Rage Of The Assassin (32 page)

The blood drained from Norteño’s face. “I…I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t blame you for lying. I suspect it’s a way of life for you, and so far you’ve largely gotten away with it. Until today.”

“You have the wrong man.”

El Rey’s countenance could have been carved from granite. “It’s not working. Make your peace, because you don’t have long.”

A rivulet of sweat ran from Norteño’s hairline and traced a course down his cheek. “I swear it wasn’t me.”

El Rey glanced at Norteño’s nearly empty tequila glass. “You know what I hate more than a privileged snot who thinks he owns the world and can do whatever he likes with no consequences? Go ahead. Guess.”

“I…”

“A liar. I’d down the rest of your drink.”

“Please. I can make you rich.”

“I’m already rich.”

“Not like this, you’re not. I can give you a hundred million dollars.”

“The strange thing about having enough is that once you do, you don’t really care about getting more.” El Rey motioned with his gun. “Last chance to savor your cocktail. Shame for a good tequila like that to go to waste.”

Norteño hurled the glass at the assassin, who easily dodged it as Norteño lunged at him. El Rey sidestepped the clumsy attempt and clubbed him on the back of his skull with the pistol butt. Norteño landed hard on the polished floor but managed to break his fall with his arms. El Rey delivered a brutal strike to Norteño’s neck with his free hand and he groaned before going limp.

When Norteño came to, his upper body was hanging over the terrace railing. The city’s twinkling lights spun dizzily as he fought in vain to orient himself, the street beneath him dark save for the street lamps’ faint glow. Sour bile rushed into his throat as vertigo overcame him and he retched.

“Have a nice trip,” El Rey said from behind him, and then his legs followed his body over the railing and the street rushed toward him at impossible speed as his mouth formed a silent no.

El Rey didn’t watch Norteño’s fall from grace, preferring to let himself out of the condo and slip down the stairs. The apparent suicide would create sufficient chaos so that he could escape unnoticed, and he didn’t want to chance the elevator in case someone boarded it on his way down.

It took him three minutes to make it to street level, and by the time he did, the doorman and the two security guards were out on the street, yelling into their cell phones.

None of them noticed the slim figure emerge from the building and saunter away.

Chapter 54

Culiacán, Sinaloa, Mexico

Don
Aranas ran a hand through his steel-gray hair and took a puff of his first cigar of the day as he watched the news. An earnest young man with the fake sincerity of a televangelist was reading the teleprompter while attempting to make the words sound like his own.

“The president announced today that he has arranged for the United States to house antiterrorism Special Forces troops in Mexico City, Guadalajara, and Monterrey as part of his comprehensive reforms in Mexico’s battle against terror. The troops will begin to arrive next week and represent an unprecedented step in international cooperation between the two countries. This culminates negotiations with United States antiterrorism to provide funding, weapons, and training. During the morning press conference, the president pointed out that many American corporations have manufacturing enterprises in Mexico, so it was in both nations’ best interests to ensure that there were adequate precautions in place against terrorist threats. In light of the recent bombing of the anthropology museum, the majority of the Mexican Congress applauded the historic peace pact.”

The newscaster paused and his tone grew somber. “Critics of the move called it a de facto invasion force and the next step in Mexico’s loss of sovereignty, which they say began with the acceptance of funds and equipment to fight America’s war on drugs – turning Mexico into a battleground and endangering its population to advance the U.S.’s agenda. The president didn’t address the concerns, instead underscoring that the forces would be under Mexico’s control and would only be used if a threat presented itself.”

Aranas chuckled and shook his head at the notion. He was quite sure that there would soon be another terrorist incident, even if he had no active part in it. He understood how the game was played, and another event was entirely predictable – the only question was when.

“In other news, the ministry of the interior announced that several key bids in the ongoing privatization of Mexico’s petroleum industry had been reviewed and nullified, and that an investigation was being launched into bidding impropriety. The companies in question are Haoyun Petroleum, Sun Strike Oil, and Shanghai Gas, all Chinese.”

