Requiem for the Assassin - 06

by Russell Blake

  “A stir?”

  “I don’t remember all the details. Sorry. But let’s see if we can find the file, shall we?”

  El Rey returned to his seat and told Carla what the supervisor had said. Another hour dragged by before both clerks returned, the goateed one looking befuddled.

  “I have to apologize. According to the sign-in ledger, the last time the file was viewed was two weeks ago. It’s definitely been misplaced. We’ll find it eventually, but it could take some time,” the supervisor said.

  “How much time?”

  Ernesto shook his head. “I have no way of knowing.” He turned to the assassin. “Again, I’m sorry for any inconvenience. If you’d like to give me a phone number, I’d be happy to call you when it’s located.”

  El Rey eyed the supervisor. “You mentioned that the case caused some controversy?”

  “That’s right. I remembered a little more. It claimed that a significant chunk of beachfront land wasn’t the property of the ejido, and that a land grant from the 1700s preceded the allocation of the land to the ejido after the revolution. One of the local papers covered it. The same thing happened in Cabo – a family claimed that the entire Cabo and San José del Cabo tract had been deeded hundreds of years ago, which obviously jeopardized many billions of dollars of properties.”

  “How did that turn out?”

  “Some sort of a settlement, I believe. It just sort of dropped off the radar after the governor left office. Rumor was he was financially supporting the family for a slice of the proceeds, but who knows?”

  A question occurred to El Rey. “What happens if the person bringing the suit dies before it’s adjudicated?”

  “Well, I’d expect that the next of kin or the estate would take the position as plaintiff.”

  “What if there was no successor? If the plaintiff had no descendants or family?”

  The supervisor thought about it. “I’m not an attorney.”

  “Of course. I was just curious. I wouldn’t hold you to anything.”

  Ernesto wiped a trickle of sweat from the side of his face as his supervisor and he exchanged a glance. The supervisor leaned closer. “I’d guess in that case, it would expire. If there’s no harmed party, under Mexican law, there’s no case. It’s possible that the attorney could figure out a way to pursue it, but I’d think it would be almost impossible.”

  El Rey’s expression didn’t change. “Interesting.”

  Ernesto tried again. “Sir, can you leave me some contact information so I can get in touch when we find the file?”

  The assassin considered the request as if for the first time. “What? Oh, no need. I’ll be back tomorrow. Let’s hope for better luck then.”

  “It would be no trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just keep looking for it. You open at nine?”

  “Every business day,” the supervisor confirmed. “Sorry we couldn’t accommodate you today, but we’ll keep searching. It’s got to be around here somewhere. I don’t see it signed out by the judge, but I’ll check that next. Sometimes one of their clerks pulls a file and forgets to follow procedure, in which case it’s sitting on a desk somewhere.”

  Carla rose as El Rey returned to her and explained the situation as they made for the exit. “A title dispute near Magdalena Bay, huh? When we’re online, I’ll do some more looking at what specific area Perry’s charity is concerned with. If it’s anywhere around that tract of land…”

  “Then this is all about property.”

  “Which is really about money.”

  They reached the car, and El Rey hesitated as Carla climbed into the passenger seat. “If the case expires, according to the clerk, nothing would happen and it would remain the ejido’s land,” he said.

  “And ejidos don’t kill people. So there’s got to be something else going on.” Carla buckled in as El Rey started the engine, and directed the air vents at her face, a gesture against the oppressive heat. “You know, I’m familiar with Magdalena Bay from when I was a child. There’s nothing there. I mean, seriously, nothing but a few fishing shacks, a sliver of a town, an airstrip, and a gas station. I can’t imagine anything there would be worth more than a pack of gum. It’s not exactly Rio.”

  El Rey pulled out of the lot and accelerated along the dusty road. “Curiouser and curiouser, as the saying goes. But that’s got to be the key. Now we just need to figure out why anyone cares about a plot of land in the middle of nowhere, and how the archbishop, Cruz, and the admiral fit in.” He glanced at the rearview mirror and sped up and then cut hard right down a smaller street leading into a barrio.

