Night of the Assassin (Assassin Series 4_prequel) (14 page)

“If you can do this, we have a deal. What payment do you propose?”

“The three hundred I want now, and before the day’s end I will bring you a photo of your enemy dead. The others, half up front, half upon successful completion. It’s actually a bargain, but I’m anxious to make a name for myself and earn your support,” the young man said.

Valiente nodded. It was indeed a bargain. They both knew it. He was being handed the keys to the kingdom for a song.

“I have to say, this comes as a complete surprise. If you can pull this off, you’ll be very, very busy carrying out jobs for me.” Valiente stared into his empty cup. “And what is your name? What shall I call you, my young mystery killer?”

The young man didn’t hesitate. He’d already decided on his professional moniker. He would be named after the cursed card that had ruined his life, and had freed him at the same time.

“
El Rey
. After the tarot card, the King of Swords. You can call me
El Rey
.”

Later that evening, after catching a few hours of sleep,
El Rey
returned to Valiente with the photo of Altamar after the acid facial scrub, having collected his fee before departing the office earlier in the day. The cartel boss was both fascinated and repelled by the ‘after’ image of Altamar – and this was a man who saw death on an almost daily basis.

“Jesus fucking Christ. What did you do to him?” Valiente exclaimed.

El Rey
shrugged. “Acid.”

“Fuck, kid. You’re one sick bastard, I’ll grant you that. I never want to piss you off,” Valiente admitted.

“I figured you’d want something that would make a statement. You can download the photo or I can e-mail it to you for circulation purposes if anyone ever decides to test your power. I imagine it would deliver a considerable deterrent value.”
El Rey
grinned humorlessly as he spoke.

“This will stop anyone that doesn’t have a death wish in their tracks.” Valiente slid a folder to him, along with a black garbage bag. “I have two primary rivals I need executed in the next two days. Their details are in the folder. Half the money for the first contract is in the sack. Come back when you’ve done the first one and I’ll pay you the balance and give you a payment for the second contract. But I need this handled quickly, because once they get wise to Altamar being missing for any significant period of time they’ll be coming for me.”

“Then I better get going. I could use some help locating a few things for these jobs, though. I figure you’d know where to find these.” He handed Valiente a short list. “The sooner I can get them, the sooner I can fulfill these contracts.”

Valiente studied the short list.

“The M-4 is no problem. We’ve got a bunch of those. Don’t know if any have a night scope on them, though. Let me make a call. The Remington we also have, or can get within a few hours. Same for the Glock with a silencer. Pretty standard issue, that. Although it may not be 9 mm. If we have to go .45 caliber, will that do?” Valiente looked up from the list and
El Rey
nodded assent. “Lot of the marines bring those Remington 700s with them – they love their sniper rifles. I see you’re okay with the .308. That will make it easy. Oh, and plastique and grenades? How messy do you plan to make this? I don’t want to be associated with public bloodbaths in crowds. You need to be surgical.”

“I intend to be as discreet as possible, but it’s better to be prepared, than not. I will get busy on the first contract while you source that gear. How can I contact you at night? I’ll want to pick up the weapons as soon as you have them.”

Valiente scribbled a cell number on the back of a card.

“Call me in two hours and we’ll arrange a drop-off. Don’t worry about the cost; they’re on me. I’m presuming you’ll want, what, five hundred rounds for the M-4 and maybe fifty for the Remington and the Glock?” Valiente confirmed.

El Rey
nodded.

“Make it a hundred for the Glock.”

Valiente grunted. He was already imagining how it would feel to be sitting on Altamar’s throne.

“Okay, then, we’re set. And you, my friend, can call me any time.” He looked at the image on the little camera again. “I’m glad you’re on my side… ‘
El Rey
’.”

“So am I.”

Both men smiled, their eyes dead.

