Rage Of The Assassin (4 page)

The meeting lasted four more hours, at the end of which a rough plan had been crafted. It would need fine-tuning, but the foundation was sound. When the men went their separate ways, some to dinner with their spouses, others to their anonymous offices to crunch numbers, they at least had a direction, although final approval would need to come from their corporate masters.

Arlington was the last to leave the conference room, and before he did, he paused for a moment and shook his head, a bemused twinkle in his eye. Some said the devil’s greatest feat was convincing the world that he didn’t exist.

Satan had nothing on them.

He was an amateur.

Chapter 5

Today, Mexico City, Mexico

Streaks of clouds marbled the early afternoon sky through the high-altitude city’s infamous smog layer, which blanketed the metropolis in spite of the rigid emissions regulations in place to improve air quality. Living in Districto Federal, or DF, as the locals called it, had been compared by physicians to smoking a pack of cigarettes a day, and the life expectancy of its residents was a good decade below that of similar cities.

Carla Vega opened the door of her mineral white BMW 428 convertible and slipped from behind the wheel, the hard top locked in place. The neighborhood was one of many good ones located only a block from the ubiquitous slums into which police didn’t dare venture. She was used to the paradox of so much wealth concentrated only meters from abject poverty – it was simply the way things were, and had been since before she’d been born. Like most Mexicans, she didn’t expect circumstances to change and become fairer, because the politicians were all corrupt, and power resided in the hands of ruling families who’d been running the nation for generations. She was fortunate to be a member of the emerging middle class who could earn a king’s ransom, but unlike the populations of other industrialized nations, she never took it for granted – there were too many reminders of how frail the social construct was.

She locked the door, activating the car alarm, and glanced at her watch. Her lunch date was in a few minutes, and she had plenty of time to make it – a rarity for her; she was usually ten to fifteen minutes late, as the local custom considered anything less than a half hour to be on time. Carla stretched her long, toned legs and began the walk to the restaurant on the ground level of a steel and glass high-rise.

The last months had been surreal. Her new relationship felt as unlikely as it was irresistible, the combination of the forbidden and the perilous potent fuel to an adrenaline junkie who thrived on constant stimulation. She was lost in her thoughts as she neared the corner and didn’t register the three men who closed on her from a pair of doorways until it was too late.

Kidnapping or robbery was a constant threat, and she silently cursed her carelessness. She’d normally have been more aware of her surroundings, but a few seconds of distraction had been sufficient to court disaster, and she now found herself facing thugs whose desperation was written across their faces. Their clothes were shabby and worn, and their eyes darted with the manic energy of the meth-addicted.

The middle assailant pulled a .25-caliber handgun from his jacket pocket, held it close to his side, and growled, “Hand over your purse and your watch, hot pants. Scream or make a racket and you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

The man next to him grinned malevolently, revealing blackened gums and missing bottom teeth. “That’s right. Now, bitch.”

Carla slowly slid her purse strap from her shoulder and unclasped her watchband, her eyes never leaving the gunman’s. She could always get a new iPhone or Tag Heuer; she was lucky they weren’t going to force her to an ATM for an express kidnapping, where she’d be forced to withdraw money before they ran off with her belongings.

“Please, can I keep my phone? It has all my contacts in it,” Carla pleaded.

The toothless man edged toward her and a switchblade flashed in the sunlight, its ugly blade gleaming. “How ’bout I cut off your nose instead?”

She gasped at his obvious intent as he neared – and then the gunman’s eyes widened and his weapon flew from his hand. He pitched forward, stunned. His mouth worked silently as he fought for breath, the air knocked from his lungs, and she stepped back to avoid his bulk as he tumbled forward. Then the toothless knife wielder’s look of surprise turned to one of pain. His switchblade made a slow balletic arc through the air as he went down with a strangled scream, clutching his forearm. The third mugger took off at a sprint, running as fast as his legs would carry him.

Carla was still in shock at how quickly everything had happened – in only seconds the attackers had been neutralized and disaster averted. Her eyes met her lunch date’s as he stepped forward and scooped up the dropped gun.

