Blood of the Assassin (Assassin Series 5) (6 page)

A solitary figure stared up at the sheer rock face looming almost a thousand feet overhead, lost in thought, and then moved determinedly towards the daunting monolith and reached towards the sky. Strong hands gripped crevices in the outcropping and used them for holds; powerful legs pushed upwards when crannies presented themselves.

El Rey
moved with single-minded concentration, fingers probing for the next niche, completely lost in the moment, the sun warming the glistening skin of his bare shoulders as the muscles bunched under the strain. A dark green bandana tied around his head kept the worst of the sweat out of his eyes, which scoured the unyielding stone, searching for an advantage as he powered up the unscalable cliff, driving himself to the peak now eighty stories above him.

His right foot slipped on a slim ledge and a tumble of small rocks skittered dizzily beneath him, dropping twenty stories before finally coming to rest at the base – a fatal distance. His right hand compensated by taking his full weight as he groped with his left, and for a split second he was hanging in space, holding himself with one arm, the endless repetitions of three hundred chin ups every day since childhood yielding lifesaving dividends, the corded muscles of his bicep rigid as he pulled himself to the relative safety of the next hold.

Foot by foot he continued driving himself upward, the black nylon straps of his backpack biting into his skin as he neared the top. When he finally pulled himself onto the summit his arms were shaking. He flipped over onto his back and stared up at the sky, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Overhead an eagle soared, riding a thermal as it wheeled into the blue, searching for an unlucky snake or chipmunk, the circle of life constant in this remote region of the country. He considered its graceful flight, the perfect symmetry of its purpose in the heavens, and then his ears perked up at an incongruous sound, gradually increasing in volume – a sound that was familiar, but out of place here, in the farthest reaches of the middle of nowhere.

He sat up as the rhythmic clamor grew louder, and watched the ungainly outline of a military Humvee roar up a dirt trail he would have bet was used only by pack mules and an occasional goat. It drew within twenty yards of the assassin, and then the big diesel motor idled, its high-altitude trek over, at least for the present. The passenger door opened and a rangy man in jeans and a black windbreaker leapt out. He did a cursory inspection of the desolate clearing and then jogged to where
El Rey
sat watching him.

The men’s eyes met as he spoke.

“We need to talk.”

El Rey
considered a world of possible responses, then nodded. “How did you find me? Cell phone?”

“Exactly.”

“Ah. But there’s no signal.”

“That’s why we didn’t call you. But there’s still GPS. It allowed us to locate your position.”

“What’s the rush?”
El Rey
asked, studying his calloused fingers, still dusty from the climb.

“You’ll be briefed on that when we get to headquarters.”

“Headquarters,”
El Rey
repeated.

“We have a jet waiting on the ground in Chihuahua to take you to Mexico City. Come on. Let’s get out of here,” the man said, and
El Rey
nodded again. There was no point in protesting the interruption of his outing. He’d made his deal – reluctantly, it was true – but made it all the same, and now he was at CISEN’s beck and call.

And his master wanted to see him.

He got to his feet and followed the man to the vehicle, and within seconds of the door slamming shut behind him they were pulling back onto the dirt track.
El Rey
watched as the Sierra Madre mountain range passed on either side of him, as rugged and untamed a landscape as any on earth, and settled back into the seat, resigned to being shunted halfway across the country on no notice, no say in the matter, a knight on a chessboard of someone else’s devising.

Once they arrived at the little mountain town of Urique, the driver stopped at the edge of the dwellings. In five minutes the rhythmic beating of powerful rotors tore at the sky, the thumping of the gray helicopter a violent intrusion in the otherwise tranquil setting. It landed in a clearing just off the main road, and
El Rey
and his escort ran to it, ducking instinctively as the door slid open and two soldiers beckoned. Within moments they were strapped in and airborne, the entire boarding having taken under thirty seconds.

