Rage of the Assassin: (Assassin Series #6)

by Russell Blake

  Aranas had set up a shell company to license the intellectual property, and if El Maquino had been capable of appreciating irony, he would have been delighted to know that his biggest customer was the U.S. military, which would make him wealthy enough by the time he was released early for good behavior to eclipse all but the cartel bosses in his uncle’s employ and, of course, the great man himself.

  ~ ~ ~

  Cozumel, Mexico

  Cruz jerked the tip of the fishing rod skyward and set the hook on the third yellowfin tuna of the day. Forty-pound test monofilament stripped off the screaming reel for a good twenty seconds until he gradually tightened the drag for the battle to come. Ten minutes later, the exhausted fish was making its last run after seeing the bottom of Cruz’s skiff and deciding that no good could come from being hauled aboard.

  He waited until the fish had burned all its resources and then pumped and reeled with all his might. The school he’d come upon were all forty to sixty pounders, and this one felt like it was at the upper end of that range as he cranked it to the surface.

  Once the fish was landed, he stowed his tackle and prepared to head in. He’d caught enough to last a week, at least, even after giving half of the take away to Ramón, his boat cleaner and the marina jack of all trades, who ensured that his twenty-six footer was always ready for a run out to sea.

  The outboard caught on the first try. He swung the bow around and directed it at the beige island that rose from the turquoise sparkle of the Caribbean in the near distance. After a month in a rented house in the main town, he’d settled into the slow pace and was finally sleeping normally. Turning off his brain hadn’t been as easy as he’d hoped, and the first nights there he’d start awake, his heart palpitating, reaching for the Glock he kept in a nightstand drawer. Dinah hadn’t said anything, though he knew that she had been worried; but over the last week the anxiety had melted away as he’d spent his days on the water, the boat a kind of therapy that had worked a minor miracle.

  The hull sliced through the mild chop as he accelerated to twenty-five knots, and within no time he was pulling up to the dock, Ramón moving on spindly legs to help tie off. Cruz killed the engine and the pair of them made short work of fileting the tuna, the meat pink and nearly translucent.

  He was bagging his share when he spotted Dinah’s sundress by the parking lot, her lithe form only now beginning to change with pregnancy.

  “Take as much as you want, Ramón, and feel free to sell what you can’t eat,” Cruz said as he finished with his chore. “But don’t forget to hose off the boat. Be a shame for it to reek when I show up tomorrow.”

  Ramón nodded and offered a gap-toothed grin. “No problem, boss man. Thanks for the fish. Goes a long way in lean times like these.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Cruz carried two bags, each weighing an easy fifteen pounds, up the gangplank to the shore. Dinah watched his progress with a half-smile, her hair stirring in the soft sea breeze.

  “What’s for dinner?” she asked as he neared.

  “Ahi. I’ll cook it, if you like. Pan sear it for a few seconds, blackened, of course.”

  “Mmm, sounds delicious.” She tiptoed and kissed him, then wrinkled her nose. “You smell like you swam in it. Shower time, Capitan.”

  He grinned as he took in her sun-kissed face and nodded. “Your wish is my command.”

  They made their way up the path that led to the main shorefront street that ringed the island and Cruz stopped suddenly.

  Dinah turned to him. “What?”

  “Weren’t you going to the doctor today?”

  She nodded slowly. “Very good. You remembered. I was sure you’d forgotten.”

  “Never. So? What’s the news?”

  She smiled again, and Cruz’s breath caught in his throat. At that moment she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, flushed with the exertion of the walk, and…something else. Well-being, perhaps. “Well, Capitan, congratulations are in order. Soon you’re going to have a son to help you with the fishing.”

  Dinah began walking again, as though she’d done nothing more than tell him the time, leaving Cruz standing on the curb, an expression of wonder on his face as he watched the mother of his child make her way home. She glanced over her shoulder at him and furrowed her brow. “Are you coming, or are you just going to stand there with a bunch of rotting fish?”

  Cruz shook his head and began moving again, visions of a smaller version of himself sitting in the bow of the boat, black hair swirling in the wind, his son’s eyes dancing with a world seen for the first time.

  Chapter 56

  Madrid, Spain

  The Plaza de Cascorro was bustling on Sunday morning as El Rey made his way along one of the tributary lanes leading to the square. Every weekend the area became a giant flea market, and one of the ways he killed time when Carla was occupied on a breaking story was to stroll the endless rows of stalls, where enterprising vendors sold trinkets, used books, produce, antiques, cheap clothing, soccer jerseys, and every variety of memorabilia.

  Graffiti covered the roll-down steel awnings of the shuttered shops that had surrendered the square to the swarm of street merchants. Old women walked with arms intertwined as they argued over which sellers had the least unfair prices – that they were all criminals, gypsies, and thieves went without saying, but some were less larcenous than others.

  The two months the former assassin had spent with Carla in the city had gone by in a blur as they’d settled in, she to her new job, he to being completely aimless for the first time he could remember, with no enemies to fear, no targets to pursue, nothing but the blank canvas of a new existence with a woman who continuously surprised and delighted him.