El Rey
had checked into a high-end hotel in town and now sat at the small rectangular table in his room going over the details of the two targets. He didn’t see a problem taking them out but it would get progressively harder as word of a purge spread. Ideally, he would do both the same night but he needed to look into the logistics. He jotted the addresses down and decided to go for a drive to explore the neighborhoods. Valiente had supplied plentiful information on the targets’ security, so there were no surprises there, but he wanted to determine if it was practical to do two in one night.

He would need a different vehicle than the truck, so he would have to buy something, preferably with an alarm and dependable, considering that he was driving around with over two million in cash. It was a Thursday evening, so he decided to hit one of the new car dealers before they closed. Some lucky salesman was about to get a dream handed to him.

El Rey
drove to the Toyota dealer, and after an hour emerged with the keys to a shiny new black 4 Runner with a factory alarm. That would more than do. He could do the reconnaissance in the plate-less Toyota and then use the big Ford for the actual hits. His days with the Ford were numbered in hours, so it would be best to use it, rather than the Toyota, for operational purposes.

He drove to the neighborhood of the first target’s ranch on the outskirts of town, five acres with a nice colonial-style single-level house, a modest seven bedrooms per the information. He knew from the photos and the file what to expect on the layout, and found several obvious holes in the security setup just driving by. The first target, Manuel Remarosa, would be a piece of cake.

The second hit wouldn’t be so easy, he knew. The man lived an hour outside of town on a large parcel of land with only one entry point – a heavily-guarded private road. There was no point in driving out there before he picked up the weapons, so he returned to the hotel and called Valiente, who confirmed he had everything. They agreed to meet in half an hour at a restaurant in town and the hand-off went uneventfully. Valiente’s security men kept a watchful eye out for threats as they chatted over a snack, before
El Rey
transferred the golf-bag with the weapons in it to the Lobo. By the time he made it back to the hotel it was ten at night and he was tired, so after checking the weapons and loading them, he took a two hour cat-nap. The slumber did him a world of good, and by one a.m. he was parked a quarter mile from Manuel Remarosa’s opulent home. He would use the Glock and the M-4 for this exercise, and hoped he’d be able to get in and out without having to fire the assault rifle. The pistol would be relatively silent; but opening up with an automatic rifle would draw considerable undesired attention.

El Rey
was dressed from head to toe in dark gray camouflage, nearly invisible as he slid silently through the brush on the periphery of the estate. He could make out the silhouettes of the armed guards sitting at their assigned points near the primary entry areas, so didn’t anticipate any problems getting in and out. The one who sat on the breakfast patio was out of sight of the rest, so he was the weak link. The plan was to take him out and then simply walk into the house, make his way to the target’s bedroom and do the deed. It would be over in no time, before the guards had any idea what had happened.

The hurdle was how to cross the expanse of open space between the brush and the house without being detected. He’d need to time it perfectly so as to avoid getting into a firefight. This kind of spur of the moment operation, which he hated, depended entirely on the element of surprise. He preferred to plan his future hits carefully but he’d been handed the means by which to begin his career with a bang, so he’d do what needed to be done on these two.

The problem was that, as he watched the house, he couldn’t see any means to reach it without alarming the guard and bringing the full wrath of four armed men down on him. It sucked, but he would need to modify his plan to reflect reality. He’d thought that one of the angles would keep him hidden until he was almost right on the man, but once he was in the brush he discovered that was illusory.

Calculating his next move, he hunkered down to wait, figuring it would be a long night.

Manuel Remarosa stretched on his four poster bed, and rolled over so that the morning light from the window wouldn’t wake him up anymore than he already was. Sadie, his golden retriever, had other ideas and, hearing her master shift on the bed, decided it was time to send him a message of undying love in the form of sloppy wet kisses on his face. She jumped up onto the mattress between Manuel and his wife, Gloria, and firmly deposited herself, lavishing her beloved master with affection. Manuel swatted at her halfheartedly before rolling over again towards the window, resigned to his fate. He couldn’t really get too angry with Sadie – she’d been sleeping on the bed with him since a tiny puppy of six weeks, and it was only since she turned one year old a few months ago and was now an adult that she’d been relegated to the terracotta tile of the floor.

