From the plants at the side of the deck, the dead guardsâ radios crackled with panicked orders as he moved through the smoke to the fire pit, where Salazarâs corpse lay sprawled face down on the white cantera in a pool of blood. He hauled on a shoulder and flipped the body onto its back, then fished in his pants for the tarot card that was his signature. Carefully balancing the image of a crowned man holding a sword on the cartel kingpinâs mangled face, he took two pictures with the little camera before returning it to his pants pocket. He reached down and stuck the card in Salazarâs gaping mouth so that he could be sure it wouldnât blow away during the ensuing action. Peering through the billowing clouds that largely obscured the house, he pulled the tab on his last smoke grenade and tossed it onto the sand, enveloping the beach with an impenetrable haze.
A hail of bullets tore a chunk of stone from the deck a few feet from him; he swiveled in a crouch and fired a few short bursts from his silenced assault rifle in the direction of the barking male voices. Another bullet ricocheted off the fire pit, signaling that it was time to make his departure. The surviving guards from the front of the house were closing in, and even he was reluctant to take on over a dozen armed men in a wide-open gunfight.
He unclipped a final grenade from his backpack chest strap and pulled the pin, flipping it roughly twenty feet towards the house, and then unclipped the MTAR-21, emptied the magazine in the direction of the approaching guards and tossed it aside, satisfied with the screams of pain from their direction. He wrenched the night vision goggles off his head and threw them as far as he could towards the house before turning to run for the beach. The grenadeâs concussion delivered yet another delay for his pursuers â the shrapnel from the explosion would stop any chase long enough for him to get a thirty second lead, which was all he needed. He sprinted to the water line across the luminescent sand and without hesitation dived into the mild surf, swimming energetically as he strained towards the mouth of the cove.
A beam of light played across the water from the beach, and he sensed bullets shredding through the waves around him as he plowed further from shore. Counting to himself, he swam submerged for twenty seconds at a time, coming up for gulps of air before plunging into the safety of the deep.
Once he was past the rocks at the mouth of the cove he angled to the right, and within a few moments reached a slimy outcropping of rocks a hundred yards from the angry killers on the shore. He fumbled around in the dark until he found the smooth fiberglass side of the black jet ski heâd secured there the night before and hurriedly tore the camouflage fabric from its sleek hull and freed it from the rocks. The tide had risen to the point where the small watercraft slid easily onto the waves, and within seconds the engine fired and he tore off into the sea, jumping easily over the surf that roiled atop the reef line.
A few bursts of distant rifle fire chattered across the water but he was already out of range â the shooting was little more than a lament from the thwarted security. Savoring the adrenaline rush as he flew over the small swells at forty-five miles per hour, he reached beneath his chin and pulled the soaking balaclava over his face, jettisoning it into the sea as he plotted a course south, where a vehicle waited on a lonely stretch of beach for his nocturnal arrival.
Tonight would be the stuff of legends, he knew. In a business where money flowed like water, heâd just pulled off the impossible in a spectacular and flamboyant manner. After this, heâd be able to command whatever fee he wanted, and there would be an international waiting list of eager clients. Heâd left the card in Salazarâs maw to seal the deal and continue to build his reputation. It had started years ago, as an idea heâd gotten from an article heâd read about the American war in the Middle East, where the kill squads assigned playing cards to each target they were hunting. Heâd liked the idea, but had taken it one step further. When heâd begun his career as contract killer, heâd made a point of leaving a tarot card with a depiction of the King of Swords on it, and heâd adopted a nickname that now struck fear into the hearts of those he targeted.
King of Swords. El Rey de Espadas. Or as the press had taken to calling him, El Rey.
It might have been a little melodramatic, but nobody was laughing now that his legacy of impossible kills was the stuff of front page headlines. Not since the days of Carlos the Jackal had an assassin gained such notoriety, and heâd carefully selected the contracts heâd taken for maximum publicity value, in addition to the money. Heâd quickly developed a reputation as a phantom, an invisible man â a contract arranged with him was as good as putting a bullet in the targetâs brain at the time the deal was negotiated.
El Rey was a star, a legend, and even his clients approached him with a certain trepidation when they required his services. These were generally men who butchered whole communities to make a point, but who deferred to El Rey out of respect.
Heâd earned that respect the hard way, by taking the sanctions that were considered impossible and then delivering. In his circles, respect was earned at the edge of a knife blade or the barrel of a gun. It was blood currency. And now, he could name his price. Tonightâs logistics had cost him just under a hundred thousand dollars â the contract price had been two and a half million. Not a bad eveningâs work. But after this, his rate would start at four million and quickly increase from there, depending on the level of difficulty.
Off to his left, the lights of Punta Mitaâs expansive coastline sparkled in the overcast night. Some of the homes along that stretch of beach cost well over five million dollars, he knew. Rich Gringos and successful narcotraficantes were the only ones who could afford them, and with a little luck, soon he would be part of the elite that called the area home. But heâd need to do a few more jobs before he could hang up his tail and horns and call it quits, and he was in no hurry to retire. El Rey loved the adrenaline rush of the kill; the more planning involved and the greater the level of challenge, the better.
