Night of the Assassin (Assassin Series 4_prequel) (3 page)

They’d covered all possible approaches yet he was still worried. Maybe it was the place, or maybe because it was the last night of
Papi
’s latest binge. But Alberto had an ugly feeling in his guts – and it wasn’t something he’d eaten. He sensed there was something out there coming for them. And whatever it was, it meant them harm.

He called to his men for their radio checkin; everyone responded immediately, sounding alert and precise. They were the best. Seasoned professional killers from a half dozen countries, making thirty-five grand a month each to lay their lives on the line. He didn’t like the odds of anyone foolish enough to take them on in the dead of night.

But his gut still told him they had a problem.

The assassin checked the bright luminescent face of his stopwatch, noting with satisfaction that he was on schedule. He listened for the sound of the party at the marina, which was still some distance away. Faint gusts of music muttered a vague cadence over the water. The target was making it almost too easy for him. Perhaps it was just providence calling time on
Papi
. But whatever the wheels within wheels of cruel nature, he thanked his lucky stars that he’d taken this contract – one of the largest he’d ever been offered, at a million and a half dollars.

He’d planned the attack to the second and researched everything from the marina layout to the surroundings, even going as far as locating blueprints and a schematic for the ship and committing them to memory. This was his specialty – the
impossible to carry-off
execution of untouchables was his stock-in-trade. It had made him infamous in a relatively short time. But this would be the most difficult sanction yet, due to the heightened vigilance of the security team he knew would be on-edge the final night of their rough duty, which concluded in a vulnerable location. He’d thought through all possible ways of terminating Contreras, and when he’d decided on his final plan, even he was impressed at the ingenuity of it. Now he just needed his contractors to be on time and to do their job, and
Papi
was better than dead.

He slipped below the surface of the water and submerged to a depth of fifteen feet. That would be sufficient for his purposes. The small waterproof GPS unit he’d programmed with the coordinates of the dock glowed orange with just enough luminescence to be readable from three feet away. By his calculations, he would need ten minutes to swim to his starting position before the plan engaged, and he’d allowed himself fifteen, just in case. Better safe than sorry on a night like this. His tank held sufficient air to breath for an hour, which he hoped would be far more than necessary.

It had been difficult arranging for all the pieces he’d need to end the life of the brutal cartel boss; expensive too, but sometimes cost was key. He’d learned through harsh experience not to pinch pennies or cheap out. By the end of the night he’d be far richer, so in the end, whatever his sunk costs were would have paid for themselves. He was nothing if not pragmatic about the job.

His easy, practiced stroke propelled him smoothly through the warm water as he neared the private marina. He sensed he was close when he felt a current heralding the mouth of the harbor, as the surging tide pulled him through the broad opening.

Visibility was zero in the inky darkness so he was flying entirely by his instruments, which told him he had another hundred and fifty yards to go. Contessa was berthed at the dock closest to the harbor’s entrance, commanding the entire length, so there was no cover or alternative to doing the dive. This was the only way to get close.

A commotion from the sea bed startled him with a cloud of muddy sediment. A large stingray rose from the muck and glided by him, nudging his neoprene-encased legs with one of its wings. He more sensed the creature than saw it; he was momentarily caught off guard. His respiration increased as he flailed in alarm, causing a rush of bubbles to hurtle to the surface. Battling for control over his breathing, he struggled to slow his heart rate – after a few seconds of inward composure, he had it back to beating at a moderate pace. He didn’t pause long to dwell on the near-miss, beyond musing that it would be ironic if his meticulously-plotted assassination fell apart due to surface froth from a panicked brush with a bottom-dwelling
Myliobatoidei
.

Another glance at his watch confirmed that he still had five minutes to go. By his reckoning he should be sixty or so yards from the front of the boat, and ninety from his targeted position. After a few more moments of swimming, he dimly registered the hull of the massive ship above him – an opaque outline floating on an already-dark surface, faintly illuminated by lambent swirls of the surrounding marina lights. Carefully calculating the distance, he moved to the spot his schematics told him would be the correct one for his purposes.

