Night of the Assassin (Assassin Series 4_prequel) (11 page)

“If you don’t open the door, I’ll break in. You know I can find a way. Jasmine, please. This has gone on long enough. Open the damned door so we can speak like adults. I need to know what happened…and I need your help,” he finished starkly.

The lock creaked and the door swung open. It was dark in the small living room, all the drapes pulled, he saw as Jasmine padded in bare feet to the chair in front of the television and sat. She was wearing a nightgown even though by that point it was noon. It was so dim that he could barely make her out.

“Can we turn on a light or open a window? I can’t see my own hand in front of me.”

“I…I’m comfortable with it like this. This is my house now, so I keep it the way I like. If you have a problem with it, leave,” Jasmine advised in a monotone.

What the hell was going on here? Even after two years, people didn’t change that much. What had happened?

“Jasmine. No problem. You want it dark, I like it dark. Can we start over? Tell me what happened to your father, Emilio. Please. Start at the beginning. I haven’t had any news since I left.”

“I see you have a uniform. Marines. Is that what happened to you? You ran away and joined the navy? That’s classic. A total cliché,” she exclaimed with a bitter laugh.

“It’s a little more complicated than that. But tell me about your father.”

Jasmine let out a long sigh, and sank further into the large, padded easy chair – one of Emilio’s few luxuries; a place he could relax at the end of a long, hard day and watch some television in peace.

“When you left, you got out just in time. Someone executed
Don
Miguel, as well as one of his lieutenants, either that same day or the day after. I don’t really remember now, so much happened so quickly. Anyway, nobody knew what to do, and it was chaos here. But word traveled fast, because before
Don
Miguel was in the ground, his rivals where fighting over how his empire would be divided up. It quickly escalated into the usual blood feud, and soon Culiacan’s streets were littered with the dead,” Jasmine explained.

“And your father?”

“One night, several trucks showed up at the house, and we heard gunfire. The main contender for the
Don
’s position, Armand Altamar, had decided to eliminate anyone who was still loyal to the
Don
, in a bid to seal his position as the new
jefe
for this region. He executed the few remaining staff at the house…and then he came for us. My father had several guns and he tried to defend us, and even killed three of Altamar’s henchmen, but in the end it was for nothing. There were too many of them, and they shot him to death, out in front of the porch…like a dog. He died there for no reason other than for loyalty to his new boss – which was you since the
Don
’s execution. He wasn’t even in the business. He just ran the horses, and raised you…” her voice trailed off.

“Jasmine, I’m so sorry. I…I don’t know what to say…”

“There’s nothing to say. After killing him, they broke down the door, dragged my grandmother and auntie outside and shot them in head.”

“Good God. I…thank God you escaped…”

“But I didn’t, don’t you see? I tried to shoot them but I was shaking too much, and my first shot missed. So then they came for me…and the rest…is history,” she said flatly.

“What happened, Jasmine. You can tell me.” He didn’t know how to react to the horrible story and was afraid to hear the rest but he couldn’t help himself.

“What happened? What happened? With nobody here to protect me, with you gone and my family killed? They took turns raping me, is what happened – over and over, for half the night. I passed out, and when I came to, they were raping me more. It went on for hours.”

“I…Jasmine. I know nothing I can say or do will make anything better. But I’ll find these men and punish them for what they did to you. They’ll pay, with interest added.”

“Just go. I don’t want your help. My life is over before it had a chance to really begin. It’s not your fault but I don’t want to see you ever again. You remind me of before…when I had hope…”

“Jasmine, listen to me. There’s still hope. I know what happened was horrible and will stay with you forever but there’s always hope. Always. I’ll make this right, or at least avenge your family and you,” the young man promised.

“No you won’t. And no, there’s no hope. Trust me. None.”

