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The lushly green acreage around the Luis Barragan-inspired mansion in the hills outside Culiacan was still in the late morning doldrums, the absence of breeze a seasonal effect that made being outdoors in the swelter unpleasant even for the most seasoned natives. Armed sentries prowled the immaculately manicured grounds around the house, jittery from adrenaline and sweating from the heat. Since early morning they’d been on guard, in a state of high alert.
Ricardo Pilar sat with his inner circle at a square mesquite table in his dining room. The five men who were his closest counselors had serious demeanors, and the air was thick with cigarette smoke and anxiety. He’d gotten several frantic phone calls alerting him about the explosion at Encarlo’s plant, and he was troubled by the implications. Pilar sensed that a move was being made, but he wasn’t sure who was behind it, and he’d dispatched a group of armed men to see what information they could get from the network of lower-level cartel soldiers that acted as the informal communication channel on the street.
The preliminary reports that had come back weren’t good. Two of his four rivals had departed the earth that morning under violent circumstances. There could only be one explanation, and it warranted swift and decisive action. Pilar’s nemesis, Valiente, was making a play for the leadership position that Altamar had held, now that the cartel underboss had been officially missing for a significant enough time. That could only mean war to Pilar, a seasoned veteran of countless purges and fights.
Pilar was educated, having attended the university in Monterey, and held a degree in business administration that had served him well when creating and managing his network. He’d studied and taken to heart the lessons of business school, and fancied himself to be superior to the ignorant thugs who’d ascended to equal footing through sheer brutality and the barrel of a gun. While he understood the place for bloodshed, he liked to think of himself as above knee-jerk reactions involving indiscriminate slaughter. But he was no fool, and he sensed that it was time to put down the diploma and strap on the pistols.
His captain, Eduardo, was arguing passionately, and his lieutenants were nodding approval.
“This is our chance. We’ve been patient, but it’s foolishness to sit here waiting for the war to come to us. If Valiente is on the offensive, our best chance to avoid a bloodbath is to make a pre-emptive strike. Cut the head off the snake, and the body stops moving.”
Pilar considered the counsel, and then nodded.
“I agree with Eduardo. The explosion that killed Encarlo, when combined with news of Remarosa’s execution, is ominous. I have a bad feeling, and I think it’s safe to conclude that Valiente is making a major offensive, which would mean we are next. But it’s not like we can just waltz in and start shooting to solve the problem. Valiente is far too smart to be taken that way.” Pilar pushed back from the table, stood, and began pacing compulsively while he spoke. “While I sympathize with everyone’s passion, I’d argue that it’s misplaced. Yes, we need to act, but we also need a coherent plan. Right now, all we have is bluster and talk. Let’s finish with the discussion about whether removing Valiente is a good idea. It is. Now I want to hear some ideas about how we do so,” Pilar said, gesturing with his bottle of Pelgrino to emphasize his point.
His men looked at him, none daring to advance an idea that he would shoot down.
“Here’s what we are going to do. I want you to talk among yourselves and think through how best to eliminate Valiente by the end of the day. Then we can put the proposals on the table, and come up with something that makes sense. But don’t waste your time arguing for something that’s decided. I need ideas, not passion. And my instinct says that we’re running out of time, so it’s time to get busy.” Pilar glanced at his watch and sighed. “I have some commitments I need to attend to. But make no mistake, Valiente must die before the sun goes down, and I am relying on you to come up with how we achieve that.” Pilar fixed each man in turn with an intense stare that bristled with quiet menace. He may have had a veneer of civility from his education, but he was as dangerous as a cornered pit viper, and his men were quick to remember how he’d made it to the top of his group. “I’ll be back shortly. Make good use of your time.”
Pilar strode from the room, shaking his head. This was a classic turf battle, and he needed to get on top of it before Valiente’s goons showed up with machine guns. He wasn’t afraid of that – his compound was well equipped with all the latest alarms, electronic sensors and advance warning devices, and he had enough firepower to stop a battalion. He felt safe at his home, and he was confident that if an attempt against him was going to be made, it wouldn’t happen there. The dense foliage that extended for miles created a natural barrier, and there was only one road in. So for the moment, at least, he was safe.
Pilar had thought through Valiente’s likely next step, and he wasn’t overly concerned about a frontal assault. But he was vulnerable in ways besides the obvious. If this power struggle lasted very long, business would be negatively impacted, and that would cause disruption among the lieutenants, which could be as dangerous as a shooting war. It was bad enough that Pilar’s rivals were homicidal psychopaths without him having to worry about younger, more junior aspirants to the throne cutting his heart out while he slept.
He moved to the pocket doors that separated the great room from the rear deck and took in the beauty of his grounds. It was times of extreme adversity that defined leaders, and even though he fancied himself a civilized man, he understood that it was necessary to be swift an unequivocal in his response to this threat. Pilar had no problem killing – it went with the territory. But he’d always tried to keep the violence at arm’s length, which while not always successful, enabled him to maintain his presumption of superiority.
Something in the tree line caught the sun, and Pilar squinted to make it out. The hair on his arms bristled as he detected movement and a flash, and the neurons in his brain were ordering his body to drop to the floor as the high-velocity partially jacketed round blew his cheekbone apart, taking the better part of his cerebrum with it. By the time the guards had a chance to respond to the single shot from the perimeter, the shooter had long since departed, the sound of the dirt bike he’d pushed silently for a half mile a noisy memory in the woods.
Night of the Assassin Page 14