Requiem for the Assassin (21 page)

The heavy gate swung open with a soft groan, sounding like a wounded animal’s moan on the quiet street. He glanced around as he crept past the threshold, taking care to push the gate closed again so any passing patrols would see nothing amiss.

He knew from his study of the permits online that the property was undergoing renovation, a major job judging by the construction permit value. On his walk he’d seen the windows draped with protection, confirming that the owners weren’t in residence while it was being gutted. The small mountain of construction supplies in the walkway and the backyard confirmed his deduction, and he pushed past sawhorses and granite slabs and stacks of imported marble, pausing to grab a fourteen-foot ladder as he made his way to the rear entry. That lock proved harder to open than the gate, but he was shielded from view from the surrounding buildings by a high wall, so he had time.

When the tumblers clicked, he eased the door open, the ladder gripped in his right hand. His eyes rapidly adjusted to the complete darkness as he felt his way down the corridor to the stairs leading to the upper levels. He manhandled the ladder to the third floor and located the attic hatch and in a few minutes was on the roof.

The ladder bridged the ten-foot gap between the buildings with two feet to spare on either side. He’d guessed that the windows on Vega’s home would have contact alarms on the second and third floors, the street level protected with bars, but one of the constants of alarm companies was that they overlooked the roofs of anything over two stories out of a combination of laziness and to avoid false alarms from birds or maintenance headaches from the constant battering of the elements.

He looked across the gap and took a deep breath and then carefully inched along the ladder until he was on Vega’s roof. The good news was that the ladder was rigid even with his weight. The bad news was that with only two feet of overlap on either side, his margin of safety was slimmer than he’d have liked.

The roof door had no lock, and he swung it open, taking care to ease the hatch onto the concrete so as not to make any noise. The attic below was pitch black, and
El Rey
retrieved a penlight from his pocket and twisted it on. A gossamer haze of cobwebs streamed in all directions, and he picked up a curtain rod by his feet and swept them away. The hatch that led to the third floor was to his right and had a wooden ladder integrated into it that could be lowered like a fire escape for access to the roof.

He leaned over the door and studied the mechanism and then fished out a small can of oil, which he applied liberally to the rollers and hinges. Done, he lowered the hatch and fed out the ladder, which thankfully made little noise due to his precautions.

The master suite was on the second level, the third relegated to guest quarters, and he placed one quiet foot in front of the other as he inched to the stairs. The floors were travertine so he didn’t have to contend with wooden planks creaking, for which he was grateful. A quick inspection of the window at the end of the hall confirmed that there was a magnetic sensor on the frame, vindicating his decision to enter from the roof.

He paused at the top of the stairs and listened for any signs of movement below, and when he didn’t hear anything, he descended to the second floor. Vega’s door was at the end of the hall on his right, her rooms occupying most of the level, along with an en suite office and library. When he cracked it open and stepped through the gap, he found himself in a massive bedroom that even in the dim light from the windows he could see was as sumptuous as any five-star hotel.

Vega was asleep on a pedestal bed, and he froze as she stirred. She rolled over, away from him, her cream-colored satin top shimmering as she moved. He held still as her breathing returned to normal, and then moved toward the bed.

Her eyes bugged out as he clamped one hand over her mouth and pressed on a pressure point on her neck with his other. Her stifled scream was little more than a whimper before she lost consciousness, her brain temporarily starved of oxygen.

El Rey
withdrew a syringe and flicked on his penlight. He located a vein in her hand and injected the contents and, after pocketing the syringe, lifted her in a fireman’s carry, her body slung over his shoulders. She was surprisingly light, no more than a hundred pounds, he guessed as he crossed the bedroom.

The assassin pulled her bedroom door closed behind him and moved to the stairs, where he paused to confirm the guards were still unaware of the drama playing out on the floor above them. He took the steps two at a time and, when he reached the attic ladder, adjusted his hold, compensating for her weight. Once in the attic, he lowered her to the floor and shut the hatch and then hoisted her again and moved to the iron ladder that led to the roof.