“You okay?” El Rey asked, taking in the disabled attackers before his eyes drifted to her face.

“Y-yes. I’m just…I should have been more careful.”

El Rey moved to the two injured thugs. “Two choices. Get out of here, or spend the rest of your miserable lives in wheelchairs. What’s it going to be?”

The toothless man struggled to his feet and helped his partner up, and the pair limped off as
El Rey
watched them in disgust. Only once they were out of sight did he take Carla’s hand and lead her wordlessly toward the restaurant. Carla inched closer and snuck a glance at his profile, as untroubled as a baby lamb’s, no evidence that he’d just been in mortal combat, outnumbered three to one by armed lowlifes.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He shrugged. “I got here a little early and saw your car go around the block. I’m glad I was able to keep you out of trouble.” The truth was more complex – the assassin’s instincts were as sharp as when he’d been operational, and he routinely arrived anywhere he was to meet someone at least thirty minutes early so he could reconnoiter the area and spot any traps or surveillance. He didn’t suspect Carla of any duplicity, but she wasn’t a pro, and he had many powerful enemies, even though few would recognize him with his bleach-lightened modish haircut, sparse goatee, baseball cap, and sunglasses. If anyone knew they were seeing each other, it could endanger him, and he left nothing to chance.

“Should we get my car in case they come back?”

He shook his head. “They won’t. They saw easy pickings. They got broken ribs and a shattered radius for their trouble, and they lost their gun. But if it makes you feel better, when we’re done with lunch, I’ll get the car for you.”

She smiled, still shaken but quickly recovering as the adrenaline seeped from her system. “My knight in shining armor.”

He returned the smile. “Tarnished but serviceable.”

Once they were seated at a quiet table at the rear of the restaurant, the assassin with his back to the wall out of habit, he leaned forward toward her and took one of her hands. “How’s my favorite reporter?”

She took a sip of water. “Working hard on a few stories.” She paused. “I missed you.”

“Me too.”

Carla had been out of town, chasing down a lead, and had just returned after a four-day absence. Her occasional dates with El Rey had intensified over the last month as they’d become intimate, and they now spent many of their nights together.

El Rey released her hand and sat back. “Any progress?”

“The sources are all terrified of being identified by the cartel, obviously. So lots of hearsay and supposition, but not a lot of concrete links.”

“If it was easy, everyone would do it, right?”

She nodded. “That’s always been my philosophy.”

The waiter returned and they ordered. When he departed, Carla reported on the progress she’d made on her investigation into the rumored influence of the Los Zetas Cartel over several prominent national politicians. El Rey had proven helpful in his suggestions; his knowledge of the cartels was comprehensive, although he was always careful not to share anything that only he might know. The last thing either could afford was even a whiff that he was still alive, much less involved with her.

“Where do you think the trail will lead? Dead end or red-handed?” he asked.

“Hard to say. You know how these things go. Everyone’s got an agenda – political rivals trying to smear each other, cartel mouthpieces posing as legitimate sources, trying to build support for their groups or mislead their enemies. The art’s in sorting through all the chaff.”

Their meals arrived and they ate quietly. Carla tried not to be annoyed by the way the assassin’s eyes continuously roamed over the other diners, never settling on her for more than a few moments. She couldn’t possibly grasp his background, the things that had made him the man he was, filled with contradictions and warring imperatives, and she saw no benefit to judging him. Yes, he was a stone-cold killer. Or had been. But he was also…

“Did you see that Aranas escaped?” he asked in his seductively soft voice.

“Of course. Biggest story in Mexico.”

“Are you going to follow up on it?”

“What do you think?”

“Just be careful. My gut says there are wheels within wheels there. From what I know of the man, nothing is as it seems.”

A single frown line creased her forehead. “What do you think happened?”

“All I’ll say is that I was surprised when he was caught. The entire affair felt off to me,” he said.

“Off, how?”

“One of the richest men in the world gets taken down over a series of rookie mistakes? Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just say my eyebrows rose when I read the coverage, which was identical across all the papers and appeared almost instantly – almost like they had the articles ready to go before he was arrested.”

She studied him. “So suspicious for a young man.”

