepsis.”

El Rey
pulled down the zipper at the front of his neck and obliged. The injection in his ass hurt almost as much as the gunshot had. The pain subsided after thirty seconds, and he realized it was hot in the suit, so he left it unzipped when he pulled it back up.

“Are we done?” Victor asked, coming back in after eavesdropping the discussion.

“Yep. He should rest for a few days. Call me if there’s any complications, like high fever or obvious signs of infection.” Nigel gave a wan smile. He fixed
El Rey
with a steady gaze, his eyes twinkling with merriment. “You’ll have a little pucker there, once you heal, to show the ladies. Cut out the stitches in seven days. Could do it in four, but seven is better if you’re going to be walking around on it, which I imagine you will.”

“Thanks, Doc. You’re a dream,” Victor said, shaking Nigel’s hand.
El Rey
simply walked out of the room towards the front of the store, anxious to get his captive to the warehouse and fulfill his contract.

He was ready to get to work.

Outside the warehouse, the streets were empty, save for a mangy, lean dog 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 ran off in search of safer pickings.

Victor got out of the van and slid the door open before driving inside. He killed the engine before returning 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 you like,” he said, strolling to the back of the van and opening the door.
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 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 wickedly, looking cadaverous under the harsh fluorescent lighting. “Just ring me, and I’ll be by in ten. I have to go attend to making sure the cleanup boys did their job and didn’t miss anything. Good luck, mate,” he said, as he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the van. It swung back out onto the street.
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. 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.