“She loves you,
amor
. And you’re the one who wanted a dog,” Gloria murmured from her position on the bed, her voice thick with sleep.

“I know, I know. Don’t get up. I’ll take her out for a little exercise,” Manuel replied sarcastically.

Gloria ignored the jab, already drifting back to dreamland. Manuel slid on his slippers and trundled across the floor to the bathroom, Sadie locked to his side in anticipation of going for a walk. He stood at the toilet going about his business, Sadie obediently waiting for him on the other side of the threshold to the forbidden area, and yawned loudly, stretching his arms over his head and finishing by rubbing his hand across the day’s stubble on his cheeks. He was fat, he knew, but not dangerously so; maybe forty or fifty pounds. But he could always lose it – that was his daily mantra before going for a halfhearted morning jog, which inevitably terminated with a huge breakfast loaded with cholesterol, carbs and cheese. Manuel scratched his bottom as he considered shaving, then decided he’d forego that chore today.

He entered the huge walk-in closet and donned his workout outfit – a green America soccer tunic and basketball shorts – before turning to Sadie, whose eyes twinkled with anticipation.

“Who wants to go for a walk?” he asked innocently.

Sadie danced back and forth, her tail whipping the air in a frenzy, doing everything in her power to convey to her master that it was she, indeed, that wanted to do so.

“If only I could find someone who wanted to go for a WALK!” Manuel exclaimed, and Sadie began whining as she pranced in the doorway, occasionally leaping into the air and twirling completely around in a canine display of balletic choreography.

Manuel decided to give her a break and not torture her any more, although he knew she enjoyed the buildup as much as he enjoyed her reaction. Together, they moved to the bedroom door and made their way down the hall, a wholly unlikely pair. He stopped in the kitchen and greeted Maria, their cook, who was already simmering something heavenly-smelling on the expansive Viking stove top.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Machaca,
Don
Remarosa,” she replied softly. Maria was sixty, from Los Mochis, north of Culiacan on the Sea of Cortez, and was a remarkably talented cook. She’d been with him for a quarter of his forty years, and he still looked forward to her meals every day.

“Make sure it’s low fat. Remember I’m on a diet,” he chided, rubbing his ample belly with a grin.

“Always,
Don
Remarosa,” Maria assured him.

Manuel was a brutal killer who had executed twenty competitors over his two decades of ascending the cartel ladder in Sinaloa, but he loved his mother, his four children, his dog, his wife and his two mistresses. And Maria’s cooking.

It never occurred to him to question his lifestyle – he’d come up from the streets, where he’d started out as a collector for one of
Don
Aranas’ cells, and had worked his way up to his current position as one of Altamar’s trusted lieutenants, and was now making ten million dollars every year. This, for a boy from the slums who had terminated his education at the age of twelve to live by his wits on the streets of Culiacan. The cartel game had made him a rich man, and he wanted for nothing. If he had to get his hands dirty, so be it. He’d murdered his first man when he was thirteen, using his bare hands and a bread knife, and had never looked back.

His life had been relatively tranquil under the reign of his boss, and he had hardly had to kill anyone so far this year – an anomaly for the business. It was a time of peace, and he was happy to be reaping the rewards of Altamar’s rule. He still remembered the bad time a few years back when
Don
Miguel had been executed, the streets running red with blood. He’d had to pack his family and send them off to Lake Chapala during the worst of it. For months, he’d lived like a terrorist commander, hiding for his life in different anonymous locations as he waged a guerilla war against his competitors each day. It was like anything else, he supposed. There were good times and the not so good times. It wasn’t perfect, but then again, nobody got rich in Mexico without getting blood on their hands. He’d made his choices – and had prevailed. He couldn’t complain.