“We’re here for a pickup. The Don sent us.”
The Don. He’d almost forgotten that was how his benefactor’s men always referred to him, so long had it been since he’d interacted with any of them.
“You have something for me?”
The man nearest the camera fished a photograph from his breast pocket and held it up so El Maquino could see it onscreen. It was a picture of a boy at eleven years old, his limbs gangly as he’d begun to grow, awkward as a colt even in the still. It was El Maquino as a child, after he’d been forced to leave Sinaloa to be raised by distant relatives of the Don in Mexico City.
“Okay. Just a minute.”
He unlocked the door and pulled it open, the heavy steel barrier perfectly balanced on hinges that rarely got any use, a tribute to El Maquino’s engineering talents. The men stepped through, two of them pushing heavy-duty hand trucks designed for moving refrigerators, and he closed it behind them and relocked all the deadbolts before nodding to them. “This way.”
Once inside his loft, he approached the boxes and gave a long set of instructions on how to move them without damaging the contents. The men paid close attention, even as he repeated himself again, like a tape loop. On the third go-round, the leader of the group held up a hand to stop him from going through the entire process yet again.
“We understand. But we’re on a schedule, so we need to get moving. Thank you for all your help. We’ll take good care of them, don’t worry.”
“Right. But remember they’re delicate. Won’t do to drop them or jostle them. Won’t do at all. You need to be careful. Very careful. Otherwise it could all go wrong, and that would be bad. Very bad.”
The leader nodded. “Of course. We’ll be careful.” He paused. “Too bad the elevator’s out of commission.”
“I don’t like elevators. Better to get exercise. Stairs are good for you. Very good.”
“Well, we have our work cut out for us. How much did you say they weigh?”
“Exactly one hundred sixty-two kilos apiece. No doubt about it. One sixty-two. I verified it.”
“And it’s okay to incline them some? We’ll have to.”
“Just don’t drop them. Tilting them is fine until they’re activated. Once they are, though…”
“I remember. The slightest movement. Got it.” He turned to his men. “Let’s get busy. Slide this first one onto the hand truck and we’ll work it down the stairs.” He gave El Maquino a look. “Gently, of course.”
Half an hour later the boxes were gone, along with their transporters, and El Maquino was left in peace. His heavy boots clumped on the hardwood floor as he traced and retraced his steps as though trying to psychically expunge the damage the intruders had done to his home’s aura. He wished he had more food, but wouldn’t touch the breakfast portion of his delivery that was waiting in the nearly empty refrigerator. Instead he contented himself with chugging two liters of water to kill the hunger pangs.
“Everything will be okay. It will all be fine. They’re gone now. All locked up,” he muttered. “All locked up. Gone.”
The project had engaged him more than most, and he would miss the technical challenge it had presented. But he still had his hobby, at which he was an expert: drones. The concept of remote-controlled flight had fired his imagination from an early age, and he’d used most of his spare financial resources buying components and designing and building ever more elaborate examples. His one frustration was battery life, and he’d been toying with innovations that, if successful, could revolutionize the remote flight industry.
Not that he cared. He just hated limitations, and batteries were inherently limited. He viewed inefficiency as his mortal enemy, offensive to his sensibility. True, he might only bathe once a week when immersed in a project, and cut his own hair with a vacuum attachment that left it looking like he’d fallen against a fan, but El Maquino had a highly refined sense of the elegance of order – which was why, outside his projects, he spent most of his time reading physics textbooks. He loved the concept of discovering the underlying organizational principles of the universe, and theoretical physics allowed his mind to roam free, unfettered by the boundaries of the Newtonian. Had he wished to engage with others, he could have amazed them with his insights, but interacting with humans was difficult for him, so he avoided doing so. He still remembered how he had been treated during his formative years, and he wasn’t about to repeat that as an adult – although the concept of time, like aging, was foreign to him, not because he was oblivious but simply because each day was like the last, with no differentiation other than the end of one project and the beginning of another.
Two hours after beginning his pacing, he finally slowed and moved back to his workbench. He had things to do. His projects weren’t going to build themselves, after all.
“Idle hands. No rest for the wicked. A busy man is a happy man,” he whispered as he reached for a small motor bought for a steal online in need of rebuilding; its rotor shaft was beginning to wobble from worn bearings. “Got things to do. Yes, I do. Things to do,” he repeated, and began to hum as he dismantled the hub with a set of tiny wrenches.
“Tell me that wasn’t frigging weird,” the largest mover said as the SUV they’d loaded the boxes into made its way through town. “He may be a genius or whatever, but that was a ten on the creepy scale.”
The driver nodded. “He’s absolutely out of his mind.”
“Yes, he is.” The large man craned his neck as he looked toward the rear of the big vehicle. “Let’s just hope that he’s as good as they say. Otherwise we’re going to be in a world of hurt.”
Nobody had a glib response for that. They knew the stakes. And they were now all relying on the handiwork of a character who belonged in a padded room.
“A world of hurt,” the man repeated, and returned to watching the lights streak by as they traversed the still-teeming streets, the after-dinner crowd preparing for another long night of celebration in a city that never slept.
