Revenge of the Assassin

by Russell Blake

  Handcarts wedged between battered cars served all manner of food for the work crowd; the odor of hot dogs and frying mystery meat wafted like a cloud past the bus stop where the young man waited patiently, reading a newspaper by the storefront light while he kept a wary eye on the bar across the street – a known hangout of the enforcers who worked for the Familia Morenos cartel, and a poor choice to frequent unless suicide was high on one’s wish list.

  Juárez had earned the dubious distinction of being the most dangerous city on the planet that wasn’t in an active war zone. Fully forty percent of the population had evacuated over the prior five years, while the Sinaloa cartel and the Juárez cartel battled over the trafficking hub that led into the United States. The murder rate was a minimum of eight deaths per day, with bursts of executions during an active conflict easily driving the number into the double digits.

  The armed wing of the Juárez cartel, La Linea, comprised former police officers and military specialists from the Mexican Special Forces, as well as street gang members. La Linea was especially feared, even among the routinely savage Juárez crew, because of their penchant for decapitations and mutilation. They had borrowed a page from the U.S.-backed regime in El Salvador during the Eighties, which regularly left the mutilated bodies of its victims in prominent areas as a warning to would-be rivals, and to keep the population subdued with fear. Hardly a week went by without a grotesquely butchered corpse being left in a central location. The papers had grown so accustomed to the slaughter that there was a sense of boredom to the daily stories of slayings and beheadings – it took a significant event to make a dent in the jaded sense of apathy that floated over the doomed city like a haze.

  For the past two years, Sinaloa had battled it out in the city streets with the Juárez cartel, culminating in Sinaloa having appeared to have won the war after a particularly bloody massacre that claimed the lives of over fifty people in a single day. But other rivals to the throne quickly threw their hats in and joined the killing frenzy in a bid for power, and the result was that the town had remained a death zone, with a population that didn’t venture out at night for fear of armed onslaughts. The cartel factions also augmented their income by conducting kidnappings and murder-for-hire, as well as slavery, car theft, fraud, burglary…anything that could be done at the point of a gun for profit, making life in Juárez a kind of living hell for the innocent residents who were the natural prey for the criminal syndicates.

  El Rey watched as groups of tired females clung to each other while waiting for their bus. In addition to all its other sins, Juárez had earned a position of disrepute for the serial murder of thousands of young women, attracted to the city by the promise of work in the multitude of factories that were the region’s only saving grace.

  Multinational conglomerates had discovered the value of assembling their North American products on the border, leveraging the dirt-cheap labor cost in Mexico to create windfall profitability – all part of the miracle of globalization. But the workforce, which was mainly young women, had drawn predators in the form of organized serial killing gangs, in which the police and the local power elite were strongly suspected. Even after the official four hundred or so cases had been solved and attributed to bus drivers, street gangs and deviant killers, the unofficial estimate remained closer to five thousand, with mass graves their legacy. The government had been quick to proclaim the spree over seven years earlier, and yet women still disappeared with regularity, and the word on the street was that the killers were still active.

  At one time, the city had boomed to an estimated two million population, but the constant violence had driven many from the region, and it had shrunk by seven hundred thousand. Blocks of abandoned homes and businesses abounded, mute testament to the impact of the cartel warfare that defined the area.

  With the United States just across the river, Juárez remained a critical junction for drug trafficking, and so it was that new contenders continued to move into town to take on the entrenched players. The Morenos gang had appeared eighteen months before with a splash, and had immediately begun a campaign of systematic brutality that rivaled the most brazen and vicious in Mexico. The town was divided up into the equivalent of fiefdoms where the local warlords reigned supreme, with the most dangerous to Aranas’ Sinaloa group run by ‘Chacho’ Morenos, one of the most influential power players in the region, having forged a coalition with Aranas’ sworn enemies in the Zetas cartel.

  None of which particularly bothered the young man, who was himself one of the earth’s most dangerous predators. El Rey had spent ten days in Juárez so far, plying the street criminals with cash to gain their confidence, buying drugs and a few weapons, which were both in plentiful supply. He’d maintained an aura of the underworld by claiming to be a high-end male prostitute for rich gringos, which his new movie-star features lent credence to, as did his choice of clothing, deliberately selected to maximize his flamboyant cover. He knew from experience that prostitutes were largely invisible in criminal circles, and so quickly had entre to many establishments that would have immediately questioned a young, fit male who wasn’t in the cartel game.

  He’d learned that the second in command of the Familia Morenos liked to let off steam in the bar across the street, which was flanked by cars filled with armed sentries, as well as several police cars. Juárez was a city where money bought influence, including police guards to diminish the appeal of an assault. El Rey knew that there were thousands of soldiers in the town chartered with keeping the peace, but until recently they’d been strangely unable to locate the Sinaloa cartel’s outposts. That had all changed when the new regime had come into the government, and now Sinaloa was on the run, forced to keep a low profile. This had helped the Morenos solidify power in what would have been an impossible way just six short months earlier, when Sinaloa had maintained a stranglehold on the streets. Now the Juárez situation was in flux, and the Morenos’ ascent had emboldened other groups to come to town and challenge one and all for a piece of territory.

