Return of the Assassin (Assassin Series 3) (27 page)

“About forty minutes. I got here faster than I thought.”

“Did you see anything suspicious?”
El Rey
asked, shifting in the back seat.

The driver peered up at him in the mirror. “Like what?”

El Rey
turned his head and looked out the rear window. “Like a car waiting to follow you. Like the one behind us?”

Maria swiveled around at the same time that the driver glanced in his side mirror.

A white Isuzu SUV had exited the town and was gaining on their vehicle, a hundred yards behind them.

El Rey
pulled his pistol and flipped off the safety.

“Maybe it’s just someone leaving town?” Maria said, then screamed when the back window shattered from a bullet’s impact.

The driver swerved and floored the gas, the big engine pulling away from the smaller four cylinder in the Isuzu.

The assassin squinted to see the occupants of the white SUV and then reached into his pack and pulled out the binoculars. The truck hit a rut and he dropped the glasses on the truck floor.
El Rey
cursed softly, then reached down and felt for them, retrieving them from under the seat. He sighted on the bouncing pursuit vehicle.

“Two men. Driver and a passenger with a rifle,”
El Rey
reported. “Any chance you were followed here?”

“None. It was dead of night when I set out,” the driver insisted.

“Then they were drawn here by the activity on the Guatemalan border. That means every town in Chiapas probably has watchers,”
El Rey
spat.

“Who are they?” Maria asked fearfully.

“Probably the same gang that had you. But it doesn’t matter. What does is how to get rid of them.”

Another shot rang out, and the metal of the rear deck lid thumped from the impact. Maria screamed.

El Rey
looked at the driver. “I’m going to get into the back. When I say to, slow down by half so I can get a shot at them. You wouldn’t happen to have an assault rifle in this thing, would you?”

The driver shook his head.

“No. That would be too much to hope for. Okay, here I go. When I say ‘now’, slow gradually without hitting the brakes,”
El Rey
instructed, then threw himself over the seat into the rear cargo area. Safety glass cut into his knees and thigh when he landed, but he ignored it, focusing on the tattered back window with a hole the size of a golf ball in it. Bracing himself, he kicked out the ruined glass and screamed at the driver, “Now.”

The big truck slowed, and he counted to four and then sat up, rapid-firing the semi-automatic pistol at the Isuzu, which was now only forty yards behind them. He caught a glimpse of the gunman leaning out the passenger side window with a rifle pointed at him and emptied the pistol at the bucking glare of the windshield.

He was rewarded with the sight of the glass going opaque where two slugs hit it, but then saw the passenger doing as he had done, kicking the useless windshield out so he could better fire at them. The Isuzu engine was shooting steam from where a bullet had punctured the radiator, but that wouldn’t be enough to stop the pursuers in the short run. The rifle was still a deadly threat, and now that the shooter didn’t have to try to aim leaning out of a bumping car, their odds had just turned ugly.

“Maria. Toss me your bag. Hurry,” he screamed, and more gunfire sounded from behind.

The driver lurched to the side of the road, then over to the other, making it harder to hit them.

She leaned over through the two front seats and groped for the bag, but her arms weren’t long enough to reach. “Shit.” She threw herself over the headrest, landing in the back seat as another flurry of bullets hit the rear quarter panel.

“They’re gunning for the gas tank. They hit it, we’re toast,” the driver yelled and opened the big motor up again, careening back and forth with dangerous momentum.

Maria’s fingers found the bag and hefted the heavy bulk into the back, where it thumped onto the cargo bed next to the assassin. He tore open the zippered top and felt for a grenade.

“Stomp on your brakes in two seconds, then floor it again. I need to close the range a little,”
El Rey
yelled as he pulled the pin from the metal orb.

The Land Cruiser skidded on the dirt as the wheels locked, and the Isuzu raced towards them.
El Rey
tossed the grenade out the back, then pulled another out of the bag and repeated the maneuver.