  “Easy there,” Carla said, her voice playful.

  “Don’t look back, but I think we might’ve picked up a tail.”

  “A tail?”

  He looked in his side mirror. “Yes. A pickup truck. And it just made that same turn, so it’s not a might anymore.” El Rey floored the accelerator, and the economy car’s motor strained as the speedometer wound past 100 kph. “Hang on,” he warned and then twisted the steering wheel left, nearly putting the car on two wheels as he took another corner at reckless speed.

  The big pickup’s V8 more than compensated for its lack of agility, and as the assassin executed another turn, he could see that it was gaining on them. The rows of small cinderblock homes with black plastic cisterns on their roofs receded in the mirror as the neighborhood changed into industrial, and he dared a look at Carla, who was clutching the dashboard with a death grip.

  A sedan swung out of a street ahead and stopped in the middle of the road, blocking most of the dusty asphalt strip. Two men got out. El Rey saw the pistols before Carla did, and whipped his from his jacket as he yelled to Carla, “Get your head down.”

  She ducked below the dash level as El Rey floored the accelerator. The men began firing as he roared toward them, and El Rey simultaneously slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel hard right as he neared them, sending the rental car into a controlled sideways skid as it slowed thirty yards from the shooters. The vehicle hadn’t come to a halt yet when El Rey squeezed off a dozen shots, only stopping when the slide locked in the empty position. Both men went down, one of them pitching backward, arms akimbo, the other slumping to the ground as though suddenly tired, his weapon dropping from his hand as he pawed at the three ruby blossoms that had appeared on his bright yellow polo shirt.

  El Rey gunned the engine, pointed the wheel at the car blocking their way, and then rammed its rear end, shifting it enough to scrape by. The boom of a shotgun roared from behind them, and the rear window shattered as he stomped on the gas, losing control on the loose dirt that blanketed the road before the tires gripped and the car straightened out.

  Carla’s voice sounded panicked. “Oh my God–”

  “Stay down. It isn’t over yet,” he warned, jerking the wheel left and then right, presenting an erratic target. Behind them the truck barreled past the sedan, smashing into its rear quarter panel in a shower of sparks, and then accelerated after them. A glance at the mirror told El Rey everything he needed to know – there were three men in the cab, with one leaning out the passenger window with a shotgun. His gaze returned to the street, and he spotted a dirt road leading across the empty scrub ahead on his left. He ejected the pistol’s spent magazine one-handed and held the wheel steady while he rummaged in his pocket for the spare.

  “What are we going to do?” Carla cried, cringing as the dull roar of another shotgun blast reached them through the rear window.

  He slammed the magazine home.

  “Hang on. It’s going to get a little rough.”

  “Going to?” she said through gritted teeth, and then they were flying down the washboard dirt road, a haze of reddish dust fogging the track behind them as he opened the throttle. The little car bucked like a bronco as it crashed and bounced over the track, the tires skidding on the dirt like they were on black ice. He eyed the mirror, and all he saw was an opaque beige wall.

  “Keep down. If I
get hit, crawl behind the wheel and floor it the hell out of here.”

  “How will I know you’re hit?”

  “I’ll stop shooting.” He glanced at her. “Brace yourself.

  “What are you–”

  El Rey yanked the emergency brake and turned the wheel, locking up the rear tires as the car drifted to a stop at the side of the dirt road. He was out of the vehicle and moving around the front fender as the truck bore down on them, and when it blew through the dust, he waited as the driver stood on the brakes and tried to stop, momentum carrying it forward without slowing. He fired three times at the left front tire and was rewarded by the sight of the rubber shredding to pieces as the truck pitched forward onto the rim, completely out of control. The wheel plowed into the rise that framed the dirt road. The truck flipped end over end in a gravity-defying somersault and then slid for another twenty yards on its crushed roof.