Crossing the gap between the two buildings was the most difficult part of the operation, and his face beaded with sweat in the night air as he shifted his feet rung to rung, a sheer drop to certain death his reward for a misstep.

Once across, he retrieved the ladder, set it out of sight on the roof, and called Cruz.

“I’ll be ready for pickup in three minutes,” he whispered when Cruz answered.

“I’m two blocks down. See you in three.”

El Rey
was at the side gate with Vega over his shoulders when the Explorer pulled up, its lights extinguished. He ran to the vehicle, opened the rear door, and placed Vega’s inert form on the back seat before climbing in next to her.

“Drive,” he hissed, pulling the door closed. Cruz did as instructed and only switched on the headlights once he’d rounded the corner, accelerating as he drove south toward the network of back streets that led to the safe house.

Chapter 34

Carla’s eyes fluttered open, and her vision blurred in and out, the oscillations of a ceiling fan’s blades otherworldly as she attempted to make sense out of what she was seeing. She tried to sit up, but her body wouldn’t obey, the muscles in her arms and legs leaden. She wondered absently if this was some sort of a nightmare, a residual effect of one too many glasses of wine with dinner. It didn’t feel like a dream, though, because she had a gnawing sense of anxiety in the pit of her stomach, her head was throbbing, and she was desperately thirsty, none of which were in any way dreamlike.

A man’s voice reached her as though through a fog.

“She’s awake.”

She tried to swivel her head, but it refused to accommodate, and the best she could manage was to direct her eyes at the shadowy figure sitting across from her – an older man wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses in spite of the darkness.

“Don’t fight it. It can take a good half an hour for the anesthetic to wear off. Just relax,” the man said, his voice not unkind. She decided that it might be a dream after all, and closed her eyes, hoping to retreat into the comfortable numbness that seemed just at the edge of her awareness.

What seemed like moments later, the man’s voice dragged her back to consciousness.

“Feeling any better?”

This time when she opened her eyes she could focus, and her body told her that she was lying on something soft – cushions, not a bed, judging by the rough texture. If this was a dream, she was imagining a couch – and a not particularly clean-smelling one, she thought as she struggled to sit up. She managed to, but the dreamlike quality, the dissociation, like she was watching herself from outside of her own body, lingered even as she looked at the man, who leaned over and tapped a plastic bottle of water on the coffee table in front of her.

“You’re probably thirsty. That’s for you.”

She tried to reach for the bottle, but her arms had minds of their own, and her hand fell short of the bottle by a half foot.

“Maybe rest and give it another five or ten minutes. From what I remember of coming out of surgery, it can take a while before you’re a hundred percent.”

Carla cleared her throat, and when she spoke, her voice was a croak. “What is this?”

“I have to apologize for the tactics my associate used to get you here. But there was no other way.”

“Kidnapping?” Carla demanded, her mouth having trouble with the syllables.

“Well, yes. For which I’m sorry.”

She tried to make sense out of the man’s words, but couldn’t. Why was a kidnapper apologizing? And how did they get her? Last she remembered she was asleep in bed…

“
Sorry?
” she spat. “You…kidnapped me.”

“Yes. But it’s not what it seems.”

“Not…I…what is this?”

“I’d suggest you take a little more time, and we can discuss things once you’re clearer-headed. The water will help. There’s no sense in rushing it.”

She tried for the bottle again, and this time managed to wrap her fingers around it. Her hands fumbled with the top, and then the cool liquid was coursing down her throat, the feeling more satisfying than she could have believed possible. When she’d drained the water, she tossed the bottle next to her on the sofa, every second returning more of her senses to her.

“Tell me what you want,” she said, and her voice sounded more alert than it had moments before.

“I want to ask you some questions.”

She stared at him incredulously. “Questions,” she repeated.

“Yes. But I want you completely recovered before I do.”