Chapter 20
Rodriguez left headquarters late, as was his custom. His duties as the head of the Mexican clandestine agency were never-ending, and he’d had a particularly demanding day, a series of small crises building to a climax with a dinner meeting that went on for hours.
In other words, par for the course.
His predecessor had been a political appointee who’d suffered a massive stroke at home, and the medical examiner had said he’d died within seconds of the clot stopping bloodflow to his brain. The president had considered naming another empty suit as director of the agency – the appointment of allies or political supporters was a tradition in Mexico – but cooler heads had prevailed, and for the first time someone with actual experience had gotten the job. Rodriguez had spent his entire career with CISEN and had de facto run it for the last few years, so he’d been the natural successor.
But after a week like this one, he was having serious second thoughts about his good fortune.
He walked across the parking lot to his car, a nondescript government-issue Ford sedan, and placed his briefcase on the passenger seat as the engine warmed up. He checked the time and shook his head in frustration – his wife would be asleep, and he could expect to be chastised by her in the morning for working late into the night.
He waved to the security guard manning the gate, and the man pressed a button that slid the iron slab open. The lot was ringed with ten-foot-tall walls to prevent snoopers from identifying members of CISEN staff, although Rodriguez had pointed out to his assistant that anyone in one of the surrounding high-rises could easily photograph the lot, should they be so inclined.
The chances of that happening were slim, though. Unlike in Russia or the U.S., the role of the intelligence service was largely defensive; the agency lacked the resources to be much besides an enforcement arm for the president, and deliberately steered clear of the largest threat to the nation’s stability: the cartels. Instead, CISEN ran security when diplomats or heads of st
ate visited, engaged in surveillance on the embassies that dotted the Polanco district, and eavesdropped on the political rivals of the ruling party. Mexico didn’t fight wars of aggression in foreign countries, so it didn’t have any external threats to speak of – there were no angry mullahs calling for its destruction or foreign powers struggling to dominate it. Any that wished to have the nation dance for it simply had to bribe the right parties, which was how it was always done in Latin America.
He hit his turn signal and rolled onto the small street that led to the larger boulevard two blocks away. The headquarters building was completely anonymous, located on the fringe of a residential neighborhood with no signage marking it, and well-concealed, sophisticated countermeasures deployed on its roof ensured that nobody could eavesdrop on its operations.
Rodriguez switched on the stereo and began humming along to the music, one of his favorite singers who’d become a national emblem of pride with his oversized sombrero and a string of films in the sixties and seventies. He was coming up on the first intersection when the wheel twisted in his hands and a warning light flashed amber on his dashboard. The thumping of a flat tire greeted him as he braked and steered the vehicle to the curb, and he cursed his luck – the last thing he wanted to have to do at that hour was change a tire.
He killed the engine and set the parking brake before swinging the driver’s door open and stepping out onto the dark street. A glance at the tire confirmed his worst fear: it was mangled, the sidewall shredded from the rim slicing through it.
Rodriguez popped the trunk and lifted the cargo liner in search of the jack. He was freeing the handle when a familiar voice spoke from behind him.
“I should shoot you in the base of the spine. Paralyze you for the rest of your life.”
El Rey. Who Rodriguez had been assured was no longer of this world by now.
“Turn around slowly. Drop the jack handle,” the assassin ordered, his soft words more menacing than if he’d screamed the instructions.
Rodriguez debated making a wild swing at the killer and dismissed it. He had zero chance of tackling him one-on-one, but he might be able to talk his way out of the situation. Once before the assassin had appeared like a ghost in his house, and Rodriguez had managed to survive. This time could prove no different, although he suspected it wouldn’t be as easy.
He dropped the handle and slowly turned. “I gave you the antidote. What do you want?”
“To spend some quality time with you before I send you into the abyss.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
El Rey shrugged. “You will.” The gun in his hand popped, the report almost silent, and Rodriguez winced as a tranquilizer dart imbedded itself in his neck. He reached up to pull it free, but his hand refused to obey his brain’s commands, and all he managed was to paw at it. His heart rate slowed, and then his eyes glassed over and he slumped to the ground.
The assassin watched him drop and slid the air gun into his belt before hoisting Rodriguez with ease. Thirty seconds later he was pulling away in a Toyota Highlander he’d stolen earlier, Rodriguez sprawled in the backseat. The drug El Rey had used would reliably keep him unconscious for a good hour, if not longer.
Which was all the time he would need.
~ ~ ~
Rodriguez blinked awake, his lids heavy. His head was throbbing, the sensation not unlike the worst hangover in history, and his mouth was a desert. He was seated on a hard wooden chair, his ankles tied to the legs and his arms cinched behind him. His shoulders were sore from the strain of the odd position, but when he tried to shift, he found that his wrists were secured to the rear of the chair, keeping him upright.
El Rey stepped into his field of vision. His expression detached and calm, he took two steps toward Rodriguez and stopped. “Now we begin.”
“Every cop in Mexico will be looking for you after this. We have your picture, your fingerprints…it’s not like it used to be. You’ll never be able to hide,” Rodriguez said.