“Now step on it. Go, go, go!” He urged, fishing another grenade out as he screamed. He jerked the pin from it and tossed it out the window as well.

The driver didn’t need any encouragement. He gave the gas everything he had, and they collectively held their breath as the truck surged forward. Another few rounds slammed into the back deck, one grazing El
Rey
’s leg, causing him to wince, and then three detonations sounded within a few seconds of each other. He inched his head over the deck lid and peered back at the Isuzu and was rewarded by the sight of it flipping end over end in a fireball.

He collapsed back against the side of the Land Cruiser’s cargo area. “Problem solved.”

Maria shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she exclaimed and then dived between the seats to grab the wheel as the driver’s head lolled forward. She held the vehicle steady as it slowed.
El Rey
climbed forward and checked the driver’s neck for a pulse.

“Maria. Put the transmission into neutral. Don’t hit reverse, whatever you do,” he warned.

She reached over with her free hand and did as instructed. The Land Rover coasted to a grudging stop on the dirt road’s muddy shoulder.

El Rey
got out of the rear seat and opened the driver’s door. The driver’s corpse fell out, a bullet hole centered in his back, blood running down the seat.
El Rey
stepped clear of the falling body, then removed the driver’s shirt and used it to mop up the blood as best he could. Returning his attention to the driver, he felt around in his pockets and retrieved a small cell phone and a wad of pesos. No identification.

His leg issued a warning twinge, and he inspected the bullet graze. Reaching into the back seat for his pack, he located the roll of gauze in the first aid kit and did a quick field bandage, squirting some antiseptic ointment on the burning wound before taping it into place. His calf muscle had borne the brunt of the damage, but he could walk, which was all that mattered.

And he wasn’t dead.

Yet.

He wedged himself into the driver’s seat after limping around the SUV to verify that it wasn’t trailing any fluids, and put it in gear.

“Do you know where the airfield is?” Maria asked, trying to recover from the sudden brutality.

“No. But I know that if we keep driving we’ll eventually get cell service.”

He pressed gently on the gas and they rolled forward onto the road.

“Do you think there are more where they came from?” she asked breathlessly.

“Almost certainly. The real question is how much attention the explosions and gunshots attracted, and whether we can reach the airfield before we have to explain a vehicle shot full of holes to some trigger-happy soldiers, whose commanding officer might well be in the pay of the cartels. That doesn’t end well,” he said grimly.

“What are we going to do?”

“You need to keep a sharp eye out with the binoculars for approaching vehicles while I drive. If you see something, yell, and I’ll try to get us out of sight before we’re spotted. Not too many people have cars here, so the chances of coming across any other vehicles are remote. The bad news obviously being that if you do see one, it’s likely army, or cartel.” He wiped sweat off his grimy face.

“All right. I’ll grab them,” she agreed. She retrieved them from the cargo bed, and once back in the passenger seat, held them to her eyes as they raced down the dirt track.

He shook his head to clear it and took a swig from the driver’s half-full water bottle that was still in the cup holder. He offered it to her, and she took it, gulping down the warm fluid before replacing it carefully – she’d taken the lesson to heart about never tossing anything for fear of needing it later.

“Is there anything else I can do?” she asked.

He registered her action and rubbed his eyes. His vision was blurring. The fuzziness went away after a few seconds, but it was unmistakable. He was on borrowed time.

“Pray,” he answered and held up the driver’s cell, straining to see the signal bar for any trace of reception.

“Explain to me how this could happen,” Aranas fumed into the phone. The girl’s escape was a disaster of unimaginable proportions. Now his cartel would be singled out for persecution by every arm of the Mexican government, and it would only be a matter of days until even his staunchest supporters backed away from helping him. Nobody would want to be aligned with Sinaloa if they were the target of a personal crusade by the president. He knew how things worked and wasn’t so naïve that he believed anyone would be loyal once word got out.