When they set down in Chihuahua, a Hawker business jet sat near the private aircraft area, stairs down, awaiting
El Rey
’s arrival. He trotted over to it from the helicopter and a pretty uniformed stewardess beckoned from the fuselage door. Once he had boarded and strapped into the seat, the exit closed and the sleek plane’s engines wound up in preparation for takeoff. After a brief taxi they were hurtling down the runway and up into the clear sky, the dusty brown of the high desert quickly fading beneath the wings as they climbed and banked south for the hour and a half flight to the capital of Mexico.

As they hit cruising altitude the young woman handed
El Rey
a package wrapped in pale blue paper and asked what he’d like to drink. He opted for water and orange juice, and as she poured him a crystal tumbler he un-taped the parcel. Inside were a pair of khaki slacks and a black long-sleeved button-up shirt – both his size, he noted. The stewardess returned with his drinks and then excused herself and slipped up to the front of the plane, where she pulled a sliding door closed, offering him privacy.

He shrugged out of his tank top and shorts and donned his new clothes, then settled back into the seat, his rock climbing garments stowed in the backpack along with the rest of his gear, wondering what was so urgent that the government had pulled out all the stops to get him to Mexico City as quickly as possible. He took a sip of his juice and then drained the water bottle as the plane hummed along at thirty-eight thousand feet, and then leaned back in the caramel leather reclining lounger and closed his eyes.

It had been almost four months since he had rescued the president’s daughter and done his deal with the devil, agreeing to exchange his services for the antidote shots that would sustain him. But this was the first time he had been called. He had spent his newfound freedom in rural locations, choosing to avoid the areas the cartels dominated, in the one-in-a-million chance that he was somehow recognized. Even though he was no longer a wanted man, his sins absolved when he made his arrangement with CISEN, there was still a substantial price on his head.
Don
Aranas had a long memory, and the multi-million dollar bounty he had offered was a powerful attraction for every hired killer in Mexico.

El Rey
wasn’t really worried about it, but it made matters simpler if he stayed off the radar, so he had moved from place to place, uprooting himself every three weeks, his last home a villa in the colonial town of San Miguel de Allende. He had been there for ten days before he grew bored and decided to explore the wilderness of the mountains around Copper Canyon, preferring the company of coyotes and mountain lions to his fellow man as he bided his time, waiting for the call that never came.

Until now.

He wondered who they wanted him to kill.

His eyes flickered open and he looked around the jet’s interior, expensively appointed, all leather and polished wood, lacquered to a high gloss, then reached to his side and found his glass of orange juice. Fresh squeezed, he noted approvingly; then finished it and closed his eyes again.

Whatever the government’s errand, he would know soon enough. Which was just as well. He’d been growing restless from inactivity. Truth be told, he would actually welcome an assignment. Whether he liked it or not, he was conditioned to seek out excitement, and the staid civilian life he’d been leading had been almost as bad as a prison sentence – unable to leave the country, inactive, each day the same as the last.

The plane adjusted its course, a minor deviance, and he shifted, trying to get comfortable.

Within an hour he’d be back on the ground, and soon thereafter at CISEN headquarters, being briefed.

Might as well get a little rest, he reasoned.

Things would get interesting soon enough. They hadn’t pulled him off the side of a mountain to check on his health.

No, they had something they wanted him to do.

And if they were drawing on him, it was sure to be something challenging.

That was the only thing he could be certain of.

Mexico City traffic was a perennial snarl, cars honking as they brooded in the morning haze, gridlocked on the overcrowded roads.
El Rey
stared blankly through the tinted windows of the Suburban at the crowds of well-dressed pedestrians milling in the downtown area, trumpeting the city’s prosperity with their expensive clothing and designer handbags, a far cry from the wretched poor lining the streets only a few blocks away. The city was a study in contradictions: fabulous wealth lived side by side with squalor, the less fortunate gazing at the wealthy with envy and bitterness and a certain quiet acceptance that was unique to Latin America. Unlike their more fortunate neighbors to the north, the impoverished in Mexico had no hope of ever being anything but poor. It was just the way things were, and it was considered largely pointless to fret over the natural order.