“Maybe I’ll go into the reporting game.”

Carla laughed and toasted him with her mineral water. “I don’t need any more competition. It’s hard enough as it is.”

“All I’m saying is that Aranas rarely does anything that isn’t deliberate, and being too good at your job could carry more risk than being dumb and blind.”

Her expression grew serious. “You really think it’s dangerous to dig into?”

His eyes locked with hers. “I wouldn’t go near it, and I don’t scare.”

The waiter arrived and cleared their plates. El Rey ordered coffee, leaving Carla to consider his words. A man who’d taken down three attackers without breaking a sweat was advising her to avoid a story. She wondered if he knew something she didn’t, and tried to read his intelligent eyes to no avail. The same inscrutability she found fascinating was a double-edged sword – he’d advised her early on that there were some things he couldn’t discuss, and part of their unspoken agreement was that she wouldn’t press.

He seemed to sense her scrutiny and looked up. “Let someone else run point on this one, Carla. If for no other reason, because I’m asking you not to step into the line of fire.”

“And you can’t tell me any more than that? Just to ignore the biggest story of the year?”

“You already know the rest. Aranas is more powerful than many governments. He’s got eyes and ears everywhere. And he’ll stop at nothing if he thinks you’re a threat. Trust me – you don’t want that man as an enemy.”

“You speaking from experience?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Maybe one day over cocktails I’ll tell you more. Until then, let’s keep you safe, shall we?”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to get it out of you sooner?”

He leaned across the table and whispered in her ear.

Carla could feel the blush from her hairline to her feet, and for an instant felt like she was thirteen again, kissed for the first time. This man, this assassin, was the only one who’d ever made her feel that way – and he did it effortlessly with only a few words.

She cleared her throat and ran her fingers through her hair. “Too bad you ordered coffee.”

As if reading her mind, the waiter appeared with their cups and set them on the table before vanishing.

El Rey grinned. “I should have asked for the check.”

She matched his expression. “Drink fast.”

Chapter 6

Mexico City, Mexico

Captain Romero Cruz’s intercom line buzzed as he sat at his office desk and morosely studied a pile of reports. He groaned under his breath as he reached over the stack and punched a glowing button on his phone.

“Yes?”

“
Capitan
, your presence has been requested at a meeting in the commissioner’s office.”

Cruz cringed. Meetings were the bane of his professional existence. Hours of infighting and political jockeying that normally accomplished nothing other than giving a bunch of functionaries with little else a way to while away their day. Cruz, on the other hand, as the head of the anti-cartel task force, was always overloaded, and since the new government had taken power, even more so. The arrest of many of the established cartel heads had created power vacuums that were being filled by ever more dangerous and reckless criminals, and the birth of a number of new cartels that were well equipped, motivated, and ruthless. The most visible, the Jalisco Nueva Generación Cartel in Guadalajara, had recently waged all-out war against the authorities, even bringing down military helicopters with surface-to-air missiles.

The Jalisco Cartel was the object of his attention these days, as the organization was making a big push in Mexico City to displace the Sinaloa Cartel and the tattered remnants of the Los Zetas, whose top leadership had been killed or captured in a series of daring raids that signaled a change of direction in the government’s approach to criminal syndicates.

“Do I have to?” Cruz protested. “Can’t you tell them I died or shot myself in the foot or something?”

His receptionist was silent. She had no sense of humor, Cruz knew, yet some part of him still tried to elicit a response even knowing it was in vain.

He sighed. “What time?”

“Five minutes.”

“Of course, with no advance warning,” Cruz griped, and hung up before he could say anything inappropriate. Just like the old days, when he’d be summoned whenever his supervisor had a whim, interrupting vital operations so the idiot could wax philosophical – or worse, propose lamebrained forays that would have resulted in countless law enforcement casualties. Since Cruz had declared his emancipation from the dolt, his life had been easier, reporting once a month to a group who largely rubber-stamped whatever approach he recommended. As the senior authority on cartels within the Federal Police, he was respected and deferred to, which was as it should be – he’d earned his stripes the hard way and had the bullet wounds and scars to prove it.