He glanced down at the dimly illuminated compass heâd mounted beneath the handles and made a small adjustment to his course, musing at the direction his life had taken as he sliced through the inky water, effortlessly making his escape into the warm tropical night.
Excerpt from The Geronimo Breach
Russell Blake
(c) 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Russell Blake
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact [email protected].
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Bullets peppered the dirt around Al and his partner. They instinctively returned fire, the barrels of their automatic rifles pulsing white hot from burst after burst of armor piercing slugs. Thick smoke belched from a crippled station wagon lying on its side by the mouth of the rural alley where theyâd taken cover. The glow of burning fuel intermingled with the unmistakable stench of seared flesh, creating a nauseating haze. A slug ricocheted off the peeling wall, gouging a chunk of brick from the dilapidated surface.
A flickering of illumination from ancient streetlights succumbed to the gloom of late evening, casting otherworldly shadows over the rustic thoroughfare â now transformed to a killing zone.
White noise and static shrieked from their radios â not that they could distinguish anything in the cacophony of the firefight. The concussion of gunfire had devastated their hearing, and the ringing from tinnitus obliterated all sounds besides the percussive chatter of their guns.
Squinting down their sights at the blurs of motion on the rooftops of the bombed-out buildings across the street, they gave each other a knowing glance before squeezing off the last of their rounds. They werenât
going to make it.
This was a deathtrap; theyâd been boxed in with no hope of escape. Help was at least fifteen minutes out, assuming their base had received the solitary frantic distress call before the radio had been taken out. It didnât look good.
The incoming fire escalated to a hail of screaming death. Rifle ammo depleted, they un-holstered their army-issue .45 pistols and fired intermittently in the direction of their attackers, to no obvious effect. They exchanged panicked looks â this wasnât supposed to happen; just a routine patrol in a secure area with no reason to expect hostiles, much less heavily-armed ones intent on slaughtering them. It was supposed to be a cakewalk.
The firing pin snicked on Daveâs gun as he reflexively squeezed the trigger, again and again, even after his magazine was spent. Al elbowed him back into the fight. Dazed, he stared at the weapon in his hand, before dropping the handgun and frantically fumbling for the scarred knife handle protruding from his belt; he almost had the serrated edge free from its sheath when his head exploded in a blast of bloody emulsion.
Al spat out the essence of his mutilated partner and expended his last pistol rounds in a defiant salvo. He unsheathed his trusty blade for the final reckoning.
Shouts in an unfamiliar tongue drifted from beyond the dense smoke at the alleyâs mouth. A bright flash momentarily blinded him as a flare bounced down the length of the cobblestone passage before coming to rest a few yards from his now trembling body.
Four figures emerged from the gloom, cautiously approaching the soldierâs hiding place through the fog of cordite and burning oil, their rifles trained on his blood-spattered profile. Pointing at the ludicrously inadequate combat knife clutched in Alâs shaking hand, the tallest of the bearded, turbaned warriors barked a guttural cackle. He handed his firearm to the figure beside him and from beneath his filthy robe withdrew a gleaming, viciously curved blade as long as his arm. He sliced at the air with it, savoring Alâs horrified gaze as it whistled its grim tune. The turbaned warrior grinned maliciously and moved forward.
The angel of death had arrived, and it was time for Al to die.
He shielded his head with his arms, all thoughts of attacking with the knife now gone. The sword hacked off his left hand. Gagging anguish flooded his senses as he watched his arterial blood spray wildly from the stump.
The bearded executioner smirked.
Sobbing, the last thing Al registered as the scimitar descended to sever his head was a bloodcurdling scream from his executioner; a victory yell as old as the god-forsaken hills of the foul dustbowl that had claimed his mortality.
Al bolted awake, the image of the flashing blade still vivid, even as the specter dissolved into a muddy, waking awareness.
What the fuck?
His chest heaved from the adrenaline rush triggered by the brutal nightmare, his heart trip-hammering in his chest as he shook off the bitter remnants of the dream state. He sluggishly scanned his surroundings; dimly visible silhouettes of furniture offered a quiet reassurance he wasnât anywhere near a gunfight in some non-specific shithole, or being decapitated by a malevolent mullah straight out of central casting. Jesus, that had been realistic. He cleared his throat, wiping the sweat from his face with a damp hand.
A battered air conditioner wheezed from its position on the wall, barely denting the heat and humidity in the squalid room. The bed sheets beneath him exuded an odor of sour perspiration and years of marginal laundering. A carâs un-muffled exhaust roared down the street outside the window; the moth-eaten curtains providing only slim insulation from the racket.
Still, it was better than being beheaded in a mud-hole.
Al tried to sit up but was sapped of energy. Pausing to muster his strength, he registered a tickling on the skin of his right leg, as though ghostly fingers were brushing at the hair just below his knee. He groped for the small bedside lamp on the table by his head and after several seconds found the power switch on the cord hanging down the side. A weak yellow light flickered on and he gingerly pulled the threadbare sheet off his naked lower body.
