Requiem for the Assassin - 06

by Russell Blake

  El Rey withdrew a syringe and flicked on his penlight. He located a vein in her hand and injected the contents and, after pocketing the syringe, lifted her in a fireman’s carry, her body slung over his shoulders. She was surprisingly light, no more than a hundred pounds, he guessed as he crossed the bedroom.

  The assassin pulled her bedroom door closed behind him and moved to the stairs, where he paused to confirm the guards were still unaware of the drama playing out on the floor above them. He took the steps two at a time and, when he reached the attic ladder, adjusted his hold, compensating for her weight. Once in the attic, he lowered her to the floor and shut the hatch and then hoisted her again and moved to the iron ladder that led to the roof.

  Crossing the gap between the two buildings was the most difficult part of the operation, and his face beaded with sweat in the night air as he shifted his feet rung to rung, a sheer drop to certain death his reward for a misstep.

  Once across, he retrieved the ladder, set it out of sight on the roof, and called Cruz.

  “I’ll be ready for pickup in three minutes,” he whispered when Cruz answered.

  “I’m two blocks down. See you in three.”

  El Rey was at the side gate with Vega over his shoulders when the Explorer pulled up, its lights extinguished. He ran to the vehicle, opened the rear door, and placed Vega’s inert form on the back seat before climbing in next to her.

  “Drive,” he hissed, pulling the door closed. Cruz did as instructed and only switched on the headlights once he’d rounded the corner, accelerating as he drove south toward the network of back streets that led to the safe house.

  Chapter 34

  Carla’s eyes fluttered open, and her vision blurred in and out, the oscillations of a ceiling fan’s blades otherworldly as she attempted to make sense out of what she was seeing. She tried to sit up, but her body wouldn’t obey, the muscles in her arms and legs leaden. She wondered absently if this was some sort of a nightmare, a residual effect of one too many glasses of wine with dinner. It didn’t feel like a dream, though, because she had a gnawing sense of anxiety in the pit of her stomach, her head was throbbing, and she was desperately thirsty, none of which were in any way dreamlike.

  A man’s voice reached her as though through a fog.

  “She’s awake.”

  She tried to swivel her head, but it refused to accommodate, and the best she could manage was to direct her eyes at the shadowy figure sitting across from her – an older man wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses in spite of the darkness.

  “Don’t fight it. It can take a good half an hour for the anesthetic to wear off. Just relax,” the man said, his voice not unkind. She decided that it might be a dream after all, and closed her eyes, hoping to retreat into the comfortable numbness that seemed just at the edge of her awareness.

  What seemed like moments later, the man’s voice dragged her back to consciousness.

  “Feeling any better?”

  This time when she opened her eyes she could focus, and her body told her that she was lying on something soft – cushions, not a bed, judging by the rough texture. If this was a dream, she was imagining a couch – and a not particularly clean-smelling one, she thought as she struggled to sit up. She managed to, but the dreamlike quality, the dissociation, like she was watching herself from outside of her own body, lingered even as she looked at the man, who leaned over and tapped a plastic bottle of water on the coffee table in front of her.

  “You’re probably thirsty. That’s for you.”

  She tried to reach for the bottle, but her arms had minds of their own, and her hand fell short of the bottle by a half foot.

  “Maybe rest and give it another five or ten minutes. From what I remember of coming out of surgery, it can take a while before you’re a hundred percent.”

  Carla cleared her throat, and when she spoke, her voice was a croak. “What is this?”

  “I have to apologize for the tactics my associate used to get you here. But there was no other way.”

  “Kidnapping?” Carla demanded, her mouth having trouble with the syllables.

  “Well, yes. For which I’m sorry.”

  She tried to make sense out of the man’s words, but couldn’t. Why was a kidnapper apologizing? And how did they get her? Last she remembered she was asleep in bed…

  “Sorry?” she spat. “You…kidnapped me.”

  “Yes. But it’s not what it seems.”

  “Not…I…what is this?”

  “I’d suggest you take a little more time, and we can discuss things once you’re clearer-headed. The water will help. There’s no sense in rushing it.”

  She tried for the bottle again, and this time managed to wrap her fingers around it. Her hands fumbled with the top, and then the cool liquid was coursing down her throat, the feeling more satisfying than she could have believed possible. When she’d drained the water, she tossed the bottle next to her on the sofa, every second returning more of her senses to her.

  “Tell me what you want,” she said, and her voice sounded more alert than it had moments before.

  “I want to ask you some questions.”

  She stared at him incredulously. “Questions,” she repeated.

  “Yes. But I want you completely recovered before I do.”

  “You kidnapped me to ask me questions?”

  “That’s technically correct, I suppose.”

  “Technically? You took me out of my…out of my bed. What do you mean, technically?” she demanded, her temper flaring as her headache increased.

  “Señorita Vega, what we did was for your own good. For your safety. I’ll explain in time, but for now, I need you to answer my questions honestly.”

  “What questions? You haven’t asked any,” she snarled, her strength rushing back into her limbs.