From a mesh sack attached to his dive belt, he fished out a suction cup with a handle on one end, which he affixed to the hull. The assassin could feel the vibration of the big generators that provided all the power when the massive twin MTU turbo-diesels were at rest. As expected,
Papi
had all systems operating on the luxurious yacht. He extracted a waterproof battery-powered drill. After taking one final confirming look at his position on the hull, he jammed the bit against the fiberglass and depressed the trigger. The diamond-tipped steel shredded its way through the material – almost five inches thick. The bit was six. Two minutes later he was through. He dropped the drill back into his sack and extracted a small gas canister with a rotating valve on the end, where it connected to a custom-fabricated seven inch tube that would be a snug fit in the hole. He jammed it up into the new opening and twisted the valve, wishing he could hear the satisfying hiss that would terminate the target.

Hopefully.

That was where part two of the plan came in.

The assassin depressed a button on the suction cup and it dropped away from the hull. He swam to the far side of the ship that was facing the bay and cautiously poked his head out of the water, right next to the section where the engine vents drew in air. Another glance at his watch confirmed that he had a hundred and forty more seconds before it was show time. He groped in the sack and, after re-submerging, drilled another hole, this time where the central air conditioning units were situated. He repeated the procedure with a second gas canister and returned to the surface again, hurriedly extending a telescopic tube akin to a car radio antenna. The assassin fitted a third, larger canister onto the end of the extension and, now in position and prepared, waited for the fireworks to begin.

Alberto was the first to hear the big chopper’s rotors. By the time he had radioed to his men, the sound of the aircraft had increased to a chattering roar. A searchlight stabbed through the night, racing over the buildings and then towards the marina, tracing over the assembled boats until it finally alighted on Contessa’s superstructure, blinding the two armed sentries in the top-level bridge. Alberto screamed into the radio to his men to hold their fire – nobody from the helicopter was shooting. The piercing light slowly moved along the concrete path, locking onto the armed men and freezing each in place before it moved on to the next. Eventually, satisfied that there was no unusual mischief going on at the marina, the beam shut off and the chopper rose, hovering for another twenty seconds before banking and moving back towards its home base in Manzanillo.

Alberto swore to himself. That had been way too close. It was one of the navy copters, no doubt sent over to check on reports of armed men on the waterfront. The army and the navy chiefs in the area had been paid off, so there shouldn’t have been any problem. It likely took a couple of radio exchanges before they called off the dogs. Few things in life scared Alberto, but the prospect of taking on a contingent of armed Mexican marines was one of them; the army wasn’t a problem, but the marines knew their shit. They were the equivalent of the American green berets, the toughest of the tough, and they generally meant business. Alberto should know. He employed three ex-marines who were genuine, authentic hard cases – even in a world where blood was spilled casually on a daily basis.

The unexpected fire-drill over, the patrols commenced again. Everything returned to a fragile calm. The night was still, and Contessa gently rocked against the swell of the incoming tide, the music from within still booming its siren song into the deep.

The assassin made his way through the cabin to the main stateroom, his silenced pistol at the ready. He’d brought it in a waterproof bag, in which he kept anything that couldn’t get immersed during the dive. He didn’t think he’d need to use it, but better to be prepared. He’d pulled his flippers off and set them on the rear deck, where he could grab them in a hurry. Worst case, he could always swim without them, although it would be much rougher going. That wasn’t his most pressing problem now, though. He needed to memorialize his success and get the proof back to his clients so he could collect the second half of his fee – and build his reputation in the process.

He pushed the door to the master stateroom open and encountered a tableaux straight out of hell.
Papi
lay naked in the center of the bed, surrounded by his three young playmates, also naked. All were dead. The nerve gas he’d bought from the Russians had done its work, circulating via the three zoned air-conditioners. He’d been guaranteed that the gas would kill within ten seconds of inhalation, but he needed to be sure. That’s what made him who he was. He was the man who made sure.

