Rage Of The Assassin (6 page)

After a long pause he strode back to his door and unlocked the deadbolts, taking his time, humming. He was hungry, but the food would have to last until tomorrow’s delivery. He could pace himself; the meals were individually wrapped so he couldn’t mistakenly eat too much and be left starving tomorrow morning, a constant fear of his after he’d done so once, exactly nine hundred and seventeen days ago. That wouldn’t do. He still remembered it vividly and hoped to never repeat it. Any trip outside his world required preparation, and that took time and planning. When he’d realized he had no food, he’d panicked, and it had taken the remainder of the day to recover from the anxiety he’d experienced walking the two blocks to the market.

No, that would never do at all.

Across the street, two men watched the delivery with boredom from the window of the apartment they’d occupied for four years. Both had prison tattoos that ran the length of their arms, and their faces were scarred from long-forgotten fights. The stouter of the pair grunted.

“El Maquino will dine well another day,” he said.

His companion grinned. “The boss will be pleased to hear it.”

AKM assault rifles leaned against the base of the window, spare magazines by their sides. They’d never been used. But that wasn’t the point. The daily delivery was one of the risk points in their twenty-four-hour vigil. The men would be replaced by the evening crew in another eight hours, who would sit watching the screens that displayed images of the building from every angle, sent by infrared and night-vision-equipped cameras discreetly mounted for thorough coverage. Their instructions were simple and unvarying: protect at all costs the building’s occupant, whom they knew only by his moniker, El Maquino. Protect him from what, they didn’t have to ask.

Danger. Adversaries. Those who would do him harm.

Whether El Maquino knew they were there, watching the street and providing additional protection to the fortress-like building, they could never be sure. They simply knew their orders, which they followed to the letter. Failure to maintain vigilance would be greeted harshly, they’d been assured, and they believed it.

And so they watched and waited, passing the time telling each other stories and lying about conquests, never taking their eyes off the entrance. Another pair did the same at the rear of the building, monitoring the smaller alley and the array of motion detectors that lined the roof of the four-story structure. Two more sat in vehicles strategically positioned on the street, the drivers similarly armed and watching for anything suspicious.

“I wonder what he does in there all day. I mean, don’t you? Tell me it isn’t creepy.”

“Mind your own business, and it’ll be better for your health.”

The first man nodded. Wise words from his elder.

Words to live by.

Chapter 8

Carla took an appreciative final sip of coffee and beamed at El Rey.

“I have a surprise.”

One of his eyebrows rose, and he sat forward. “I thought we already covered that. We’re leaving.”

She laughed. “No, I mean another one.”

“Good or bad?”

“Good, I think. I just got a job offer. A big salary hike.”

“Really? Congratulations.”

“Thanks. The only problem is that it’s in Spain. Madrid. Working for the network there.”

“Do you want to take the job?”

She nodded. “Absolutely. But I want you to think about coming with me.”

They sat wordlessly for a few moments. “To Spain,” he repeated.

“There are worse places. And it’s not like you’re doing a lot here. You have no reason to stay.”

“Only one,” he agreed, and raised his cup to his lips.

Carla registered a tremor in his hand and shot him a look of concern. “What is it?”

“I’m due for my final shot. The antidote I told you about.”

Her expression hardened. “Then get it.”

“I’ve been trying. CISEN has been putting me off for a week.”

“That’s unacceptable. You kept your end of the bargain.”

“Yes, although not completely unexpected. They’re weasels. You have to be to take up that line of work. Nothing’s ever as it seems.”

“What are you saying?”

“That they don’t seem to be in a big hurry to help me now that my usefulness is at an end.”

She frowned. “Then you have to make them.”

“Oh, I know. I’m way ahead of you. I always have at least one contingency plan.”

“You think they’re going to try to screw you? You have the president’s word…”

It was his turn to frown. “A politician. A talking head who does what the ruling elite tell him to do. His word’s worth about what any politician’s promise is – which is not a hell of a lot.”

“So what are you going to do? Are the symptoms getting worse?”