  El Rey held the Glock in a two-handed grip as he walked toward the mangled wreckage, the cab half staved in. He saw movement inside the cab – the driver was trying to get his seat belt unbuckled, hanging upside down, blood streaming down his face, the deflated airbags sagging from the dash.

  A lump of blue streaked with bright crimson lay nearby – a passenger, who’d been thrown from the vehicle as it flipped, now an impossibly twisted parody of the human form. El Rey continued to the truck and watched as the driver continued his fruitless efforts, apparently not realizing that both of his arms were broken, his hands useless to free him.

  The third passenger’s body was crumpled in the cab, head twisted at an unnatural angle. El Rey sniffed the air before kneeling by the driver and pocketing the Glock.

  “Smell that? Gas. I hear burning alive’s about the worst way to go,” he said softly.

  The driver’s blurry gaze moved to the assassin’s face, which was as untroubled as an altar boy’s. The man tried to speak, but all that he managed was a wet cough that drenched his upside down features with blood before he shuddered and fell still, sightless eyes frozen open.

  Carla was still tucked behind the dash when he returned and slid behind the wheel. “Looks like I should have taken the rental agent up on the additional insurance,” he said and put the transmission into gear.

  “What happened? Are they…are they dead?”

  He nodded as they bumped their way back down the road, the shocks protesting every rut. “That’s a safe bet.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “It gets worse. They were cops.”

  “What?”

  “Police. At least those three were. But that’s not an official vehicle, so they were probably off duty or ducked out to take us on. No doubt they were dirty. The question is, who’s paying them?”

  “You killed cops?”

  “I killed three men who were trying their damnedest to kill us. They happened to be wearing uniforms.” He snorted, impatient with himself. “I should have known there was something off about that clerk. He was skittish. My bad.”

  “What do we do now? Go back and question him?”

  “That’s not how this works. No, what we do is steal a car, drive south to San José del Cabo, where there are plenty of flights, and take the first one anywhere in Mexico. Because they’re going to have roadblocks and a manhunt going for the cop killers in no time, so we’re racing the clock. The only break is that I didn’t see any surveillance cameras in the records building. So it’ll be a verbal description of a man with a goatee and sideburns, and a woman with sunglasses and a baseball cap. An attractive one, but still, difficult to describe accurately.” He felt at the edge of his goatee and winced as he ripped it free of the contact cement that held it on, and then repeated the act with his sideburns.

  She eyed him with a combination of fear and awe. “You’re so…calm. How can you be so calm after that?”

  He shrugged. “You can panic for both of us.” He slowed as they reached the pavement and turned on the first street. “I’ll drop you off somewhere so you can take a bus north to Loreto. If there’s an APB, they’ll be looking for a couple. So we split up. We’ll rendezvous in Mexico City tomorrow.”

  “Really? I can’t come with you?”

  The trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’d have thought you had enough excitement for one day. No, we split up, you’ll be in Loreto by late afternoon, and if anyone stops you, which they probably won’t, you show them your ID and tell them a sob story about a sick friend or a boyfriend who did you wrong. Whatever you want.” He glanced at her. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You’re a natural. Just lose the hat. Buy a new one at the station and some different shades.” He slowed more when he spotted an eighties-era Plymouth coupe. “That should do. Follow me once I’ve got it started, and we’ll ditch the rental a few streets away. No point making it easy.” He glanced at his bag in the rear seat. “Get one of my shirts out and wipe down every surface you touched. Dash, door, seat, windows, whatever. I’ll finish it when we ditch it.”

  She stared at him like he’d asked her to eat a fistful of live tarantulas, and then twisted to get his duffle.