A somber man in his mid-thirties sat in the passenger seat, his crisp blue suit tailored to hide the pistol he wore in a shoulder holster, his gleaming black hair conservatively cut, shining against his olive skin, the white of his oxford shirt in deep contrast with the dark bronze of his complexion. He hadn’t said a word since
El Rey
had gotten into the big SUV, which was just as well – the assassin wasn’t looking for a new friend.

When the Suburban pulled to a stop at CISEN headquarters, two armed guards peered into the vehicle before waving them through the gate into a parking lot with twelve-foot-high surrounding walls that ensured nobody would be seen coming or going from the modern four-story building. They rolled into a stall near a side entrance, and the silent man in the passenger seat stepped out and spoke his first words of the trip.

“This way.”

El Rey
slid from the rear seat, backpack in tow, and followed his guide to the entry door, which opened as if by magic, pulled wide by another suited man. They entered the building, and two security guards bracketed
El Rey
front and back as they made their way to a ground floor conference room, their footsteps the only sound in the marble hallway.

Once he was seated they left him alone.
El Rey
studied his fingernails, confident that there was a hidden camera somewhere in the room and unwilling to give the observers any more information than they already had.

Five minutes later the door opened and Rodriguez entered, trailed by three men, none of whom
El Rey
recognized. They took seats across from him, and then Rodriguez cleared his throat and slid a manila folder across the table.

“That’s the file of a man named Werner Rauschenbach. He’s in the same line of work you used to be in. German. There are two pages of summary on his exploits and history. Take a few moments to read them,” Rodriguez instructed.

El Rey
flipped the folder open and glanced at the photos inside, and then studied the documents. When he was done, he took a closer look at the top photograph, then dropped it onto the table and leaned back.

“So?”

“We want you to find him.”

El Rey
’s expression betrayed nothing. “And wish him happy birthday?”

“Obviously not.”

“You want me to kill him.”

“That would be ideal. But it won’t be that simple, I’m afraid.” Rodriguez glanced at the picture. “He’s coming to Mexico. Might already be here.”

El Rey
nodded. “And it’s safe to presume he’s not coming for the beaches?”

“Yes. We’ve gotten word that he’s been hired to carry out a sanction,” Rodriguez confirmed, irritated by the assassin’s tone.

“Why am I required?”

“Because you’re the best at that business.”

“Right. But you’re not asking me to take a contract, are you?”

“No. We need you to stop him. He can’t be allowed to carry out his plan.”

“Which is?”

Rodriguez nodded at the other men. The shortest, wearing a pale blue shirt and a retro tie, leaned forward.

“He’s going to try to execute a dignitary. A very important figure. If he’s successful, it would be disastrous.”

“Do you have any information on when and where?”

“Negative. But we can guess.”

“So guess.”

“We believe he’ll make his attempt in ten days. Here, in Mexico City.”

El Rey
’s eyes narrowed. “So why drag me off the side of the mountain? This seems like a routine security task. Am I missing something?”

Rodriguez dropped the pen he was toying with on the table. “We need you to find him before he can carry out the hit.”

“Who’s the target?”

“The Chinese paramount leader. The
de facto
ruler of China.”

El Rey
blinked twice. “And why would an assassin come to Mexico to kill him?”

“Because he’ll be vulnerable here – much more so than in China.”

“What’s he going to be doing here? The paramount leader?”

“He’s supposed to sign an agreement with the president to transition our oil industry into Chinese hands – or rather, have them partner with us to get it out of the ground and refined. It would be a terminal blow to the agreement if an assassination attempt took place while he was here. Worse yet, if it succeeded.”

“Can I have some water?”
El Rey
asked.

Rodriguez leaned over and murmured to one of the men, who rose and exited the room.

El Rey
and Rodriguez stared at each other in silence for a few moments. Rodriguez finally spoke.