“They started six days ago. Just a few tics and a little muscle soreness. The shaking is new.” His expression softened as he saw her obvious concern. “Don’t worry. I’m not dead yet.”

“I hate when you joke about it.”

He shrugged. “We all go out the same way.”

“Hopefully a long time from now.”

El Rey nodded. “Hopefully. I’m thinking I’ll pay an unexpected visit to CISEN today since I can’t get anyone to return my calls. They always seem to enjoy it when I drop in unannounced.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

His face was unreadable. “I don’t worry. I plan.” He finally offered a small smile. “Weren’t we talking about Madrid? That’s way more cheerful than my situation.”

“Once you get the shot, that’s it, right? That’s the final one?”

“Supposedly.”

“You think that’s a lie?”

“I treat everything as one until proven otherwise. In my former line of work, that was the prudent course.”

She nodded. “You would make a great reporter, you know. Gorgeous, smart, charismatic…”

“I’ll let you know if I need a day job. I hear you’ve got clout.”

“Seriously, though. Will you think about Spain?”

“What’s the timing?”

“I have to give them an answer by the end of the week.” She shook her head. “The network here hasn’t even made a new offer yet – that’s how confident they are that they’re the only game in town.”

“One offer is no offer.”

“Exactly.”

“If they bettered the Spanish one, would you stay?”

She sighed and pushed her cup away. “I feel like it’s time for a change. I’ve gone as far as I can here. Exposure to a major European market would make me far more valuable long term. Staying would be the wrong decision, at least for now. That’s not to say I wouldn’t ever return. But I feel like I’ve outgrown Mexico, you know?”

He studied her. “I do. It’s an interesting proposition. Move to Spain to be the boy toy of a celebrity.”

“The hours are good.”

“I’ll say.” He caught the waiter’s eye and signaled for the check. “Let me think about it.”

“I won’t take the job if you won’t go.”

He shook his head. “Yes, you will. You’ll do what’s smart and what’s best for you. I just need to get used to the idea of leaving Mexico. I mean, I’m not married to it, and Spain is hardly the provinces…”

“It would be wonderful. We could start a new life.” She didn’t have to say
together
.

“You’re very convincing.”

The check arrived and she smiled again. “I plan to be more so.”

Chapter 9

Zapopan, Jalisco, Mexico

Steam rose off the parking lot of the Mariscos Sinaloa restaurant as the sun baked away the last of the moisture from one of the high-altitude morning showers that visited the Guadalajara area – the mountainous region drew flash storms like a magnet. Five SUVs were parked near the main building, which consisted of a massive concrete bunker topped by a three-story-high
palapa
roof. A set of brightly painted concrete stairs led to the entrance, which boasted a stylized image of a lobster and a shrimp wearing sombreros and shaking maracas. On the sidewalk in front, a row of placards had been set out by the service staff in anticipation of the restaurant opening for lunch, boasting the specials of the day prepared just like Mama used to make.

Four men with hard faces and hair trimmed close to their skulls in an unmistakably military style stood by the entrance. All wore baggy short-sleeved shirts that hung over their trousers, barely concealing the pistols in their belts.

Inside, a half-dozen figures sat drinking beer at a circular table near the kitchen. Three of them had cell phones clamped to their ears, and one was working on a laptop computer. An imposing dark-complexioned man with a mop of black curls atop a swarthy face checked his watch impatiently and sent a text message. From the four corners of the restaurant, flat-screen TVs blared the same banda video of sixteen men in identical yellow suits with purple shirts playing tubas, horns, guitar, and accordion, sidestepping rhythmically as a portly singer crooned about love gone wrong.

Hector Agundez had been, until recently, the number two man in the Sinaloa Cartel. But he’d split from that group and formed his own organization when the ever-present threat of
Don
Aranas was neutralized with its kingpin hauled off in chains. The new cartel, La Familia, had made rapid inroads into the Sinaloa Cartel’s territory primarily because Agundez knew all the distribution routes and had developed relationships with most of the trafficking network as he laid the groundwork for his new gang. Sinaloa still held most of its home state, but Jalisco and points south were hotly contested, and he’d taken a lot of territory from the cartel in a short period.

