Return of the Assassin (Assassin Series 3) (20 page)

Once the phone was powered back on, he checked the messages and saw the name and address of the hotel in his inbox along with brief instructions on its location.

The sun had set, and the night was hot but tolerable as he walked three blocks before flagging down a battered taxi. The driver knew the hotel – not surprising given the size of the town – and within seven minutes they were coasting to the curb.

He had the cab wait as he checked into the hotel, pretending interest as the bored reception clerk handed him a card key and a brown envelope. He took the elevator to the second floor, but didn’t bother going into the room, preferring to take the stairs back to the street level and slip out the side door.

Back in the taxi, he opened the envelope and read the address, slipping the key that it contained into his pocket. He told the driver to take him to a restaurant they had passed on the way to the hotel, and after being escorted to a table there, he ordered dinner. It could be a long time before he had another meal. He’d learned from experience not to take anything for granted, and food was one of them when starting a potentially long operation.

Half an hour later he had cleaned his plate and paid the bill. He went out onto the street with his bag and walked to the end of the block, and waited until another taxi cruised slowly by. He waved down the car and gave the driver an address sixty numbers higher than the one he’d been allocated.

It took ten minutes to get to the industrial district near the edge of town – a run-down neighborhood that was empty by that time of night. The cab driver looked at him as though he was out of his mind, but gladly accepted his cash before he pulled off in a cloud of exhaust.

The building was an old concrete block storage unit with a steel roll-up door. The jungle near the back of the structure rustled with the usual nocturnal noises, and the assassin scouted out the area, wary of more surveillance. After a few minutes, he was satisfied that he was alone, other than creatures shifting in the dense vegetation twenty yards from the lot edge.

The key slipped smoothly into the new padlock on the door, which he quickly slid up four feet and ducked underneath, stepping into the dark interior before pulling it down behind him. Using his phone for illumination, he located the light switch and powered on the two low voltage incandescent bulbs dangling from the ceiling on questionable wire. An old delivery truck with a dented cargo box sat in the center of the space. He raised the vehicle’s rear cargo door and saw the unmistakable shape of a black ATV under a tarp, with a long fiberglass case and two black nylon bags sitting next to it.

He pulled the tarp free and wiped sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. With no ventilation in the building it was sweltering, but he figured he would need to get used to it. There would be no climate control where he was going.

Unzipping one bag, he quickly inventoried the contents, paying special attention to the plastic syringe three quarters filled with a light amber fluid.

Four additional days of life.

He replaced it carefully into its neoprene case and extracted a bottle of green insect repellent. He stripped off his clothes and sprayed himself down from head to toe before donning a pair of lightweight dark green military cargo pants and a matching long-sleeved shirt.

As he laced up his Doc Martens boots, he did a mental checklist of the other expected items. He had no doubt they would all be there.

It took him half an hour to verify everything and load and stow the weapons he had broken down so they would fit on the ATV. A spare five-gallon gasoline bladder was strapped to the rear, and the guns and other items slid perfectly into the fiberglass case that was mounted just behind the driver’s seat. He lifted the nylon strap of the sniper rifle over the handlebars and tightened it until the weapon was secure, then placed the call to Hector that would get the army patrols cleared.

“I’ll be leaving in twenty minutes, following the route I outlined until I leave the road near Ciudad Cuauhtémoc. There shouldn’t be much traffic at this hour, so this is it. I’ll contact you once I’m back in Mexico with the girl.”

“Very good. I hope things go well.”

“Me too.”

He threw a box of breakfast bars into the top of the case, next to the six one-liter water bottles and the field first aid kit. He would jettison the GPS chips and the phone when he abandoned the truck – he knew the government would be tracking him, and it might be helpful for Hector to see his progress in order to ensure he wasn’t accosted by some random military patrol that hadn’t made it back to base. Searches were common along the border roads due to the drug smuggling, and a truck skulking along after dark would be a natural target. Those were the kinds of unexpected accidents that could ruin the operation before it began.