“It…the only thing we can think is that the raid on Paolo wasn’t Los Zetas. Only a few people knew about the Guatemalan hideaway and even fewer about the girl. It’s the only thing that makes any sense,” his cousin Domingo reported. “We’ve started to get some whispers that’s the case from our
Federales
contacts. We’ll get final confirmation, but it appears that the raid was a government action, and they extracted the information on the location from Paolo.”

“You realize that this will make our lives unlivable, right? I don’t see how we recover from it. Unless we can get our hands on the girl, we have to go into serious damage control mode. And once word leaks out that we’re in the government’s crosshairs, even more than before, our competitors…”
Don
Aranas didn’t need to finish the thought.

“We have men all over the border area. But it’s a very large frontier – hundreds and hundreds of miles. The odds of locating anyone are low. Especially now that we know this is a government action. I hate to say it, but I think we need to prepare for a worst case scenario.”

“I agree. But we still need to try. How soon can you arrange a meeting with my captains? We need to come up with a coherent strategy while there’s still time.”

“I’ll get on the phone to all of them. I presume it won’t be in Mexico?” Domingo asked.

“Probably not a good idea to be there right now, don’t you think? Let’s do it in Venezuela again. I’m getting itchy to travel, anyway. Call a summit for tomorrow. We’ll use the boat. Have the captain make a course for Caracas. I’ll plan to be there tomorrow morning,” Aranas said and then hung up.

In over twenty years of running the cartel, he’d never faced a graver threat. He racked his brain for a way out, considered and discarded a half dozen options, and then concluded that the only possible solution would be to exert pressure from the American end.

Which would cost him dearly. Probably a significantly larger chunk of the cocaine profits than the fifteen percent he currently paid. He wished there were some other way, but if there was, it hadn’t come to him. The
gringos
would win again, while he lost yet more of his share of the pie. It infuriated him, but he choked down the anger that swelled at the thought. He would do what was necessary, no matter how bitter the pill.

After all, a hundred percent of nothing wasn’t going to do him any good. And nothing is what he would be looking at if the Mexican government made crushing his cartel priority number one.

He walked over to the sliding glass doors and gazed out over the sea at the mainland in the distance. The lush green of the coastal jungle was visible on a clear day even from forty miles away, the sea an azure blanket reflecting the sun.

Don
Aranas had survived countless challenges to his empire over the last two decades, and if one thing was clear, it was that he was a survivor. It might not be easy, and it would almost surely come at a steep price, but in the end, he would survive.

He inhaled the sweet salt air and admired his private cove. Aranas lived like only a handful of men in the world and had proved his superiority to his fellow man time and time again. This would be bad, but it wouldn’t be the end. He’d live to fight another day, of that he was sure.

He turned back to face his study and squared his shoulders.

There was work to do.

~

“Keep going until you arrive at a road on your right, about two miles before Frontera Comalapa. There’s a shack selling chilled coconuts there, with a red sign saying ‘
Cocos Frio
’. Take the turn, then proceed a mile, and on your right you’ll see a field. The plane is at the far end,” Rudolfo explained.

El Rey
had just finished giving him an abbreviated description of the chase and the dead driver.

“I’ll need to go south, as we discussed. You have everything prepared?”

“Exactly as instructed. No variation,” Rudolfo assured him.

“Excellent. And is the other plane waiting at the airport there?”

“A Lear 35. Fastest jet I could get my hands on. Two pilots, ready for takeoff.”

“I know the model. That will do the trick. Give them a call and tell them I’ll be ready to board in…”
El Rey
looked at his watch. “In three hours.”

“They’ll need to file a flight plan. Where are they headed?”

“Mexico City. I don’t really care what airport.”

“Ahh. Just so. Very well, my friend. Safe travels. I shall await your instructions,” Rudolfo said.

“I trust you won’t get squeamish if I have to make an unpleasant decision – I don’t think I will, but you never know…”
El Rey
murmured, glancing at Maria, who was in a kind of shock from the chase and the shooting.

“It’s strictly business. You can rely on me.”

“That’s good to know. I will also require an untraceable phone to make a call that I expect to be traced. Do you have something?”