Blood of the Assassin

by Russell Blake

  Cruz’s tone arrested any protest the young man was going to make; instead, he lifted the phone and placed another call, then turned away from them as he had a hushed discussion. When he turned back, he gave his most winning professional fake smile and hung up with a noisy decisiveness.

  “One moment, sir. Someone will be with you shortly.”

  “You have two minutes to get someone who can open the room, and then we’re going to go up and shoot the lock off,” Cruz informed him, trying not to mimic the man’s grin, which took a sudden vacation as he registered Cruz’s words.

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary...,” the young man started.

  “Two minutes.”

  The receptionist lifted the phone again and had another whispered discussion.

  Cruz was just about ready to make good on his threat when an imposing figure in a dark gray suit approached him with a neutral smile on his face. Cruz absently wondered where they taught these wonks such phony expressions, then decided it didn’t matter when the man launched into his act.

  “Gentlemen. My name is Antonio Arabiera. I’m the manager here. How may I be of assistance today?”

  “Unless you can open the door of room 321, you can get someone to meet us there. We’re going up and we need to get in. This is an emergency,” Cruz said.

  “I...this is most irregular. Our guests have an expectation of privacy. Unless you have a warrant...”

  Cruz took a step towards the man, invading his space, and put a hand on his shoulder, then guided him away from the counter to spare him embarrassment.

  “This is an emergency situation. Either you open the door now, or I will make your life miserable, do you read me? That’s my wife in there, and she’s in danger. Now be a nice man and call housekeeping or whoever and have them meet us up there, or you’ll wish you’d never been born, and the rest of your guests will get an experience they’ll be talking about on the internet for years,” Cruz murmured, for all appearances having a friendly discussion of matters requiring discretion.

  Arabiera wasn’t the manager because he was stupid, and he wasted no time in finding a key card that would open every room in the building.

  “I’ll accompany you gentlemen. This way,” he said with a hand gesture, then began walking across the lobby to the entry to the room wing. Cruz and Briones followed, Briones trying to contain the smile forming on his lips as their boots tromped along the oversized marble slab floor.

  When they reached the room, Cruz knocked on the door, his sense of unease growing as they waited for a response. After thirty seconds, he knocked again, this time longer, his knuckles reddening.

  Nothing.

  “Open it,” Cruz commanded, and Arabiera acquiesced. He slipped the keycard into the slot and then pushed the door open, beckoning to the two officers to have at it.

  Cruz led the way, Briones in tow, Arabiera waiting outside, glancing around nervously lest any of his guests spot the intrusion.

  Fifteen seconds later, Cruz and Briones were back.

  “Seal off the room. Don’t touch anything. I’ll have a crime scene squad here within half an hour,” Cruz ordered, his heart thrashing like a caged animal fighting for escape. The breakfast tray on the floor and the luggage still in the closet told the whole story. He didn’t need to see anything else. He turned to Briones.

  “Get them here, now. And put out an APB on her. Circulate the description. It’s a long shot, but we might find someone who saw something,” Cruz said woodenly, on automatic pilot as his mind churned, a million miles away. Cruz flashed back to the last time he’d dealt with a kidnapping – the last time he had ever seen his wife and daughter alive. A vision he’d stuffed into the nether reaches of his memory forced itself to the forefront – his baby daughter and wife’s heads in a box, and his screaming blind rage at the cosmos as he slammed his fists into his desk, over and over and over, until his staff had to forcibly restrain him for his own safety, two fractures ballooning his left hand.

  It had been a dark time; the kind of period that drove men mad, or to drink, in a feeble attempt to erase the unthinkable for a blissfully empty few hours of oblivion. The thought that he would lose the only other woman he had ever loved in the same way almost paralyzed him. It was the realization that only he stood between Dinah and the unspeakable that stopped him as he teetered on the edge of the abyss, the dark looking back into his soul, taking his measure, staining him indelibly, as it always did.

  Cruz paced as Briones made his calls, thoughts whirling, apportioning blame and promising revenge in the same moment, a tiny voice inside screaming in protest as he struggled to maintain an outward calm. They had her. You know how this ends. You’ve seen it before. Your family paid the price, but it wasn’t enough. You had to keep baiting the bear, swatting it on the nose, daring it, goading it to action. Your career, your drive to be so different, so special, so superior, has killed everything you ever held dear, and it still wasn’t enough. Never enough.

  And now they had Dinah.

  His hand dropped automatically to his Glock, seeking reassurance in the familiar shape, its bulk comforting, not least because it had spit death at those who tried to harm him only hours before, equalizing, killing with brutal efficiency, its purpose unambiguous, clean and clear. As his fingers found the grip and stroked it as tenderly as a lover, he was consumed with only one thought.

  They will pay for this, mi amor. Whatever they do or have done, they will pay tenfold.

  I am justice, and I will prevail. And in doing so I will extract a terrible price.

  Whatever happens, they will pay.

  Chapter 26

  El Rey stood impatiently in the lobby of the office building, studying the now dozen heavily armed Federales in a state of high alert, as he waited for his identification card to be validated by an anonymous computer somewhere upstairs. On his prior visit, security had been relaxed, with a quick, cursory check and a wave through. Now the officers were behaving as though the building was filled with gold bars and he was a thief.