A clip of a Mexican bureaucrat speaking ran. “We cannot allow a corrupted system to determine who will be our partners in harvesting our oil. There is sufficient evidence of widespread payoffs in the bidding process that we’ve canceled the agreements with these firms and held a second round of bids. It’s of paramount importance that the process be fair and impartial, and that the contracts go to the most qualified candidates.”

That drew a laugh from Aranas.

The broadcast switched to a beautiful brunette with blazing green eyes.

“Still no progress in the hunt for
Don
Aranas, the head of the Sinaloa Cartel. A well-publicized recent sighting, on a bus bound for Guatemala, turned out to be a false alarm after Mexican authorities, working with the Guatemalans, stopped the bus at the border and found nothing. Experts believe that the crime boss has taken refuge in Eastern Europe, where his organization has developed strong relationships with the Russian mafia.”

Aranas couldn’t help but roll his eyes. His disinformation campaign continued unabated, the lies repeated by a press that had never heard a whopper it didn’t believe. Next they’d place him on a flight to Mars.

His phone buzzed from its position on the coffee table, and after setting his cigar down, he reached for it.

“Yes?” he answered.

“Looks like you won that round,” the American said in accented Spanish.

“Life is nothing more than a series of obstacles to overcome.”

“Yes, well, it’s come to my attention that two of the three contracts went to companies that you have an interest in. Only one went to an American firm.”

“This is a land of compromises. Promises were made. It was impossible to do it any other way.” Aranas paused. “Of course, if you want to have greater participation, I could always arrange for a percentage of the companies to be sold to your friends. At a fair price, of course, representing their new status with the Mexican government.”

“That’s remarkably generous of you,” the American said dryly.

“Just as it was generous of you to waste no time renegotiating with my adversaries – at more favorable terms for you.”

The American cleared his throat. “We all do what we must. I’ll pass your thoughts along to the appropriate parties.”

“Yes, do so. Oh, and congratulations on achieving your objective of establishing a military presence within our borders.”

“It’s time for old-fashioned geographic distinctions to go by the wayside. We’re all in this together, after all.”

“I’m sure we are. But the track record for countries that have had American military helpers, for whatever reason, hasn’t been stellar.”

“Not everyone will be happy in all circumstances. As long as your interests are safeguarded, what do you care?”

Aranas sighed. “I fear the world is becoming too small for this old man.”

“Let us know if you plan to retire. We are heavily invested in you at this point.”

“Not quite yet.”

Aranas signed off with a frown and returned to his coffee. He took a sip and set the cup down in disgust.

“Coffee’s cold. Bring another cup,” he called out, and sat back to contemplate the grounds of his estate, his cigar as his companion, the distant whinnying of his horses music to his tired ears.

Chapter 55

Mexico City, Mexico

Rows of prisoners sat at a line of long wooden tables, working on tasks they’d been assigned by the prison administration. A bell chimed, and then a metallic voice rang over the prison public address system.

“Shift over in ten minutes. All prisoners prepare to return to their cells in five.”

El Maquino looked up from the collection of parts he was assembling and nodded slowly, his hair now trimmed close to his head. Aside from having to be around the other inmates, he didn’t mind being incarcerated – the routine had been easy for him to get used to, and his uncle had arranged for a private cell in the overcrowded facility with many of the same comforts of his old loft.

Four of his uncle’s jailed allies shadowed him everywhere he went, and not much had changed from his prior existence, other than the food, which he hated. He’d mentioned it to one of the guards soon after arriving, and the next day an older convict with a flat nose and a face that had seen its share of fights introduced himself as El Maquino’s new private chef, and asked for a list of his favorite meals.

That had temporarily stumped the big man, who eventually conveyed that he really only had one favorite meal and enjoyed eating it every day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The chef had been taken aback at that and had been convinced that El Maquino was toying with him until he’d seen the dull gray of his unwavering stare and understood he was serious.