  The man glanced off to the left, where for the first time, Carla sensed someone else in the room. She turned her head. A younger man was sitting on a barstool at a kitchen island, also wearing a hat and sunglasses. The younger man indicated that his companion should carry on, and the older man spoke again.

  “We’re investigating the deaths of several public figures.”

  Her eyes betrayed her confusion. “Investigating?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You kidnapped me because you’re…investigating something?” she said, her tone skeptical. “Who are you?”

  Another rapid glance at the younger man by the older one.

  “That’s not important,” the younger man said, speaking for the first time in a quiet voice.

  “It is to me,” she fired back.

  The older man leaned forward. “Miss Vega, I’m an admirer of your work. Tell me truthfully, how are you connected with Admiral Torreon, Archbishop Rene Bolivar, and Robert Perry?”

  She processed the names, a range of expressions flitting across her face before her eyes settled back on the older man.

  “Connected? You keep using that word. The answer is, not at all. I’m not connected to them in any way.”

  “You were at the attack on the admiral, and you were at Perry’s hotel in Arizona when he died,” the younger man said, his tone mild, his demeanor disturbingly pleasant.

  “I…I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she waffled, trying to buy time.

  “Miss Vega, I think you do,” the younger man said. “I think you’re the link between these three men, and you know why they were killed.”

  The room was quiet except for the soft whirring of the fan. She leaned back and closed her eyes, her head splitting now. “I really don’t know what you’re getting at,” she said, and then her eyes popped open. “What do you mean, why they were killed? Torreon died in his sleep. Perry from drugs. The archbishop was accidental. You’re not making any sense.”

  “Answer the question. There’s a connection between all three, as well as yourself. And with two others. One of whom was the head of the anti-cartel task force. Captain Romero Cruz,” the older m
an said.

  “Cruz? I didn’t know the man, I swear. I never met him, and I never met the archbishop, either. I have no idea what you want,” she said, her voice cracking at the end. She looked over at the young man. “Can I have some more water?”

  He stood, and she noted that he was taller than she’d thought from when he was sitting. He went to the refrigerator, retrieved two water bottles, and walked over to her and placed them on the table.

  “There. Now how about you cut the shit? I saw you in Arizona. Stop lying. You were there, and you were at the boat christening.”

  She reached for a bottle, thinking furiously, and her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Wait – you saw me there? Which means…you were there, too.”

  The older man stood and motioned to the younger, and they stepped away and had a hushed discussion. When the older man returned, the younger pulled up a wooden chair next to him and sat down.

  “Miss Vega, I’m going to tell you a story,” the younger man said. “It’s the absolute truth, even if it sounds insane. By the end you’ll understand why we had to remove you from your house, and why you’re in incredible danger. Hopefully you’ll be able to help us understand some things that have been eluding us about the connection between you and these others.”

  “Can we get back to the fact that you kidnapped me?” she snapped.

  “Certainly. I’ll be happy to explain that. There was no other way to have this discussion with you in a safe place, where you would hear us out.”

  “You’ll go to prison for life.”

  The younger man smiled, which for some reason alarmed Carla more than if he’d hit her. “Perhaps. But I think first you need to listen to the story and answer our questions. Four men have been killed so far, and you’re the only common thread between two of them. And I saw something in your eyes when you first heard the archbishop’s name. It meant something to you. I need to know what that is, for your own safety.”

  “You keep saying that. That I’m safe, that this is for my own safety. But you’re kidnappers.”

  “We’re investigating four killings,” the older man said. “Four murders.”

  “Again, those were all accidental or natural causes.”

  “That’s what they were made to look like.”

  “That’s crazy. How do you know? I mean, you claim to know they were killed. How?” she demanded, her investigative instincts kicking in.

  The younger man removed his glasses and fixed her with a cold stare, absent any malice, but with a quality like that of a snake eyeing its prey. He was actually quite handsome, she thought, an errant notion that took her unawares, and that she quickly shook off. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, and pursed his lips, as though annoyed at the need to explain.

  “Because I killed them.”

  Chapter 35

  Carla recoiled in shock. She believed him. And the fact that she did scared her more than anything so far.

  “You…you killed them?”

  “Señorita Vega, try to resist the temptation to interrupt me with inane repetitions. I’ll tell you what I can, and then it will be your turn,” the younger man said.

  She nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak.

  “I work for a government agency. I’m in the problem-solving business. When this agency has exhausted all other alternatives or has deemed someone dangerous to national security, I get a call. To simplify things, I was instructed to terminate those three men because of their involvement in a drug-smuggling operation. I was given dossiers, information on them you can’t imagine, everything I would need about their movements and habits to execute the plan successfully. Which I did.”

  She was about to speak when the young man held up a hand and shook his head, just once, closing his eyes as though fighting to control his patience. When he opened them, he continued.

  “For reasons I found suspicious, they were all to look like accidents or natural causes. Fine. I did my duty. And then I was given another list, with three more names on it. Yours was one of them.”