  Eventually the computer gave the okay, and the guard handed him back his ID and gestured to the elevator. He pulled the lanyard that dangled from the card over his head and waited for the doors to open, the hair on the back of his neck prickling from the room full of eyes staring at him. When the elevator arrived he pushed a button and then exhaled a small sigh of relief when it ascended, carrying him away from the trigger-happy monkeys in the lobby.

  When he arrived at the command center floor he stepped into a kind of controlled mayhem, the energy of the place completely different than it had been before. Dark glares greeted his arrival, but he’d expected the reception, so they didn’t faze him. What surprised him was how grim everyone was.

  He walked across the common workspace towards Cruz’s office but was intercepted by Briones before he’d made it halfway there. The lieutenant blocked his way.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m working with this task force, remember? You know, the expert sent by CISEN? Your best hope in the world of catching the assassin before he drills your Chinese dignitary? Ringing any bells?”

  “What do you want?”

  El Rey noticed the tension just beneath the skin of the lieutenant’s face. Something was wrong. “To see your glorious leader. Now get out of my way.”

  “He’s occupied right now. Busy. You can tell me whatever you have for him.”

  “I don’t think so. I want to talk to the big man, not his lap dog.”

  Briones bristled, then choked down his anger. The assassin was just trying to goad him into an explosion. It was a game, and he wasn’t going to play it – he wouldn’t give the murderous prick the satisfaction. A smirk twisted his lips.

  “Have you recovered from the collision? I heard you suffered brain damage or something. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  “Speaking of brain damage, what are you doing to catch the German, besides wasting my time when I’ve come to see your bo
ss?” El Rey asked.

  “None of your business. But as I told you, he’s busy, so I’m handling all of his duties until he can free up.”

  “Not good enough. Now get out of my way, or I’ll move you.”

  Briones stepped back and regarded the assassin. “What is it with you? Much as I’d love for you to try, after what’s happened today, I’m surprised you’d even show your face here. In case you haven’t picked up on it, the mood towards cartel killers isn’t at its most forgiving right now.”

  El Rey paused, eyes narrowing. “What happened today? You lost me.”

  “Ah, I keep forgetting. You’re not in the loop. This morning, three cartel gunmen tried to kill the captain. They failed, but it looks like they grabbed his wife, too. So he’s a little preoccupied, you could say. Much as I’m sure you believe everyone lives and breathes to serve your needs, it’s not the case. He’s got his hands full today, so for the last time, what the hell are you doing here and what do you want?”

  El Rey nodded. “Hmm. No wonder. So that’s why all the additional security. I had no idea. Do you know which cartel, just out of curiosity?”

  “What’s it to you which one of your scumbag employers tried to knock him off? Why – you want to offer to do the job for them and collect a bonus?” Briones spoke as though explaining photosynthesis to a five-year-old.

  “No, you dolt. It’s because I still have extensive contacts, even though I’m out of the game. And I’m curious which group would raise the stakes to the level that they would try to take Cruz out. That would bring a lot of heat for no good purpose. Seems counter-productive, is all. They’re in the business of making money, so this is a little out of character.”

  “Well, Mister Curious, it’s the worst of the bunch. Los Zetas. And it’s unclear as to why they would be suddenly gunning for him, although I would guess that he’s at the top of every cartel’s kill list because of his position.”

  “I’m not so sure that’s true. He would just be replaced by someone else, so it wouldn’t solve anything.”

  “You’re wrong. It was them, and their intentions were obvious. Hard to mistake three armed hit men trying to gun you down.”

  “And you say they have his wife?”

  Briones realized his error – he’d talked too much. It was time to do some damage control. “That’s none of your affair. It has nothing to do with catching the German.”

  “Are you really so dim that you believe that the leader of our little group having been attacked and his wife kidnapped isn’t going to affect the effort to find Rauschenbach? Or are you telling me that you think he’s going to remain unaffected? That the hunt for the assassin will get a hundred percent of his attention?”

  Briones regarded El Rey with curiosity, in spite of his hatred. “What’s it to you, anyway? I didn’t get the impression that you cared whether we got him or not.”

  “I care because this is my assignment, and it was made clear to me that I was to do everything I could to stop Rauschenbach. If your part of the effort is distracted by personal problems, that will affect everyone, including me. Frankly, I’d just as soon not have to work with any of you – you’re about as effective as homeopathy, but apparently CISEN wants to play nice and include you, so I’m stuck in a position I’m not thrilled with.”

  “Why don’t you just quit? Do us all a favor.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “What does that mean?”

  El Rey peered over Briones’ shoulder at Cruz’s door. “Nothing. I need to talk to your boss. When will he be available? And please spare me the bit about talking to you. I need to discuss some issues about the site, and he was there with me yesterday. You probably haven’t even been there yet, am I right? So talking to you would be about as useful as talking to a rock.”

  Briones hesitated, then put aside his enmity and nodded. “Wait here. I’ll go interrupt him and see when he’ll be available.”

