Rage Of The Assassin (29 page)

The leader’s brows rose. “Hierro? No. I’d have recognized him. Can’t mistake that ugly mug.”

Briones nodded and moved to the prisoners. “Where’s your boss?” he demanded.

Neither of the men spoke. Briones knelt beside them and lowered his voice. “The man you tortured to the point of death? He’s a top Federal Police official. Which means that you can expect that to look like a massage compared to what we’re going to do to you. So you either talk, or you’re going to suffer ten times what he’s been through – and I’m not exaggerating. We have a special place in our hearts for scum who target cops, and you’re the only ones left to take it out on.” Briones paused to let his words resonate. “Now here’s the deal. One of you talks, and the other gets the full treatment. I don’t care which. Neither of you talks, I’ll personally put the word out that you rolled over on Hierro and told us everything you knew. Which means you won’t live more than a few minutes once you’re out of the infirmary for your multiple injuries sustained while resisting arrest and attempting to escape during the interrogation. That’s the only deal you’re going to be offered, and when I leave, the offer’s off the table.”

Briones stood. “So which of you is still going to be breathing this time next week?”

Hierro heard the muffled reports of the sniper fire as he was rounding the block with two bags of freshly grilled carne asada and hand-rolled tortillas. He didn’t even blink and continued straight rather than approaching the building, his steps unhurried, a worker on his way home to his family with a late dinner.

He cursed under his breath as he walked, aware that he was suddenly not only a million dollars poorer, but would be the target of a renewed manhunt within the hour, leaving him precious little time to get out of town. To complicate matters, he’d set up a buy that evening and had planned to use most of the ransom to pay the supplier.

Hierro fished a burner cell from his back pocket as he neared the parking lot where he’d parked his Chevrolet Tahoe. The supplier would be angry but might be willing to advance a portion of the product – Hierro was at least warning him that there was a problem, which would count for something. How much remained to be seen, but any goodwill, combined with the several hundred thousand he had stashed in one of his apartments, should help alleviate the worst of the disappointment.

He’d live to fight another day.

Which at this stage was all he could hope for.

Chapter 49

San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, Mexico

The high-altitude night sky was clear, the stars bright and seemingly close enough to touch as a Cessna 182, its running lights extinguished, droned along six thousand feet above the mountain town. The pilot checked his GPS and turned to where El Rey waited in the rear of the plane.

“Figure thirty seconds. You ready?”

El Rey gave him a nod and settled his night vision goggles into place. When he switched them on, the dark interior of the plane blinked to yellow daylight. The assassin adjusted the parachute strapped to his back and rechecked the H&K MP5 submachine gun secured to his chest, more to kill the remaining time than out of necessity.

The pilot’s voice rang out. “Fifteen seconds.”

El Rey twisted the handle on the fuselage door and was instantly buffeted by cold air. Even at only a hundred and twenty knots airspeed, the wind hit him like an arctic fist, and he shuddered as he waited for the pilot’s final count. When it rang out, he waited an extra instant and then threw himself into the inky void as the plane banked hard left for its return to the airstrip at Santiago de Queretaro, where he’d boarded it an hour and a half earlier.

Cruz had come through with all the weaponry and equipment he’d requested, including the black Special Forces rectangular glider-parachute that would enable him to land with pinpoint precision within the fortified enclave below. As with the Bloomington plant in Virginia, he was certain that the defenders of the hacienda had never contemplated their defenses being penetrated without detection, and his plan was to make it into the house unseen, locate Aranas and take him prisoner, and then call in the cavalry once he was secured. Cruz had a hundred men waiting in the brush surrounding the ranch for his signal, and their instructions were to only engage when he gave the word. These were the best of the best Cruz could muster, elite shock troops of the Federal Police, who had been transported after dark to a remote staging area so as not to arouse the attention of the locals, any of whom might be an early warning system for the drug lord.