“There’s always hope, Jasmine–”

“You’re an idiot. For you, maybe there is, but not for me. I didn’t finish the story. You didn’t let me. After they were done with me, every orifice brutalized and bleeding, the leader, Altamar, went into the barn and got some of the acid they used on the glass tiles in the fountain – to remove the calcium deposits, as I remember. They’d always wear gloves, and mix it fifty parts water to one part acid. It was the only thing that would remove the buildup. Altamar didn’t wear gloves, and he didn’t mix it. He just poured it on my face, laughing as my skin fizzed with screaming pain. Last thing I remember was trying to make it to the kitchen to rinse it off my face with water. That probably saved my life.” She stopped and looked at him through the gloom. “I wish they’d killed me. I’ve sat here many times, ever since they released me from the hospital, wishing I was dead. I’d kill myself but it would damn my soul to hell forever, according to the priest who stops in occasionally to mitigate my torment. So I sit in the dark, and pray to an unlikely god to end my misery. So far, he’s ignored me, just the same as he ignored my family.”

“Jesus…”

“There’s no Jesus here. There’s only what they turned me into. What they did to me. There’s only this.”

Jasmine leaned forward so that he could see her face in the dim light. One side was the Jasmine he remembered. Beautiful, serene, now with tears streaming freely down her cheek. The other side of her face was an abomination. The acid had seared off her living flesh, blinded her, and so ruined it that it more resembled something that had been dragged down a road for miles, or trapped in a fire, than something human. The tendons and ligaments were exposed and, even two years later, it was a suppurating wet sore…a picture of hell on earth incarnate. The young man had seen plenty of death and horror in his life but even he was shocked and he automatically recoiled from the sight. It was the most horrible thing he’d ever seen. He felt his gag reflex triggering as the pit of his stomach dropped out.

“Oh… Oh God, Jasmine…”

There was nothing to say. No words anyone could say to make it better.

Jasmine had been right.

There was no hope.

The lights of the cantina twinkled in the softness of the spring night air; the bouncing beat of lively Banda music floated out from inside, along with raucous laughter and peals of glee from inebriated women. It was Saturday night and the party was in full swing on the outskirts of Culiacan, a rough and rural area populated by hard men with humorless eyes and females who were looking for a fast luxury ride to nowhere. This was cartel country and the bar was a cartel bar, so if you hadn’t grown up in the area and didn’t know the owners, you didn’t go inside unless you had a death wish.

It was one of the few places in Mexico where Armand Altamar could let his hair down and relax. He wasn’t at war with anyone for the time being so he had little to fear. Things were prospering under his iron rule and everyone was making a ton of money since he’d taken over most of
Don
Miguel’s duties. He’d had to give up some of the meth and heroin traffic to Diego up north, and had to cut in Aranas, the head of the Sinaloa cartel, for a fifteen percent larger slice of his cocaine traffic; but even so, business had grown to the point where he didn’t even feel the dilution – he was pocketing fifty million dollars a month, on a bad one.

Not so bad for a forty year old ex-enforcer who had come up from the streets, fighting tooth and nail for anything he ever got. He’d been born in one of Culiacan’s worst barrios, a desperate den of poverty and filth that few walked away from. Now he was running things after someone had taken out the
Don
. It was like a dream come true and he was making the most of it. Every weekend, he would hire one of the most popular Banda groups in Sinaloa to play for his de facto private party at his bar. Every friend he had would attend, as well as some of the most beautiful examples of Mexican femininity in the country – all to pay homage to him and celebrate his success.

Not that winning the spoils had been easy, by any means. For a few months after the
Don
had passed on to his just reward, Culiacan had been a death zone. Five or six different factions fought it out for his turf. The only way Altamar had emerged victorious was through a combination of epic brutality, stealth, deceit and, surprisingly, a willingness to compromise with his rivals. After several of his competitors had been found beheaded, along with their entire families – including newborn babies, aged relatives and even household pets – the notion of doing a deal to end the madness had been appealing to even the most battle-hardened contenders. And so a cautious truce had gone into effect. The killing stopped, prosperity returned and everyone went back to doing what they were supposed to do: making money – a lot of money. Maybe not as much as if one man ran it all, as
Don
Miguel had, but, then again, more than anyone could spend in a hundred lifetimes, just the same.