  Her eyes widened. “I…I don’t understand,” she whispered.

  “I’m hoping that you do.”

  “I…”

  “The other names were Captain Cruz and a farmer in Sinaloa, whose business is tomatoes and pigs, and who’s never harmed anyone in his life, as far as I can tell. His name is Indalecio Arellano.”

  El Rey watched her closely for any giveaways. The name meant nothing to her that he could see.

  “What are you saying? That you’re going to kill me? Is that what this is about?”

  “Are you dead?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “If I wanted to kill you, you’d have passed on in your sleep at your home. A tragic freak accident of some sort – heart stopped, probably an undiagnosed congenital issue.” El Rey sighed. “CISEN wants you dead. Not me.”

  “CISEN? That’s insane. They don’t go around killing journalists.”

  Cruz exhaled noisily. “That’s correct. Or at least, that was my understanding. But apparently they do. And cops, priests, actors… Now I think it’s time you level with us. We need to know what you do if we’re going to have any chance of getting to the bottom of this.”

  “What about me?” she asked.

  “If you’re honest with us, you can walk away, no harm done,” Cruz said.

  “Although I have to warn you that they’ll just send someone else,” El Rey said.

  “If it’s CISEN, I can blow it wide open. If I report what they’ve done, and that they’ve targeted me, then they can’t do anything. I’d be safe.”

  The assassin shook his head. “That’s not how it works. First, you’ll find it never gets aired, for two reasons: no proof – and CISEN has absolute control over the media and can quash a story. And second, you’ll be branded a kook. Stories will appear about you drunk, on drugs, having orgies, whatever. And then one day you’ll be found overdosed. Or your car will go off a cliff. Or your plane will go down. Or a robbery or carjacking will go wrong, with deadly consequences. I respect your line of thinking, but without proof, you’ve got nothing, which you should know. Just unsubstantiated allegations.”

  “You could make a statement. Go public.”

  “Same problem. I know I killed them, but how do I prove it? Besides which, I have no name. I’m nobody. The invisible man.” He sat back. “But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Why were you in Arizona?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why should I believe any of this? You could be making it all up. Or it could be some kind of trick.”

  “Trick? To achieve what? We secreted you out of your house to trick you into revealing…what, exactly? Miss Vega, I suggest you think this through. You’re on a kill list. As am I. That’s why we kidnapped you,” Cruz said.

  “You?”

  Cruz sighed and removed his hat and glasses. “I know we’ve never met, but you can compare my photos online with me in the flesh. Captain Romero Cruz, head of the anti-cartel task force, at your service.”

  Her face fell. It was obvious that a part of her had been hoping they’d been spinning her some fanciful tale.

  “Do you have ID?”

  “Of course.” Cruz removed his badge holder from his back pocket and handed it to her.

  “But I saw that you died yesterday…” she said, recognition dawning on her.

  “Correct. Because if I wasn’t dead, they’d still be trying to terminate me.” He took his ID back. “Are you starting to understand how serious this is?”

  “But if this is true, what can I do? They’ll kill me no matter what.”

  “Maybe not. There’s one chance for you,” El Rey said. “Which is that we figure this out and put an end to it while they believe I’m still trying to get to you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Tell me what you were doing in Arizona.”

  Carla inhaled deeply, her breasts swelling against her satin top as she did, and nodded. “I have a source.
Inside CISEN. The source indicated that there was something going on with Perry and the admiral. A few days before he died, I also heard that the archbishop was implicated in some way. How, my source didn’t know. I went to Arizona to try to get information out of Perry, see what he might be involved in that would connect him to the others. That was the same reason I went to cover the christening. To get to the admiral, whose staff had been stonewalling me.” She held Cruz’s gaze. “I had no reason to believe any of these deaths weren’t what they seemed. I’ve been such a fool…”

  “Then you didn’t learn anything new?”

  “No, not really. And now that you say Perry was targeted. I mean, he was harmless. A pretty boy. Nothing more.”

  “Did he have any connection to Mexico or Mexican interests you know of?”

  She shook her head. “No. I mean, his father was Mexican, but he seemed ashamed of that and insisted he was Spanish.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you got? Some kind of racial guilt?” Cruz asked.

  “I only talked to him for a short while. We were supposed to meet for drinks the night he…the night he died. Maybe I would have found out more. Or maybe there was no obvious reason. What I can tell you is that the story about a drug ring makes no sense. Perry was making tens of millions per year. A guy like that isn’t in the drug business. No way. He wasn’t the type.”

  “And the admiral and archbishop?”

  “Both honorable men, as far as I could tell. And I never found anything in common, although I stopped looking once the archbishop died.”

  Cruz grunted. “What about this farmer?”

  “I have no idea who he is or why he’s on the list.”

  “Who’s your source?” Cruz demanded.

  She shook her head. “I’ll never tell.”

  “I’m afraid you don’t have that luxury.”

  “It’s not a luxury. It’s a mandatory condition.”