  El Rey understood why this was an impossible circumstance for Aranas – it called into question his authority and created competitors in what had been a relatively stable corridor. The entire situation had been exacerbated by the armed forces cracking down on his group, telegraphing the message that it was open season on Sinaloa. In the delicate world of cartel power, any hint of disequilibrium invited in rivals, which was exactly what had happened. Aranas made five million dollars every evening in Juárez alone, so El Rey completely understood the reasoning of wanting his Morenos problem taken care of while he was available.

  A dark green Escalade rolled up to the bar and stopped in front. Five men got out, all wearing cowboy hats and windbreakers, which hardly concealed their weapons. The smallest of the group was his objective for the evening – the number two man in the Morenos organization, Paco Aceviere. He would know where Chacho was hiding out, which would have to be nearby. You didn’t try to take over one of the gateways for narcotics smuggling into the U.S. on a remote basis. He had to be close by, so all that remained was to find out where and come up with a plan to exterminate him – a chore El Rey was more than confident he could undertake in short order.

  He’d been watching the coming and going at the bar, and now that he had visual confirmation that the Familia Morenos’ captain was going in for a drink or three, it was just a matter of time and patience until the man led him to his boss. He toyed with the key fob in his shirt pocket and glanced down the block at the brown Ford Taurus he’d parked there hours ago. At least nobody had stolen his ride – that was a plus.

  El Rey flipped the paper over to the sports section and began reading the coverage of the hotly contested soccer matches that were the nation’s fascination. It was a warm evening, and he had all night. Nobody gave him a second glance, other than an occasional older man curious about his wares. If you only knew, my friend, he thought to himself and smiled. It was going to be another long evening, he could tell, but the e
nd was in sight.

  ~

  Don Aranas answered the small cell phone the following afternoon and listened impassively as El Rey requested several items. He snapped his fingers and gestured, and one of his guards hurried to his side with a pen and sheet of paper. Aranas carefully wrote down the unfamiliar combination of letters, and then agreed that he would call back as soon as he had arranged for the desired items. Aranas lived in a world where anything could be had, for a price, no matter how exotic or esoteric. Still, after he hung up, he studied his note and shook his head.

  This wouldn’t be easy. Then again, it was only money. The sooner he located the goods, the sooner one of his big headaches would be over.

  He considered the errand and then placed another call, to the man who supplied his troops with whatever they needed. He would know where to acquire the assassin’s necessary tools. Of that, Aranas was sure. After a few minutes of back and forth, he disconnected. Nothing in life worth doing was cheap, and this had been no exception.

  The estimated delivery time was three days, allowing for transatlantic shipment.

  Aranas called El Rey back and relayed the news. They would arrange for pick up at one of his facilities in Juárez.

  When Aranas hung up, it was with a sense of satisfaction. His nemesis would cease to exist before the week was done.

  Five million was a bargain.

  Chapter 12

  Music boomed from the patio of the expansive ranch house sixteen miles from the outskirts of Ciudad Juárez. A seven-foot-high wall encircled the large central compound, which held a dozen SUVs, a stable, a trio of guest casitas, and the seven thousand square foot central hacienda. Dusk had transitioned inevitably to night, lending the surrounding desert a balmy tranquility after the sun had baked it relentlessly throughout the day.

  Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, which was equipped with the latest motion sensing technology, along with pressure sensors and powerful spotlights that could illuminate the area around the ranch for two hundred yards in every direction. It would be impossible to creep up on the location without being detected, if not by the sophisticated electronics, then certainly by the armed police who guarded the road from town as a paid courtesy to the ranch’s owner.

  The men were more relaxed than usual, their ongoing war against their enemy, the Sinaloa cartel, having taken a turn for the better. Sinaloa had been devastated by a series of clashes with the army over the last week and were licking their wounds. Still, nobody put down their weapons, and the guards held their guns at the ready. While it was unlikely that an attack was imminent, one never knew.

  High pitched squeals of drunken female laughter mingled with the festive tune emanating from the house; the nearest sentries exchanged knowing glances. Their boss enjoyed a party as much as anyone, and tonight looked to be another late one. A car with four of the freshest local girls had rolled up an hour earlier, and their patron, Chacho, had inspected the talent with approval as they’d strutted towards the house following a cursory frisking by the security detail. The head of the Morenos cartel was renowned for his appetites, and his appreciation for the finer things in life had only increased as he’d gotten older.

  Tonight he had reason for celebration. The army units in the area had seized another shipment of Sinaloa cartel methamphetamines bound for the border, delivering another black eye to his competitor, as well as costing it sixteen of its best men in a rout that had ended with all the cartel personnel dead or wounded. At this rate, even the seemingly infinitely powerful Aranas would have to give some ground, enabling Chacho to solidify his claim on Juárez and use it as a leverage to further his ambitions in the states to the south. He, better than most, knew you were either eating, or being eaten, and he was determined to emerge as one of the top leaders in the cartels that effectively ruled Mexico.