“I’m guessing that’s your way of apologizing for trying to kill me? Your bedside manner could really use some work.” El Rey gave him a humorless smile. “Remember that your organization believes I’m dead. From the poison you tried to trick me into injecting. I like my odds of not being hunted – even your crew of morons aren’t stupid enough to be looking for a dead man.”
“They’ll figure it out.”
“No, they’ll find your tortured corpse burned to an unrecognizable crisp, along with a message from the Los Zetas Cartel stating that this is just the beginning. Of what, I’ll leave to their imaginations.” El Rey paused. “I’m curious, though. The president himself pardoned me and made the deal. I have his word. And yet that counted for nothing.” The assassin’s voice was velvet. “Did he authorize this?”
“What if he did? What are you going to do about it? All I can tell you is that it wasn’t me. I was just following orders. Exactly as you have dozens of times, putting a bullet in some innocent.”
El Rey’s smile never faded. “I’ve never killed an innocent man. If someone was on my list, it was because they were scum.”
“Oh, right. Like the ex-president?”
“He’s responsible for tens of thousands of deaths, and we both know it. Most world leaders are. He was in bed with at least two cartels that I know of. The blood of their victims was on his hands.”
Rodriguez gave him a look of disgust. “Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better.”
“The only innocent men I’ve killed were on your orders, you piece of dung. Which makes you responsible, not me. You don’t blame the car for killing hapless pedestrians, you blame the driver.”
“A meaningless distinction.”
El Rey shook his head. “While I appreciate the lesson in moral philosophy, I’m afraid that due to your treachery, I’m on a tight timeline. So I’m going to ask you some questions. They’re easy questions, and if you answer them honestly, I’ll ensure that your death is painless and your family doesn’t pay for your sins. If you decide to play hero, you’ll die in excruciating agony, and your wife and children will follow.” He took another step toward Rodriguez. “If you doubt me, you’re even stupider than you were for risking my wrath.”
Rodriguez’s eyes narrowed. “My family has nothing to do with it, and you know it.”
“I know that you have the choice between them living long, full lives or being found mutilated in a drainage ditch. You hold that power in your hands.”
The questions began, and Rodriguez answered as many of them as he could. Some, El Rey knew he didn’t know anything about. Others, El Rey already knew the answers to. The only time he lied was when the assassin introduced the topic of who had developed the antidote.
“I told you. The CIA gave it to us. I have no idea who created it for them,” Rodriguez insisted.
“See, I think that’s not true. I think you know exactly who did, and you’re holding out on me. Which is a real shame for your family – I’m sure when I’m flaying your wife’s skin off and forcing her to eat pieces of your babies, they won’t share your noteworthy sense of honor and duty.”
“Please. I’ve told you everything.”
El Rey began his interrogation session in earnest, starting with a pair of wire cutters before escalating to a rotary sander and a bottle of bleach.
Rodriguez lasted longer than most would have, even missing his eyes and much of his face. But he made one slip that was all the information El Rey would need to narrow his search. At one point, he’d referred to the chemist as she.
There were only three women on his list of candidates.
El Rey disposed of Rodriguez’s body by burying it in a shallow ditch filled with quicklime he’d excavated below the foundation, and then poured a cement cap over it so the area appeared to be part of the floor slab. Rodriguez would have simply disappeared with no explanation, which he hoped would throw CISEN into a tailspin of misdirected activity. Nobody could be sure who had d
one what, so the agency’s efforts would be futile and flailing.
Which would ensure nobody was hunting a dead assassin.
Rodriguez had given him everything he needed; now he just needed to get into the U.S. And while he had no intention of going after Rodriguez’s family, he would snuff out the life of the man who’d given the order responsible for El Rey’s attempted murder by lethal injection.
Once he returned.
But for now he didn’t have the luxury of time to extract his revenge.
He hadn’t argued the point with Carla any further, but there was no way he was going to put her in harm’s way by allowing her to accompany him to the United States. He knew she was trying to be helpful, but she was an amateur, and he needed the flexibility that came with going it alone. He’d explain to her upon his return, and while he was sure she’d be furious and hurt, he’d have to be alive to see her reaction, and the odds of that would be reduced with her in tow. He’d already foreseen the need for a seamless entry into the U.S. weeks before and had a Canadian passport that would allow him to stroll past immigration without a second glance.
All that remained was to stop by his apartment, retrieve his go bag, and slip into Carla’s home to leave a quick note of apology. Then he would board a private plane that awaited his arrival and fly to Ciudad Juarez for an early morning stroll into Texas, and from there, to his first destination.
Chapter 21
The predawn sky glowed purple as the sun’s first rays gilded the edges of the eastern mountains that ringed Mexico City. Early morning commuters battled their way toward the city center in a procession of steel and glass, their headlights bouncing over endless potholes.
An ancient panel van with the logo of one of the city’s largest cleaning companies lurched to a stop at the rear entrance of the Museum of Anthropology, where a guard with a face darkened with two days’ growth watched with boredom.
Rage of the Assassin: (Assassin Series #6) Page 9