Since then he’d gotten along well, no sense of how long the twenty years he’d been sentenced to was, just as he couldn’t have told anyone his age. It simply didn’t matter, and he’d never bothered to keep track.

The mind-numbing sameness of each day that wore down even the hardest prisoners had been a dream come true for the big man, and he looked forward to each morning with the anticipation of a child for Christmas. He’d been assigned to the prison labor pool that dealt with repairs to the facility’s crumbling infrastructure, and he was quickly prized by the maintenance supervisor as the preferred person to handle anything mechanical or electrical.

Even the best prisons in Mexico were chronically underfunded and therefore constantly falling apart, and this one was no exception, so El Maquino was never short of work. He thrived on the challenge of troubleshooting and fixing the various pumps and gizmos he was brought, and had seldom been happier. Freedom had never been more than increased responsibility to him, and freed from the requirement to do anything but his repairs, he was thriving in the unlikeliest of circumstances.

The inmate next to him slid closer and leaned toward him. “Can I borrow that hex driver?” the prisoner asked. “You aren’t using it right now.”

El Maquino turned his big head toward the man and gave him a glare. The inmate froze as he was reaching for the tool and abruptly reconsidered. He moved back to his position on the bench and El Maquino resumed assembling the pump, humming quietly to himself, looking forward to dinner in his cell alone before spending his remaining hours before lights out drawing schematics for advanced drone guidance systems his uncle’s guards then ferreted out of the prison for shipment to the patent attorneys that handled his inventions.

Aranas had set up a shell company to license the intellectual property, and if El Maquino had been capable of appreciating irony, he would have been delighted to know that his biggest customer was the U.S. military, which would make him wealthy enough by the time he was released early for good behavior to eclipse all but the cartel bosses in his uncle’s employ and, of course, the great man himself.

~ ~ ~

Cozumel, Mexico

Cruz jerked the tip of the fishing rod skyward and set the hook on the third yellowfin tuna of the day. Forty-pound test monofilament stripped off the screaming reel for a good twenty seconds until he gradually tightened the drag for the battle to come. Ten minutes later, the exhausted fish was making its last run after seeing the bottom of Cruz’s skiff and deciding that no good could come from being hauled aboard.

He waited until the fish had burned all its resources and then pumped and reeled with all his might. The school he’d come upon were all forty to sixty pounders, and this one felt like it was at the upper end of that range as he cranked it to the surface.

Once the fish was landed, he stowed his tackle and prepared to head in. He’d caught enough to last a week, at least, even after giving half of the take away to Ramón, his boat cleaner and the marina jack of all trades, who ensured that his twenty-six footer was always ready for a run out to sea.

The outboard caught on the first try. He swung the bow around and directed it at the beige island that rose from the turquoise sparkle of the Caribbean in the near distance. After a month in a rented house in the main town, he’d settled into the slow pace and was finally sleeping normally. Turning off his brain hadn’t been as easy as he’d hoped, and the first nights there he’d start awake, his heart palpitating, reaching for the Glock he kept in a nightstand drawer. Dinah hadn’t said anything, though he knew that she had been worried; but over the last week the anxiety had melted away as he’d spent his days on the water, the boat a kind of therapy that had worked a minor miracle.

The hull sliced through the mild chop as he accelerated to twenty-five knots, and within no time he was pulling up to the dock, Ramón moving on spindly legs to help tie off. Cruz killed the engine and the pair of them made short work of fileting the tuna, the meat pink and nearly translucent.

He was bagging his share when he spotted Dinah’s sundress by the parking lot, her lithe form only now beginning to change with pregnancy.

“Take as much as you want, Ramón, and feel free to sell what you can’t eat,” Cruz said as he finished with his chore. “But don’t forget to hose off the boat. Be a shame for it to reek when I show up tomorrow.”