“You kidnapped me to ask me questions?”

“That’s technically correct, I suppose.”

“
Technically?
You took me out of my…out of my bed. What do you mean, technically?” she demanded, her temper flaring as her headache increased.

“
Señorita
Vega, what we did was for your own good. For your safety. I’ll explain in time, but for now, I need you to answer my questions honestly.”

“What questions? You haven’t asked any,” she snarled, her strength rushing back into her limbs.

The man glanced off to the left, where for the first time, Carla sensed someone else in the room. She turned her head. A younger man was sitting on a barstool at a kitchen island, also wearing a hat and sunglasses. The younger man indicated that his companion should carry on, and the older man spoke again.

“We’re investigating the deaths of several public figures.”

Her eyes betrayed her confusion. “Investigating?”

“That’s correct.”

“You kidnapped me because you’re…investigating something?” she said, her tone skeptical. “Who are you?”

Another rapid glance at the younger man by the older one.

“That’s not important,” the younger man said, speaking for the first time in a quiet voice.

“It is to me,” she fired back.

The older man leaned forward. “Miss Vega, I’m an admirer of your work. Tell me truthfully, how are you connected with Admiral Torreon, Archbishop Rene Bolivar, and Robert Perry?”

She processed the names, a range of expressions flitting across her face before her eyes settled back on the older man.

“Connected? You keep using that word. The answer is, not at all. I’m not connected to them in any way.”

“You were at the attack on the admiral, and you were at Perry’s hotel in Arizona when he died,” the younger man said, his tone mild, his demeanor disturbingly pleasant.

“I…I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she waffled, trying to buy time.

“Miss Vega, I think you do,” the younger man said. “I think you’re the link between these three men, and you know why they were killed.”

The room was quiet except for the soft whirring of the fan. She leaned back and closed her eyes, her head splitting now. “I really don’t know what you’re getting at,” she said, and then her eyes popped open. “What do you mean, why they were
killed
? Torreon died in his sleep. Perry from drugs. The archbishop was accidental. You’re not making any sense.”

“Answer the question. There’s a connection between all three, as well as yourself. And with two others. One of whom was the head of the anti-cartel task force. Captain Romero Cruz,” the older man said.

“Cruz? I didn’t know the man, I swear. I never met him, and I never met the archbishop, either. I have no idea what you want,” she said, her voice cracking at the end. She looked over at the young man. “Can I have some more water?”

He stood, and she noted that he was taller than she’d thought from when he was sitting. He went to the refrigerator, retrieved two water bottles, and walked over to her and placed them on the table.

“There. Now how about you cut the shit? I saw you in Arizona. Stop lying. You were there, and you were at the boat christening.”

She reached for a bottle, thinking furiously, and her eyebrows rose in surprise. “Wait – you saw me there? Which means…you were there, too.”

The older man stood and motioned to the younger, and they stepped away and had a hushed discussion. When the older man returned, the younger pulled up a wooden chair next to him and sat down.

“Miss Vega, I’m going to tell you a story,” the younger man said. “It’s the absolute truth, even if it sounds insane. By the end you’ll understand why we had to remove you from your house, and why you’re in incredible danger. Hopefully you’ll be able to help us understand some things that have been eluding us about the connection between you and these others.”

“Can we get back to the fact that you kidnapped me?” she snapped.

“Certainly. I’ll be happy to explain that. There was no other way to have this discussion with you in a safe place, where you would hear us out.”

“You’ll go to prison for life.”

The younger man smiled, which for some reason alarmed Carla more than if he’d hit her. “Perhaps. But I think first you need to listen to the story and answer our questions. Four men have been killed so far, and you’re the only common thread between two of them. And I saw something in your eyes when you first heard the archbishop’s name. It meant something to you. I need to know what that is, for your own safety.”

“You keep saying that. That I’m safe, that this is for my own safety. But you’re kidnappers.”

“We’re investigating four killings,” the older man said. “Four murders.”