Requiem for the Assassin (3 page)

The younger man exhaled, took a final swig of his coffee, and then leaned back in his chair, a single vertical crease in his brow the only indication he was concerned. He described in a soft voice what he had in mind, his sentences concise and his words crisp, and when he was done, steepled his fingers and waited for a response.

The older man eyed the tall grass at the edge of the tree line, shimmering from the breeze. The mature oaks sighed as the wind blew through their branches. “And you think you can bring this sort of pressure to bear?”

The younger man smiled, his expression almost embarrassed, and allowed his attention to drift back to the vaqueros and their chore. “Oh, I know I can. I’ve been cultivating this contact for years. I’ve done favors in the past without asking for any reciprocation, but there’s always been the unspoken. Still, as I said, it will be expensive.”

“At this point I’m not price sensitive. That went up in a fireball in the Baja hills.” The dark-haired man sat back down and grunted. “Fine. Put it in motion. But I want the whole list handled. No more amateur night.”

“The cartels are hardly amateur.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Chapter 4

San Isidro Huayapam, Oaxaca, Mexico

The last of the group of four men pulled himself through the narrow passage that ran at a ninety-degree angle and then lowered his torso through the treacherous dogleg section. His arms shook from the exertion of negotiating the last hundred meters of a hitherto unexplored offshoot of the Cueva Rey Condoy cave system. The weight of the line he was dragging, including the thin Teflon-coated telephone cable connected to the base camp at the surface, had grown heavier as he progressed, the friction from the longer pull contributing to the difficulty.

His feet slid out of the shaft, and a pair of strong hands steadied him as he got his footing on the rubble that formed the cave floor, a towering heap caused by the upper reaches of the cave collapsing over time. He unclipped the line from his harness and sat by his fellow cavers, glad that the most precarious passage was now behind him.

“Took you long enough,”
El Rey
said from his seated position by one of the walls, his helmet-mounted LED lamp throwing a white glare of light in the newcomer’s direction. “We were getting ready to set up camp for the night.”

The new arrival, Crisanto Aguilar, a professor of geology at the Colegio Nacional in Mexico City and the oldest of the group, smiled at the good-natured ribbing – part of the camaraderie of cavers, who, while competitive, were mainly testing their own limits when they went underground. Still, it never hurt to have peer pressure to force you on when your stamina was wavering, and Aguilar appreciated the prodding by their most recent team member.

“Ramón, so much impatience. The cave’s been here for a long time. What’s a few extra minutes so I can appreciate its nuances?” Aguilar chided.

El Rey
was using the name Ramón Palermo with the cavers, one of numerous aliases he’d created with an eye toward self-preservation. Although he was out of his former life, ghosts and old enemies could surface at any time. His career as the world’s deadliest assassin had made him a marked man with Mexico’s most dangerous cartel kingpin, whose ten-million-dollar contract for
El Rey
’s head was still a concern. Even with a presidential pardon and carte blanche from CISEN, the Mexican intelligence agency, which had blackmailed him into reluctant employment, he never let his guard down.

“I forgot you’re a sightseer,” Alain DuPré, a French expat living in Puebla, said with a grin. He and Aguilar had been in the group the longest, seven years, with the fourth member, Jesus Salgado, having joined three years earlier. “Some of us are Ferraris, built for racing, not for cruising.” He winked at
El Rey
, who nodded and took a drink of water from his canteen.

The assassin had grown intrigued with caving while recovering from the concussion he’d sustained during his last CISEN assignment, and once he’d mended, he’d made discreet inquiries with like-minded groups via the internet until he’d met Aguilar in person. This was the second cave system
El Rey
had explored with the group, and while the physical aspect hardly posed a challenge for his hardened, toned physique, the mental demands suited his appetite for challenge and adventure. He’d quickly discovered that he enjoyed being a half-mile below the earth’s surface, surviving by his wits and driving himself to impossible feats, far more than he’d ever enjoyed rock or mountain climbing. Something about the complete darkness and occupying spaces that nobody had been in before appealed to him in a way he couldn’t have explained, but it was a sentiment he shared with the other three members of his team.