  He spotted a pickpocket bumping a pair of Germans whose distinctive vacation-wear and obvious prosperity practically cried out for robbery, and shook his head as the male’s wallet disappeared into the thief’s hoodie pocket. Before the Germans were aware of the theft the slender grafter quickly turned a corner and vanished like smoke into the throng. Like Mexico City, Madrid was a metropolis with high unemployment and scarce resources for the jobless, and the residents did what they had to do to make ends meet. Most were honest and law abiding, but with twenty-five percent of the country out of work, morality tended to be elastic, especially on an empty stomach.

  A bright green and yellow hand-painted sign in one of the doorways caught his eye, and he slowed at the image of a tarot card: a stylized image of the moon depicted with intricate brushstrokes. He drew nearer, and an ancient woman with a threadbare red bandanna over her white hair nodded to him from where she sat on the stoop behind a small wooden table and a single vacant collapsible camp chair.

  “Come, young man. Allow me to tell your fortune. Señora Campos sees all in the cards – love, riches, success or failure – there are no secrets from me,” she said, her words thick with a Basque lilt.

  “No thanks, Mother. Perhaps some other time,” he replied, although he didn’t move past the table. A vision of a different fortune teller, so many years ago, sprang into his imagination as vividly as though it were only hours before, and he blinked it away.

  “For you, I will make a special price, for today only. I can see you are in need of guidance,” the woman pressed.

  That brought a smile to his lips. “Very generous of you, but I’m afraid I must be going.”

  She shuffled the cards as though she hadn’t heard him, and began turning them over. He reluctantly withdrew a few coins from his pocket and placed them on top of the first card. “That’s very kind of you,” she said, collecting the money with fingers twisted by the ravages of arthritis and time. “But I haven’t named a price.”

  “I have no need to see any more of the future than I already have,” he said, and offered a small bow before turning and moving into the stream of humanity, unremarkable in his drab garb, just another of thousands of young men out on a balmy morning with nothing much to do.

  He hummed as h
e walked along cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of feet, strangely at peace with his surroundings even in the midst of the market’s hubbub. He’d seen the face card as he’d laid the coins upon the table and didn’t doubt the old gypsy’s talents, but in the spirit of reinvention with which he’d accompanied Carla to Spain, his interest in what the future held lay beyond the deterministic universe that the tarot implied governed him. He was a different man from the impressionable young boy he’d once been; and the image beneath the tarnished metal coins he’d so casually left for the crone – the monarch’s regal glare, sword clutched in one determined hand – meant nothing to him any longer.

  The cards had no sway in what was to come.

  <<<<>>>>

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  · You’ve just read the sixth book in the Assassin series. The other books in the series are Night of the Assassin (prequel), King of Swords, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, and Requiem for the Assassin. I hope you enjoy them all.

  Turn the page to read an excerpt from

  Ramsey’s Gold

  Excerpt from Ramsey’s Gold

  Chapter One

  Southwest of Cajamarca, Peru, A.D. 1532

  Lightning flashed through the anthracite clouds that roiled over the rainforest as an explosion of thunder shook the earth. A long line of llamas, their matted fur drenched from the constant downpour, shambled along a trail deep in the rainforest. The animals staggered under heavy loads strapped to their backs, hooves slipping in the mud and pulling free with a sucking sound.

  Thousands of the unfortunate beasts had been conscripted into duty on the far side of the Andes Mountains, their drovers trudging beside them to see to it that none wandered off with precious cargo. Inkarri, the head of the expedition, had made it clear that this was a sacred mission, with the destiny and survival of the Inca Empire at stake.

  Only two months earlier the Spanish conquistadores had betrayed Atahualpa, the Inca emperor, whom they’d captured through trickery. After hundreds of loads of ransom had been delivered to the Spanish leader in the Inca city of Cajamarca, the conquistadores had broken their promise and executed Atahualpa. Word had spread through the Inca world of the treachery, and an edict had gone out: the prosperous Inca nation’s treasure was to be safeguarded, away from the invaders.

  Inkarri had traveled for many weeks, first crossing the Andes and then tackling the western jungle’s swollen rivers. He’d braved impossible terrain to put as many natural barriers between his people and the invaders as possible. Now, hundreds of miles from home, the procession was running short of resources. Many of the animals had perished along the way, and every surviving beast now bore an insupportable burden.

  Inkarri knew his trek couldn’t continue. The latest attack on his group by the hostile Amazon natives had taken its toll – hundreds of his men had died repelling the assaults. He slowed at the head of the column and cocked his head, his bronze features haggard from the trip’s demands, and listened intently.

  From the thick underbrush ahead came Lomu, his second in command, who’d been scouting with a small advance party for possible new routes. Inkarri held his hand over his head to signal a stop.

  Lomu wiped rain from his face before leaning in close. “I found a promising site an hour away. It has streams – tributaries to the big river that winds through the area, so there will be plentiful fish,” he said in a quiet voice. “And I saw an auspicious omen. A jaguar, standing in the center of a small clearing. It’s what we’ve been waiting for. As clear as the gods could make it.”