  Chapter 51

  Mexico City, Mexico

  Briones watched the ghostly outline of the warehouse on the monitor in the back of the surveillance van parked two blocks from the target. He’d been in position for three hours, and the incursion team was primed and ready to move on the building. Three SUVs and a van were parked haphazardly in the walled complex’s lot, and there had been no sign of movement or life since the last appearance by one of the building’s occupants four and a half hours ago at the back door, where he’d smoked a cigarette while drinking a liter bottle of Pacifico beer, commonly referred to as a ballena – a whale.

  Briones leaned over to the sergeant who would lead the assault team.

  “All right. The mics aren’t picking up any movement inside, so they’re asleep. It looks like there are motion detectors there and there,” Briones said, pointing to two areas circled in red on a color printout of an aerial view of the building. “You’ll want to cut the power once the men are in position and go in through both entrances. Use explosive charges to get them open if they’re locked and you can’t pick them quickly. Chances are we’ll only have a minute or two from the time the power goes out until they’re awake and checking why the AC went off, so we want to use those seconds wisely.”

  They’d agreed that cutting the power was a necessary evil, but given the area’s penchant for outages, the hope was it wouldn’t cause instant alarm. Their layout expert had looked over the visible structures and assured them that there was no backup generator in evidence, so the plan was to black out the building, get in, and engage the kidnappers using flash bangs wherever possible – nonlethal stun grenades that would be devastating indoors.

  The squad was equipped with night vision goggles, offering the men a significant advantage over anyone inside the darkened building. The forty highly seasoned men that were waiting nearby were veterans of countless similar assaults and could be counted on not to make mistakes.

  Still, there was always a chance that they’d overlooked something. That was the constant worry when determining the approach and the tactics to use. They’d counted seven men inside after round-the-clock surveillance, and it was obvious the gang was using the building as living quarters as well as their headquarters. No employees arrived during the day, no deliveries or shipments came or went, so the warehouse was either empty or out of use for commercial purposes – which made sense if it was the staging area for multimillion-dollar kidnappings, which paid the rent better than bags of fertilizer or wholesale gardening supplies, the business registered at that address.

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said and, after checking his earbud, shouldered his way out of the van, night vision goggles in place.

  Briones watched the jiggling greenish image being sent from the sergeant’s helmet camera on a split-screen monitor as he approached his men, who were all similarly equipped: bulletproof vests, NV gea
r, stun grenades, and standard-issue Beretta 9mm pistols and M4 assault rifles. Four of the men were demolitions certified and would be tackling the doors.

  He glanced at the digital readout of the clock next to the console and leaned back, turning to one of the technicians next to him. “Ready to cut the lights?”

  “Yes, sir. On your order.”

  Briones tapped the comm line live. “Sergeant, get moving. I’ll give the signal on the power when you’re inside.”

  The helmet image swept the compound front gate, framed on either side by a high concrete wall and held in place by a length of chain with a padlock, and then an officer carrying bolt cutters knelt by the lock and snipped it off. He stood and pulled the barrier partially open, and the officers darted through, now using hand signals to communicate. Two halogen lights brightened the parking lot from atop a tall metal pole, and the sergeant paused just inside the gate, waiting for them to go out.

  Briones turned to the technician again. “Cut it.”

  The technician murmured into his headset, and two seconds later the parking lot lights went dark.

  The helmet image brightened as the sergeant and his men sprinted to the rear door, another team moving to the front. It was immediately evident both were locked, and after watching the specialists trying to get them open for a half minute of the clock’s relentless countdown, Briones gave a whispered order.

  “Blow them.”

  Fifteen seconds later the charges were in place, the sergeant communicating with his counterpart at the front door via the comm line, and Briones watched as a blinding flash lit the screens and the doors blew inward, the hinges and locks vaporizing from the blasts.

  The sergeant’s camera followed a half-dozen men into the smoking gap, and then they were in a large warehouse, mostly empty except for a few pallets loaded with bags of soil. The men ran to the office structure at the far end of the space as the front door team burst through, and then muzzle flashes lit the pitch black from the office doorway.