There was only one errand left. He climbed up into the truck bed and cranked the ignition on the ATV. The engine puttered to life, almost silent due to the specially-fabricated deadened exhaust system he’d specified. He listened with approval – at idle it was barely audible, even in the echoing confines of the cargo box. Satisfied with his transportation, he shut off the motor and did a final check of the gear before leaving, giving Hector adequate time to work his magic. He surveyed the interior of the building for anything he might have overlooked before closing the truck’s cargo compartment.

Glancing again at his watch, he nodded to himself. Time to get rolling.

The warehouse door slid up with a rattle, and he started the truck and eased it out onto the cracking asphalt. He hopped out of the cab and took one final look around before pulling the metal base back in place and locking it. He climbed back behind the wheel and flicked on the dim headlights, then forced the shifter into gear and disappeared into the night.

~

The interior of
El Rincon
was dark and drab, the booths battered and tired as a punch drunk boxer. A seedy red and black paintjob on rough mortared walls served as the backdrop for faded posters of bullfights and cockfighting champions, interspersed with black and white headshots of popular Mexican singers of the last fifty years. When Briones walked in, the ancient jukebox in the far corner was wheezing forth a ballad that was older than he was. Most of the patrons were either day laborers or low level office workers getting an early start on drowning their sorrows.

Briones looked around the dark room and spotted Carlos at the bar, nursing a Negro Modelo in a bottle and watching a soccer game on a silent TV mounted near the bathrooms. He slid onto the stool next to the investigator at the nearly empty slab of scarred mahogany and pointed to the beer, signaling to the bartender his choice of cocktails. The spare-made, oily-haired man slapped down a cheap paper coaster before setting the beer down in front of him and slinking off to the far end to resume watching the game.

“I think he’s a people person,” Carlos observed.

Briones took another look around. “I’m warming up to the place already. Sort of one step above drinking on a street corner.”

“Hence the name.”

“
Ah
. I was wondering whether it was because ‘
El Shithole
’ was taken.”

“Hard to market that.”

“And then everyone would miss all this,” Briones waved at the décor, “as have I until today.”

“You are a man of discriminating taste, my friend.”

Briones took a pull on his beer. At least it was ice cold. On the snow-flecked television, the green team almost scored a goal against the red team, but the attempt was thwarted at the last moment by the goalie.

“You should meet my last couple of girlfriends,” Briones said.

“They still alive?”

“Well played.” Briones leaned in to him. “So what have you got for me, Carlos?”

“First round on your man. Short story is he’s clean. A poster boy for living within his means, two kids, a wife he apparently doesn’t cheat on, modest savings, paying for a house out in Toluca that’s government sponsored. If you’re looking for a cartel snitch, this guy doesn’t fit the profile.”

“That’s great. I have a deep-seated gut feeling that he’s wrong in some way, and you come back to tell me that he’s our next pope.”

“Just because you put antlers on your dog, doesn’t make him a reindeer.”

“Good to know, but I don’t have a dog. What does that even mean?” Briones asked, glancing down the bar at a couple of sad-looking older men doing shots of rotgut tequila washed down with cans of Tecate.

“It means that just because on first blush something looks one way, doesn’t make it so.”

“I have a feeling this is where you try to cheer me up.”

“I think if you feel that strongly that he’s bent, we should go ahead and do the second phase of surveillance. If he’s a saint, no harm done. If we find something, then, hey, you’re vindicated, and the streets are again safe for our children.”

“I don’t have any children.”

“Nor will you, if all you do is work. Did I mention that this place gets jumping later on?” Carlos said, taking a long pull on his beer.

“I can only imagine.”

“Very judgmental. An unappealing trait in one so tender of years.”

“I have worse ones.”

“Then you’re not going to join me for Ladies’ Night at the world famous
El Rincon
?” Carlos tried again.

“I’d rather get un-anesthetized oral surgery. With a spoon.” Briones took another gulp of his brew. “A dirty one.”

“The bartender does that as one of his specialties.”

“How did I know that?”

Briones finished his beer and set down the foamy remains, throwing two twenty peso notes on the bar.

“I’d say go ahead and wire our altar boy. You never know what you’ll find.”