That Aranas would have the local police on his payroll wasn’t questioned – it was impossible for the most wanted man in the world to come and go as he pleased without detection unless he owned most of the politicians and cops. That he had the resources was also a foregone conclusion; at one point,
Forbes
magazine had named him one of the hundred richest men on the planet, and his wealth had only ballooned since then. It was assumed that he spent generously in order to capture the very apparatus charged with catching him, as his miraculous prison escape had more than adequately demonstrated.

El Rey freed his chute and braced as his fall abruptly slowed with sufficient G-force to rattle his teeth. It had been some time since he’d last jumped, but like riding a bicycle, it was a skill one never lost, and he smiled behind the night vision goggles as he gripped the pair of handles that enabled him to glide to within footsteps of the expansive ranch house’s back door.

The complex of buildings came into sharp focus as his speed fell off, and he spotted the area he’d chosen based on the satellite images – a flat depression behind one of the structures that lined the drive, presumably a four-car garage next to the last shape, which was no doubt a barn, given its size. The air grew warmer as he neared the ground, his descent soundless in the moonless night.

When he touched down, the rubber soles of his boots made no noise on the hard-packed dirt. He shrugged off his chute, stowed it beneath a pile of refuse, and freed his submachine gun. The surroundings glowed in his goggles, and he could see three of the six men he’d noticed patrolling earlier now standing no more than a hundred yards from him, smoking, their AK-47s held loosely as they enjoyed their cigarettes and conversed in low voices.

Only one of the windows of the house glowed at the late hour. He made his way to the rear door on catlike feet, careful not to make any sound. Once at the door he found it unlocked; unsurprising, given the perimeter security. He inched it open and slipped through the gap, then closed it softly and flipped the lock shut – for what he intended, it was best to limit the likelihood of being interrupted. He held the suppressed H&K at the ready as he crept along the hallway that led from the empty kitchen into the depths of the house, which was silent as a tomb.

The first door he came to was open a crack, and he eased it wider and peered in through the space. An empty bedroom, large, the king-size bed a postage stamp in the massive space. He stepped into the room and made his way to the far door, which turned out to be an equally deserted bathroom large enough to accommodate a tour bus.

That had to be the master suite, and given that it was empty, Aranas might not be there after all. Unless it wasn’t his place, in which case all of the stealth had been in vain. The thought slowed the assassin, but he shook it off and continued his mission – now that he was past the guards, there was no reason to abandon his search.

Three more bedrooms were likewise empty, which left only the room with its light on. El Rey approached, pressed his ear to the door, and frowned in puzzlement at the sound that greeted him: an atonal humming.

He twisted the knob and opened the door a few centimeters, flipping his goggles up and out of his sightline. He waited a few moments as his eyes adjusted, and his frown deepened.

A small mountain of a man wearing farmer overalls sat at a table with a look of intense concentration on his face, an array of tools spread before him. He was staring through an oversized magnifying glass supported by a table-mounted arm. The atonal humming was emanating from him as he rocked slightly back and forth, working on something on the table.

El Rey recognized the shape of an aerial drone at a glance, but it took him several beats to appreciate that there was something wrong with the man – aside from the humming, his expression was oddly vacant, even as his brow scrunched while he manipulated the delicate instrument in his bear-sized hand.

El Rey had seen that look before, once, years ago, while on a mission.

Aranas might not have been in the house, but his bomb maker was. The surprise for El Rey was that the man was clearly touched in some way, a way the assassin suspected he understood.

El Rey pushed the door open and the man looked up, his slack expression never changing as the assassin took measured steps toward him, his machine gun now pointed at the ground.

“How’s the project going?” El Rey asked with an easy smile.

The man gave a small nod. “Good.”

“You think it’ll work?”

“Should.”

“That’s great. Then what?”

“Next project. Always have one. Idle hands are bad. Best to keep busy.”

“Yes, it is. And it looks like you’ve settled right in. Shame about the last place.”

“A shame,” the man agreed. “I liked it there.”

El Rey smiled again. “Sorry to bother you, but I need your help.”

“Me?”

El Rey nodded. “The bombs. It’s time to defuse them.”

“Already?”

“We’re doing it early. But nobody knows how.”

“I told Uncle.”