  Inkarri looked to the sky. “An hour, you say? Very well. We have another few left before it gets dark. How difficult does it look to defend?”

  “If attacked, we would have the high ground. And there’s a small river that runs along the northernmost section, which will serve as a natural barrier.”

  Inkarri nodded. “Pass the word down the line. We’re headed to our new home.”

  Lomu rushed to share the news with the men. They were close to their journey’s end, and the beginning of a new, secret life in an inhospitable wilderness. Their mission was clear – to establish a new city away from the Spanish, where the wealth of the nation would be safe, a cradle for the fresh start of the civilization. When they had done so, Inkarri would return to the empire with news, leaving a trail of false clues and deceptive directions to confound any would-be pursuers. He’d seen the avarice of the conquistadores, and witnessed their duplicity, and knew their lust for gold and emeralds would never die – that he and his kind would never be safe.

  It would take months to create a habitable enclave, but when he’d done so, he would set up small camps along the trail to help new arrivals find the city. Once he was back among his people, he would recruit women and more able-bodied men to colonize the area and build a new capital.

  Inkarri watched Lomu disappear down the column of tired llamas, communicating the tidings to men who had been through an ordeal unlike any in their people’s history. The jungles east of the mountains had been the limit of the Inca world, and it was only a compulsion to survive that had driven Inkarri’s group into its reaches.

  At last they arrived at the site. The sun broke through the clouds – the first pause in the rain in three days. Inkarri eyed the trees, taking the measure of the area. After several moments of silence, he moved to the center of the clearing and stood, his arms spread, the sun’s dimming rays warming him as he offered a quiet prayer of gratitude for bringing them safely to this spot. When he faced his warrior brethren gathered in a large ring around him, he beamed confidence and conviction.

  “Our quest is over. Remove the treasure from the animals and let them rest. Organize patrols to ensure our safety this night, for tomorrow we begin building a new future in this place.” Inkarri paused, taking in the men’s expressions. “Oh, Inti, god of sun and light, and Apocatequil, god of thunder, thank you for leading us to this blessed spot. We shall honor you with a city the likes of which has never been seen. It shall be called Paititi, after the jaguar father you sent as a sign. Its riches shall be legendary – the stuff of which dreams are made.”

  Lomu gazed at the hundreds of bags the men were placing on the wet ground, brimming with gold and jewels, and his eyes came to rest on the pride of the Incas: a massive chain crafted from thousands of pounds of gold, its gemstone-crusted serpentine links glowing orange in the waning light, so heavy that it had taken a hundred men to carry it. Even with all the other riches in the clearing, it was breathtaking to behold, and Lomu felt justifiable satisfaction in spiriting it away to safety.

  The road ahead would be hard. But they would do it, and survive as a people until the Spanish were driven from the shores. Temples would be built, babies would be born, trade routes established, the empire would flourish, and their deeds would be spoken of in hushed tones of awe and respect.

  They would achieve the impossible and be remembered in their culture until the end of time. Stories would be told around fires, and the name of their city would be known far and wide as the crowning jewel in the Inca crown – the great promise of its future, the legendary new center of the noble and ancient civilization’s universe: Paititi, the City of Gold.

  Chapter Two

  Patricia hurried from her flower shop to the car. Night had fallen hours ago and traffic had dwindled to nothing, leaving the downtown deserted. She normally didn’t stay at the store after dark, but it was the end of the month and there were accounts to be balanced. Times were hard now, and she
’d been handling the bookkeeping herself. She considered herself lucky that she still had a business.

  Her sensible heels clicked on the sidewalk, her breath steaming in the frigid night air, and then she heard the sound again – something or someone was gaining on her. She struggled to stay calm as she reached into her purse for the can of pepper spray she’d hidden there years ago, praying that it still worked.

  Patricia’s hand fumbled in the bag, a knock-off Coach she’d gotten on a Mexican cruise in better days, and her trembling fingers felt the distinctive cylinder. She tried to remember the effective range, but all she could think of was that she should run. Run as fast as her feet would carry her, run to safety, to her waiting car.

  She hesitated at the junction of two gloomy streets, ears straining for any hint of a pursuer. A scrape from behind her, no more than twenty yards, reaffirmed her worst fears before she forced them away and slowed her breathing. That could have been anything. A cat. One of the heaping garbage bags she’d passed rustling in the breeze. Something shifting inside them, or a rat burrowing for buried treasure. Anything at all.

  When she rounded the corner, she sprinted for the parking lot, all pretense of calm gone as she ran on tiptoes to avoid the sound of her heels alerting whoever was behind her that she was in full flight. Because now, in spite of her inner dialogue, she was sure someone was tailing her.

  Visions of serial killers played through her imagination as she reached the waist-high concrete wall that encircled the lot. She pushed through the gate, wincing at the groan of its corroded hinges, and made her way to her car as she fished in her overcoat for her key ring. God, she hoped it would start on the first try. She cursed silently at how she’d been putting off taking the old Buick to the dealership for months.