“Will do. Is that for the drinks, or do you want to buy the place?”

“I’m feeling like a big spender today. Take advantage.”

Carlos chugged the remainder of his beer and stood.

“I’ll call you if I get anything on him.”

“I know you will.”

The pair walked to the door, shaking hands once they were at the threshold.

“Appreciate it,” Briones said.

“No
problema
.”

“You really going to stay here?”

“What, are you kidding? I just wanted to see how desperate you are.”

“Try me on Saturday night. That’s when I get drunk and clean the guns.”

“You’re on.”

The road south was almost deserted as the old truck groaned along the fairly well-maintained Pan American highway at a moderate speed. The flat agricultural plains south of Comitán changed back to jungle at La Trinitaria before transitioning to farm fields as the altitude dropped from five thousand feet to two thousand. He was passed twice by economy cars flying down the road in the same direction, but saw no checkpoints or police. Hector had done his job, which didn’t surprise him. Everyone had a lot riding on him getting to the border without incident.

After crossing a bridge that spanned a dark, fast moving river, the surroundings became increasingly verdant again where man’s effort to fight back the jungle had largely failed. Within another half hour, the sporadic dwellings gave way to a small town that was his final point on pavement – Ciudad Cuauhtémoc. He pulled into the meager town center and headed east along the dirt roads, muddy from the evening’s succession of cloudbursts. The surrounding hills were cloaked in fog, which would suit his purposes nicely, masking any noise.

He found a desolate patch of ground beyond the city limits, where he pulled the truck to a stop and shut off the engine. The glow of the town lights sharply contrasted the pitch black of the nearby Guatemalan hills, only a mile and a half away. The smell of wood smoke and decaying vegetation drifted down from the mountains, but there was nothing to see beyond gloom and fog.

Rudolfo had provided him with a rough smuggler’s map of the trails that meandered through the border jungle, and he took another glance at it to imprint it in his memory before getting underway. He’d calculated the distances and plugged them in as rough waypoints in his tiny wrist mounted GPS unit, but the visual was invaluable. He strapped the GPS to his left forearm, securing the velcro in place before powering it on. The dim backlit screen came to glimmering life. The integrated compass would also be a life saver – he knew from experience that once in the thick of the bush, it would be hard to accurately judge direction, especially at night.

He listened intently for any hint of humanity and was rewarded with only the dim barking of a dog from the town and a distant backfiring engine. Reaching to the passenger side of the filthy bench seat, he opened the black case he’d placed next to him and extracted a pair of night vision goggles, which he pulled over his head and activated. The dark was replaced by the familiar luminescent green. He studied his surroundings with approval. It wasn’t quite like daylight, but if he maneuvered with care, the goggles would do the trick.

The assassin next retrieved the BlackBerry and the GPS chips, and tossed them on the floor. Rudolfo had supplied another cell phone Hector knew nothing about, so there was no reason to keep the BlackBerry any longer. The usefulness of the government being able to track him had just come to an abrupt end.

After descending from the cab, he moved to the rear of the truck and opened the cargo hold once more, taking care to drop the ramp that had been thoughtfully provided so he could get the ATV out. He climbed into the bed and pulled the sniper rifle off the handlebars, lifting the nylon strap over his head and cinching it tight so the weapon was pressed against his back. After checking the equipment one last time to verify it was secured, he pushed the ignition button, and the engine purred to life. He swung a leg over and settled onto the double length seat, then eased the ATV forward and down the ramp. The knobby tires hit the muddy ground with a squish, gripping tenaciously as he eased the throttle open.

By his calculations he would average five miles per hour, if lucky, through the mountains. The trails would be marginal paths that were barely passable, but he had factored that in. His timeline allowed him three hours to make it to Tzisbaj, a tiny hamlet in the hills two and a half miles south of the villa, and another hour to get to his ultimate destination. He’d plotted a course that would keep him away from the main road and in the jungle – though it would have been a cakewalk to drive over the border and be at the target in an hour. The problem was that he couldn’t get a small army’s worth of weapons across without arousing the interest of the Guatemalan military, so the jungle was the best stealthy solution.