He froze.
Two claws gnashed at the air over the greenish black carapace of a highly agitated scorpion. The arched tail lashed at Al, its venomous stinger fully exposed. He went rigid, his skin instantly covered in a film of clammy sweat. The poisonous insect became more agitated by this physiological change and, enraged, it scurried up Alâs thigh and plunged its deadly barb into the soft, exposed flesh of his groin.
Al thrashed to full wakefulness, clutching his calf in agony, expunging the scorpion dream as he dealt with this all-too-real distress. The pain was blinding as the large muscle of his lower leg cramped into a rigid ball, taking his breath away as he pawed at it, trying to persuade it to release. His back shuddered with spasms from the effort of bending nearly double â he wasnât exactly in prime shape for gymnastics and the effort of stretching to loosen the knot had pinched his sciatica, compounding the already excruciating discomfort from his traumatized lower leg.
Harsh experience had taught him to maintain a grip on his toes no matter what and exert steady pressure on the Achilles tendon, pulling and coaxing the contracted muscle until it relaxed. If he surrendered to his backâs protestations the cramp would worsen and the ordeal would go on seemingly forever â either way there would be pain, garnished with even more pain.
Jesus Christ. What kind of fresh hell was this anyway? Why him?
A blurry flash of the prior eveningâs debauchery intruded into his labored calisthenics. He vaguely recalled lurching up the stairs to his dingy apartment swigging the last of a cheap bottle of coconut rum after many hours of drunken gambling at the neighborhood watering hole, and the loud argument with the bartender about soccer, transvestites and how the Chinese were Satanâs henchmen but the rest was a blank, with the exception of copious quantities of alcohol. The memory of the rotgut triggered his gag reflex, filling his mouth with bitter saliva as he choked down vomit.
The spasm in his leg eventually loosened and he cautiously slid his legs off the bed and stood up. So far, so good. He kicked an empty bottle out of his path and leaned against the wall, stretching his hamstring while he massaged his back with his free hand. Hopeful the worst was over, Al limped to the coffee table in the studio apartmentâs sitting area and collapsed onto the sofa, dimly aware of something wet adhering to the side of his head. He reached up and peeled off the offending item; a slab of congealed lard and dough.
Pepperoni. Nice. How did this get any worse?
His head swam through the waves of dizziness that assaulted him and bile seeped out of his nose. What time had he gotten in? That heâd passed out was a given â meaning today had to be either Friday, Saturday or Sunday. He had a strict rule, or at least a semi-strict rule, against getting obliterated on weeknights so it had to be one of those. He was pretty sure it wasnât a Monday. He desperately hoped it was the weekend â there was no way he could make it in to work in this condition.
The luminescent wall clock above the TV read 5:30. Probably a.m. given the dearth of daylight. So maybe heâd gotten three hours of sleep. The nightmares were no doubt a result of plummeting blood sugar and dehydration â it felt like heâd spent the night with the devilâs penis in his mouth. He really had to stop overdoing this.
Soon. After he got through the present, that is. Right now he was in no shape to make rash decisions.
He groped through the accumulated trash on the scarred table surface until he found what felt like a cigarette packet.
Empty. Of course. It would be, wouldnât it?
Rooting around in the accumulated refuse, his hand bumped a cold metal ashtray reeking of a rancid blend of carbon, alcohol and nicotine. He fished around among the butts, trying to find something only half smoked.
Great. They were all soaked.
The stink caused him to retch again. Now he could add vomiting on himself to his pre-dawn party
tricks. Gagging, Al struggled upright and staggered toward the dim outline of the bathroom door, hands fumbling for support. He switched on the light and was transfixed by his reflection in the hazy mirror.
Even for him, this was a new low.
Red, bleary eyes had the bleak thousand yard stare of a chain-gang prisoner. Tomato paste crusted around his right temple created the impression heâd been in a collision, as did the now hardened mozzarella flecking his cheek. What was left of his hair was matted into a greasy clump. He resembled nothing so much as a puffer fish that had been hit in the face with a brick. Several times.
At least he still had his health.
Al crumpled onto the floor in front of the toilet and grabbed the cracked rim for support before explosively spewing the nightâs excesses into the grimy bowl. He was afraid to look too closely.
He smelled blood.
The cramp threatened to revisit his leg as he heaved and it was all he could do to keep from crying in frustration at the accumulated misery of a body that had completely betrayed him. The spell passed. His hand reached for toilet paper to blot his mouth and instead found the coarse cardboard of an empty roll. Perfect.
He dried his face with the filthy bath mat, absently wondering whether it would wash clean, and depressed the toilet lever, anxious to flush the toxic soup from the prior nightâs episode down the pipe. He heard a snap rather than the satisfying flushing sound heâd hoped for. The rusty rod in the tank had broken again; his temporary fix with fishing line and super glue having obviously proved inadequate.
A glance at his watch confirmed it was Friday the 29th. Shit. He had to make it into the office. There was no choice. He was already in deep weeds due to chronic absenteeism.
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