  Chacho playfully spanked one of the young women on the bottom as she squeezed past him into the house. It was good to be king, he thought, taking a swig on the five hundred dollar bottle of tequila he brandished as he slammed the heavy rustic pine door closed.

  El Rey pulled cautiously away from the police checkpoint, his silenced Ruger P95PR 9mm pistol still hot from the rapid series of deadly shots required to dispatch the four officers. He knew from the satellite imagery that the ranch was a mile and a half further down the rutted dirt road a hundred yards up on his right. He’d already removed the brake lights from the old Ford so they wouldn’t illuminate at an inopportune time, and he shut off the headlights before he made the turn, his eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom as he cautiously stole down the dusty track.

  When the lights of the house came into view over a small rise, he calculated the distance and kept driving for another thirty seconds, then pulled silently to a stop after carefully performing a three point turn, so the car was prepared for a fast getaway. He was approximately five hundred yards away, which allowed for a decent margin of error on accuracy. With the music booming from the compound over the desert scrub, he wasn’t overly concerned about making noise. He could hear the blare through his open window as he studied the light wind’s tugging on a ribbon he’d tied to his antenna. It sounded like quite a fiesta. He quickly climbed out of the car and opened the trunk, pausing before removing three compact tubes and setting two of them on the ground. He raised the third to his shoulder and sighted on the front gate, squinting to adjust his focus.

  The first rocket streaked to the opening and detonated, destroying everything within forty feet with its thermobaric blast. He dropped the smoking tube and grabbed another. The second projectile detonated inside the house, as did the third, likely killing everyone inside. The pair of five thousand liter steel propane storage tanks adjacent to the house finished the job when they ignited in a massive fireball that erupted several hundred feet into the air, with a boom audible as far away as downtown Juárez.

  Pausing for only a moment to watch the house engulfed in orange flames, El Rey carefully placed a tarot card bearing the familiar image of the King of Swords amongst the rocket launching tubes, taking care to wedge it so that it wouldn’t blow away in the breeze. Satisfied with the result, he hurried back behind the wheel and tore off down the road in the direction he’d come. By the time any of the surviving guards could give chase he’d be long gone, and he was confident their enthusiasm for pursuit would be short-lived now that the head had been cut off the snake. Chacho was nothing more than an oily smudge in the crater that had been his hacienda, and with his black soul’s journey to hell had also gone his eponymous cartel’s fragile dominance.

  The Russian-manufactured RSgH-1 rockets hadn’t been easy to get in time, but Aranas’ contacts had been able to locate several that had somehow walked away from a Russian armory a year earlier. A private jet had transported them from Europe to Mexico, and the rest was simple logistics. He needed every shot to count, and his experience with the RSgH-1 had been that they were accurate at far greater distances than the more common RPG-7, even though the Russian devices were much harder to find. Well worth the extra effort, in his opinion. Normally, he would have gone through one of his regular contacts in southern Mexico, but in the interests of time he’d chartered Aranas with locating them.

  He sped down the final hundred yards of the track and took the turn back onto the larger paved road, effectively flying by the dead police at the checkpoint. He wasn’t worried about an innocent vehicle discovering the cops – it was a rural highway, and in Ciudad Juárez, there was literally no chance that anyone who didn’t have to be on the road would be driving after dark. Still, he knew that it wouldn’t be too much longer before they were found by army troops heading to the ranch to see what had caused the explosions. By that time he’d be nearing the dirt airstrip where his escape plan waited. El Rey had arranged for a private plane to take him to Ciudad Obregón, where he would lay low for a few days until he could coordinate the logistics for the next phase of his mission – the execution of the Mexican president.

  ~


  Dinah was cooking in the kitchen when Cruz made it through the door, tired after another long day at the office. He was in plainclothes, it being Saturday, and even though he was only supposed to put in a short session he’d quickly gotten buried and nine hours had flown by. It was an occupational hazard that Dinah had grown accustomed to, although she didn’t like it. But she knew Cruz wouldn’t change, and so had incorporated the routine into their lives.

  “I’m sorry, mi amor. I don’t know how that always happens,” he said as he entered the kitchen and planted a kiss on her exposed neck. She was shredding chicken she’d cooked. “What are you making? It smells wonderful.”

  “Enchiladas mole. I’ve been working on the sauce for hours. I kind of figured when you called at one and said it would only be a little longer that you’d get stuck for the rest of the day. It almost never fails,” Dinah said as she moved to the sink to wash her hands.

  “I know. I wish I could lay off some of the paperwork on a subordinate, but unfortunately it all requires my signature…”

  She turned to him and threw her arms around his neck and drew her to him, kissing him passionately for half a minute. His transgression had clearly been forgiven.

  Eventually they came up for air, and he smiled at her.

  “You make the best mole I’ve ever tasted. Really. It’s always a treat,” Cruz said.

  “You better say that. You’re going to be eating it for a long time. I hope you’re telling the truth…”

  “I have no reason to lie. Other than self-preservation.”