Altamar had introduced the idea that you had to be alive to spend it, and had been utterly ruthless in driving home the point that, unless you cooperated and stepped out of the way, your life wasn’t worth anything. Over four hundred and seventy people had lost their lives in the two months following the
Don
’s passing, at least according to the official count. The actual number was more like double that, many left rotting in hidden fields for the carrion birds to pick apart, or buried in shallow graves. One particularly brutal week, the rivers had been chocked with bodies floating down from the marijuana fields. It finally got to the point where even those accustomed to incredible violence and brutality had been through enough, and so they worked out a truce.

He’d proved his point. If you crossed him, you, your family, your servants and their families would all be slaughtered without a second’s hesitation. It had been a stunningly effective campaign. By its short but bloody end, he was in charge of a coalition of former rivals – who were all still alive to spend their money. True, he’d made lifelong enemies due to his tactics, but he wasn’t worried. Nobody dared move against him. The price of even the slightest thing going wrong was the extermination of everyone you knew, of everything you held precious. The stakes were just too high, so he settled into his position of power with confidence, while always sleeping with one eye open.

His entourage were the most dangerous and violent killers in the region; he made a huge point of advertising that fact. They were men who drank baby blood for breakfast and killed priests over coffee. By cultivating the reputation as the devil walking the earth, he’d climbed to the pinnacle of his world; the view from up top was better than he’d ever expected. He had his pick of the most gorgeous young women, he was literally awash with cash and every comfort and toy he desired. He was feared and revered for his ruthlessness and his absolute power. It was as close as you could get to being a demigod.

And it was good.

Tonight, he’d been drinking tequila with his cousins, who were never far away from his side. He surrounded himself with family and made sure they also wanted for nothing. Blood was their bond, he’d repeat over and over when drunk. Altamar made sure that they understood he was a hundred percent loyal to his family, and he expected nothing else in return but the same. The threat was as clear as the reward. Stick with Altamar, and you would live a happy and prosperous life. Get it into your head to betray him and he’d erase you from the earth.

The combination of carrot and stick was highly effective.

Inside the club, the air was thick with a haze of cigarette and marijuana smoke. The police avoided the building like it was radioactive, so there were no rules when within its four walls, the interior of which were covered with cowboy regalia. Lassos, bridles, photos of prize bulls and horses, horseshoes. Myriad related paraphernalia adorned every inch of the place, giving it an air of a themed junk shop. Booths ringed both of the longer sides of the room, which featured an elaborate stage on one end and a long wooden bar on the opposite. Girls in cowboy hats and microscopic jean shorts or mini skirts and cowboy boots weaved their way between the small circular tables that cluttered half the floor – the remainder of which was left to the many dancers. The fifteen-piece band barely fitted on the stage but neither the musicians nor the celebrants seemed to mind as the caterwauling of the dissonant horn section battled with the strident tenor of the singer, who was belting out a song begging apology for a series of indiscretions with other women; because this time, he’d be faithful due to having changed. Straw was scattered about the floor in an effort to create a more authentically rustic experience. The overall tone of the establishment was a rowdy rural roadhouse, albeit fifteen minutes from the edge of a cosmopolitan city of over a million in population.

Most of the men wore jeans or slacks with cowboy boots and hats; their female companions wore little but smiles, their modesty cloaked by strategically-donned tops that barely contained their charms, with shorts or pants that looked like they’d been sprayed on. Many of the girls were in their late teens to early twenties –with a fair mix of professionals and those looking to find a generous
narcotraficante
sugar daddy. It was a playground for men who lived at breakneck speed, for whom the light of tomorrow was not guaranteed, and who denied themselves nothing.