El Rey didn’t blink. “He forgot.”

The big man shook his head. “I told him three times.”

“He says he’s confused. Wants to make sure he does it right, so he sent me. Can you show me how?”

“Oh, it’s easy. I gave him the control.”

“Right. But it broke.”

“Broke!” the big man said. “Oh no. That’s bad. Bad, bad, bad.”

“It is indeed,” El Rey agreed. “So what can we do?”

“Well, I have another. A just-in-case one.”

“He hoped you might. That’s smart.”

“You never know.”

“No, you don’t. Can you show me how it works? I’ll even write down the instructions so your uncle doesn’t get confused again.”

“Write it down. Good idea.” The man stood, his hair askew, and lumbered over to a pile of parts and motors. He rooted around in it, talking to himself in a low murmur. “Write it down. Write it down. Good idea. Write it down.”

The bomb maker was a case of arrested development, El Rey guessed, or perhaps more accurately, of different development, where certain talents were wildly exaggerated while others atrophied. A part of him recognized something of himself in the big man, who clearly saw nothing wrong with building doomsday devices for his uncle. El Rey was quite sure that if he asked him what happened when the bombs blew up, he’d get the same blank look – it was obvious what happened: the bombs worked!

“Gotcha,” the big man said and turned to El Rey with a hint of pride.

The assassin eyed the metal box. “Oh, that’s really nice. You made it?”

“Sure did. It’s my prototype. Not as good as the one I gave Uncle, though. That one was much nicer.”

“How does it work?”

“Coded radio. Three buttons. Here on the back? Switches. On, off, on, active. Off, off, off, inactive.”

“Those little toggles? Off, off, off?”

The bomb maker nodded. “Off, off, off.”

“Why, I can remember that! You’re a genius.”

The man handed him the console. “Write it down.”

“Oh, I will. As soon as I leave. I have a pen in my car, and I’ll definitely write it down. Wouldn’t do to forget, would it?”

“No. And be careful. Don’t break it.”

“I won’t.” The assassin eyed him. “How far away does it need to be for it to work?”

“Uncle’s box, up to two kilometers. This one, maybe…five hundred meters. I could increase the range if you give me more time.”

“Uncle said to hurry. So I’ll tell him the closer the better,” El Rey confirmed.

El Maquino moved back to the table, uninterested in any further interaction. El Rey understood. There was no reason for more discussion. And the big man had a project to complete.

The assassin returned to the door and slipped out. He paused at the threshold to slide the console inside his jacket and zip up, and then returned his goggles to the active position.

Fifteen minutes later he placed a call to Cruz. “I have the means to disarm the bombs.”

“You found Aranas?”

“No. The bomb maker.”

“How did you get it out of him? He might have lied.”

“No. He probably doesn’t know what a lie is.”

“What do you mean? How can you be sure?”

El Rey told him, and when he was done, the silence on the line stretched for a half minute. “He just gave it to you?” Cruz finally asked.

“Why wouldn’t he? It’s for his uncle.”

“Just like that?” Cruz demanded, disbelief in every syllable.

El Rey shrugged. “Just like that. But we better disarm the bombs before Aranas detonates them. I’m down at the main road. You can have someone pick me up whenever you want.”

“How did you get clear of the ranch?”

“I disabled all the surveillance gear at the source. It will take a day or two for them to figure out the systems are disconnected, because I just cut the wires carrying the signals to the alarms. That way, if Aranas calls, the guards will tell him everything’s fine – because their systems are telling them it is.” El Rey paused. “Now, what’s the fastest way to get me back to Mexico City so we can save a few thousand people from certain death?”

Chapter 50

Mexico City, Mexico

Cruz met the assassin’s helicopter at the landing pad, the morning sun lightening the sky as the chopper touched down. El Rey stepped from the copilot’s side of the cockpit and moved in a crouch to where Cruz stood. They shook hands, and then Cruz led him to a squad car, its rooftop emergency lights flashing. El Rey strapped into the passenger seat and Cruz slid behind the wheel, and moments later they were racing for the nearby cargo gate.