Not that it had been easy. The remnants of the Knights Templar Cartel, the Jalisco Cartel, Los Zetas, and the Jalisco Nueva Generación were all fighting it out for dominance of Guadalajara, and not a day went by when there wasn’t a pitched battle or a van filled with mutilated bodies abandoned in a prominent spot, accompanied by a message to rivals scrawled on a bedsheet that vowed more bloodshed to come.

Don
Aranas’s escape had sent a seismic shock through Agundez’s group, and his key nucleus was busy strategizing how to best negotiate terms with Sinaloa; Aranas’s reputation as invincible had been cemented by his miraculous prison break. Alliances were common between competitive groups in contested areas, and Agundez hoped Aranas wouldn’t allow hard feelings to get in the way of good business. Until word of Aranas’s newfound freedom hit, Agundez’s plan had been to eradicate Sinaloa whenever there was a clash, but with Aranas on the loose, everything had changed. The man was a master tactician, and the Sinaloa troops would be revitalized with him at the helm again.

“Any word?” Agundez asked nobody in particular. The nearest man, Adolpho Gomez, shook his head as he continued speaking softly into his phone. Agundez scowled and rubbed a pudgy hand across his brow, the orbiting overhead fans doing little to dispel the growing muggy swelter.

A vendor in ratty clothing, his skin the color of roasted almonds from long years in the sun, was pushing an ancient icebox on wheels decorated with a hand-painted depiction of a polar bear enjoying a frozen ice pop. He made his way along the street toward the parking lot, every now and then ringing a little bell in the hopes of attracting customers, but judging by his demeanor, he wasn’t having a productive time. The rickety conveyance bounced on worn rubber wheels as he neared the men by the stairs, and he rang the bell again to signal that he was open for business.

One of the guards reached into his pocket and retrieved a few ten-peso coins. He counted the change and took a few steps toward the vendor. “Got any coco?” he asked.

“Oh, certainly, sir.”

The vendor opened the hinged lid of the cooler and reached inside. When his hand came out clutching a sound-suppressed semiautomatic pistol, the guard barely had time to register the weapon before it popped and a red dot appeared in the center of his head.

The coins hit the sidewalk as the dead man’s knees buckled, drawing the attention of the others, but the vendor was already in motion, firing with steady deliberation as he neared. None had time to get their guns free, and all were dead before they hit the ground, the subsonic ammunition so silent the only sound was the snicking of the weapon’s slide and the tinkle of spent shell casings bouncing against the pavement.

The vendor tapped his concealed earbud and muttered a few words, and then dropped the handgun back into the cooler and extracted a suppressed submachine gun. Three black SUVs rolled into the lot and pulled to a stop, and a dozen figures in full blue combat dress with Federales emblazoned across their backs leapt from the vehicles, weapons held at the ready as they ran to where the vendor waited for them, out of sight of the men in the restaurant.

The gathering of cartel thugs looked up in surprise when the armed contingent burst through the entrance. Two of the gangsters drew pistols and dove for cover as the police’s automatic weapons opened up on them. The high-velocity rounds shredded through the wooden tabletops that the pair had knocked over to shield themselves, and within seconds both men were burbling their last breaths in a lake of blood.

The rest of Agundez’s men stood frozen as the sound of gunfire died and the shooters approached, assault rifles trained on the survivors. Agundez’s face twisted with anger as he slowly raised his hands, and the others followed suit.

“Have you lost your minds? I pay everyone for protection. Whoever is in charge of this operation–”

“Silence!” the leader of the squad barked. He glanced at the man to his right and then back at the cartel kingpins. “Which one of you is Agundez?”

Agundez’s frown deepened. “I am. And who are you?”

The leader nodded and the police guns blazed. Agundez’s men staggered backwards as rounds tore through them, the slugs churning their chests into hamburger.

When the gunmen stopped firing, Agundez was the only one left standing, stunned, his hands still held high. The leader walked toward him.

Agundez met his stare and hissed his question. “Who are you?”