  El Rey watched as Briones hurried to Cruz’s office and disappeared inside, only to return again two minutes later.

  “He’s on a conference call that will probably go on for quite a while. I’ll see that he gets in touch when he’s done. Figure an hour or two.”

  “Great. So the situation is already interfering.”

  “Like I said. He’ll call when he has a free moment.”

  El Rey shrugged and turned, then paused and looked back at Briones. “Just out of curiosity, who’s the ranking Los Zetas honcho in D.F. these days? Used to be El Jaguar, if memory serves. That still the case?”

  “Sounds right.”

  El Rey glanced over his shoulder at the men watching the encounter from behind him.

  “Tell your boss I’ll be waiting for his call. I’m headed out to the site for another look around. I had a few ideas of how to further tighten things up.”

  Briones didn’t answer. The assassin sauntered back to the elevator, and a few moments later the steel cube swallowed him up and some of the tension in the room dissipated. The distinctive ring of Briones’ line sounded from the common room’s work area, and before long the encounter with the assassin was out of his mind as he dealt with a flurry of calls while Cruz coordinated with the team that was investigating Dinah’s disappearance.

  Chapter 27

  Rauschenbach dropped his luggage on the bed and surveyed with relief the room at the upscale apartment hotel he’d checked into for three nights. The trip had been grueling, and he wanted nothing so much as to take a long hot shower to wash away the fish stink – the trawler had been right on time, but it was at least fifty years old, every one of which had been spent as a working fishing boat, which meant that every surface was saturated with the residue of the sea. When he had finally climbed off just before dawn and been spirited ashore in the creaky old scow’s tender, he felt like he’d spent the night in the hold with the cargo of dead shrimp.

  The port had been quiet and his passage unnoticed, but when he found his appointed rendezvous spot for a ride inland to the airport, things had gone awry – the vehicle hadn’t been there. He had waited for an hour, watching the sun come up, but once day had broken he had felt exposed and decided not to wait. There were any number of possible explanations for the car not making it, from a breakdown to an accident, but it was doing him no good to wait in vain.

  There hadn’t been much in the way of transportation in the tiny berg of Puerto Madero, so he was left to fend for himself with the local bus that ran to and from Tapachula, a medium-sized city whose international airport was only six miles from the port.

  He’d found a passable family restaurant that was just opening for the working crowd, and wedged himself into a booth, his gear next to him. Watching the dining room fill, he’d had a friendly conversation with the waitress, who had told him where to catch the bus over his third cup of coffee and assured him that they ran every hour or two.

  The ride had been everything he’d expected, and it had been with considerable relief that he’d arrived at the small airport and made his way to the passenger terminal, where he was informed by an uninterested ticket vendor that the next flight to Mexico City left in three hours. He paid his fare, noting the machine-gun armed soldiers loitering in groups around the building, and after a hurried washing-up in the men’s room, had settled in to wait in the departure lounge, which would have made any bus station in Europe seem lavish by comparison.

  The flight had taken a little over an hour, and when he had arrived in Mexico City he had spent some time in the airport internet café looking for suitable accommodations. He wasn’t worried about his identification – it was indistinguishable from the genuine article, even under close scrutiny. Nobody at the airport security checkpoint in Tapachula had given him a second look, and his passport had been barely glanced at by the ticket agent. He had worried that the lack of an entry stamp would be a problem, but needn’t have – nobody seemed to care.

  The apartment hotel he had found was perfect for his needs – anonymous, large, in
a decent area of town – not inexpensive, but not five star by any means. The sort of place thousands of businessmen stayed in all over the world when their companies assigned them to spend a week somewhere, poring over a sales office’s books or meeting with prospects. Rauschenbach fit the image of his fellow lodgers – shopworn road warriors with ever-diminishing prospects – and was as forgettable as any of them.

  He walked to the window and parted the drapes and found himself looking out over miles of shabby buildings, traffic snarling through the clogged streets four stories below him, laundry hanging on lines, corner markets advertising cheap beer and artery-hardening snacks. He exhaled with a sense of accomplishment – he was here, in Mexico City, the difficult part of entering the country laughably easy, in retrospect. His choice of crossing via Guatemala had been a good one – the border zone was patrolled in a haphazard fashion, and once inside Mexico there was virtually no security other than army patrols whose purpose seemed as much to intimidate the local population as to stop smuggling or prevent human trafficking.

  He unpacked his bag and hung up his clothes, and then secreted his valuables in the room safe before stripping down and taking a long shower. Once finished, he caught sight of himself in the partially fogged mirror and smiled at his hair, now dyed gray and trimmed close to his head. He looked completely different than he had even a few days before starting his junket, when his hair had been longer and chestnut colored, with only hints of gray at the temples.

  Rauschenbach was an expert at changing his appearance, so this latest incarnation was routine for him. A few small tweaks would add ten years to his age, and a perennial three-day growth of beard would further disguise the inherent fitness evident in his face. He knew from experience that nobody suspected older men of anything, their usefulness and vitality dried up, so he would be virtually invisible as the downtrodden, fifty-something widower he appeared to be.