The sight of the female corpses, bloody foam caked around their mouths and noses, already cyanotic, had no effect on him. This was his job, his chosen profession. Collateral damage was regrettable, but part of the deal. The girls would have likely been dead within a few years anyway, either at the hands of these goons…or their rivals. It was a fast money life, which didn’t come with a retirement plan.

Breathing through his respirator, the assassin studied the dead cartel boss, then fired a single shot through his forehead, more for effect than anything. He inspected his handiwork dispassionately before reaching into the watertight gun bag for a cell phone and a laminated rectangle. Approaching the man, he positioned the card almost tenderly on his exposed throat before snapping a photo with the phone. The figure on the card seemed to watch the proceedings without interest, his medieval regal gaze unblinking in perpetuity, the double-edged blade of his clutched sword forever pointing at the heavens. Satisfied with his handiwork, the assassin dropped the phone back into the sack and sealed it before placing it into the web bag hanging from his dive belt.

A noise from above jolted him. He heard movement from up on the bridge – heavy footsteps that carried down into the mid-ship stateroom, which could signal either a problem or a shift change. The one part of the plan he hadn’t been able to nail was a detailed agenda for the security team. There was just nobody he could find that could be paid off, so he’d had to wing it. He hoped that wasn’t a fatal flaw tonight. He’d know soon enough; even though his work was done, he still needed to complete phase two of the sanction, which was often the hardest part – the part where he got out alive.

Alberto called his men to an area near the dock and briefed the new arrivals. They would be on shift until four-twenty, at which point they’d be relieved by a new, fresh set of eight. The men handed the replacements their weapons and spare magazines, then moved in a group toward the hotel, a wing of which had been booked for the security detail and boat staff. Alberto debated going with them, having already been on for eight hours, but he couldn’t eradicate the twisting in his guts that something was amiss, so he knew there was no way he’d be able to sleep. He held up a pair of night vision goggles and studied the rocks of the jetty that protected the harbor, slowly and carefully scanning every foot of them.

Nothing.

A cry from the bridge interrupted his reconnaissance, and he looked up to where one of the new arrivals was waving.
Fucking idiot. Why didn’t he use the radio
?
That’s what they were for
.

Alberto turned the volume up on his handheld and called to the man. “What is it?”

“I…was
Papi
or any of the girls swimming earlier today or this evening? I’ve been gone for eight hours.”

“No. I don’t think so. Why?” Alberto asked, honestly puzzled by the question.

“There are a pair of–”

Without warning the radio went dead. The hair on Alberto’s arms stood up as he peered through the goggles up at the bridge. He couldn’t see either of the men who were stationed there as sentries.

“Bridge. Come in. Repeat. Come in. Do you read me?” Alberto hissed into the radio, his stomach sinking even as he called.

The body of one of the two guards sailed over the side of the bridge, landing in a formless mass four stories below on the concrete surface of the dock near his feet. Alberto stared at the body in disbelief, a stain of thick, dark blood quickly pooling around the corpse. Moments later a second form hurtled over – the security men all rushed toward the yacht, now in full-scale attack mode. The two men on the bridge had been in unassailable positions, with the only access from the rear deck…and the salon, where
Papi
had last been seen leading his nubiles below to his palatial zebra wood-paneled stateroom.

The night abruptly exploded into an inferno, temporarily blinding Alberto. From inside the boat, the whump of an incendiary grenade illuminated the interior with a white-hot flash before the ensuing blaze erupted from the side windows, shattered from the scorching blast. A figure in black wearing scuba gear swung from the bridge over the waterside of the ship, dropping the forty feet into the harbor even as Alberto hazily trained his weapon on him and opened fire with a hail of bullets. Burst after burst of sizzling lead seared into the water where the diver had sunk, and Alberto’s men quickly joined him, shooting point blank into the surface in the hopes of hitting something.