His team
. A misnomer, because each member was entirely dependent upon his own strength and stamina, albeit within the context of working together – a prudent concession to very real risks like injury, hypothermia, equipment failure, and flooding. Their lifeline was the support personnel at the base camp, three of Aguilar’s students who were hopeful to become part of the subterranean group once they’d put in their time on the surface.

The men settled in for a brief rest before moving deeper into the cave, each lost in his thoughts. A jarring ringing shattered the silence, echoing off the walls in a series of reverberations that seemed to go on forever. Aguilar peered down at the telephone that was one of the many safeguards he insisted upon for his well-equipped excursions and raised it to his ear.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“There are some men here to see Ramón. They say it’s important.” The voice of the youngest of the base camp workers sounded tinny and distant over the tiny speaker.

Aguilar looked at
El Rey
. “What? Who are they?”

“Government. Is he there?”

“Of course. Where do you think he is?”

“They want to talk to him. Can you put him on?”

Aguilar sighed and handed the handset to
El Rey
. “It’s for you.”

El Rey
reached out, his face a blank, and took the phone.

“Hello?”

“Your uncle has had an accident. You’re needed immediately.” The voice was flat and mechanical, but the code words had the intended effect.

“An accident?”

“Yes. We were sent to escort you to the hospital.”

El Rey
checked his watch. “I can be back at the surface in four hours. I trust you can find a way to keep occupied until then?”

“See you when you get here.”

El Rey
thumbed the phone off and shook his head. “My uncle has been in an accident. His friends say it’s bad. I need to get back to the camp immediately.”

Aguilar’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He studied the rest of the group. “Well, gang, looks like that’s it for today. By the time we make it back, it’s over.”

“You don’t have to all come with me.”

“That’s not how this works. The whole point to going in as a group is for safety – not that I don’t enjoy your company. But if you were to slip halfway up, you could be dead by the time we returned, and worse, blocking one of the shafts at the narrowest point. Believe me, Ramón, it’s purely self-interest in play here.”

“I can make it. Really. So far nothing’s been that tricky.”

“Afraid not, my friend. Those are the rules. And I’m not going to let you destroy my perfect record of no catastrophes.” He paused. “Sorry about your uncle. It must be serious to drag you back, not to mention warrant sending someone to fetch you.”

“He’s got a lot of clout. Let’s hope for the best. You know as much as I do at this point.”

The sky was darkening when the group emerged from the cave, high streaks of russet and mauve backlit by the sun dropping behind the hills like a dying red ember. Two men waited for
El Rey
beside a black Humvee, and he made short work of packing his few belongings and saying his good-byes before joining them at the big vehicle. The taller of the two shook his hand as the other climbed behind the wheel.

“Nice of you to join us,” the man said, his voice soft, aware the others were watching.

“I’ve had a long day. What can you tell me?”

“Nothing, other than that we’ve got a plane waiting in Oaxaca. But we’ve got to get moving, because on these roads it will be the longest eighty kilometers you’ve ever seen.”

The man wordlessly got into the passenger seat, leaving the rear for
El Rey
. The assassin slung his packs onto the floor and slid in, and soon they were bouncing along the dirt track, little more than two ruts in the lush grass that rose from the dirt road at the bottom of the hill. Fog was creeping into the valleys between the mountain peaks, and the sun’s dying rays lit the white blanket that stretched below them like a fresh snowfall. Once over the nearby pass, the big vehicle had to slow. Visibility had diminished to twenty feet, and the driver was obviously keenly aware of the steep drop should he misjudge one of the curves in the thick haze.

The men exhaled a collective sigh of relief when they arrived at the Xoxocotlán airport, where a Lear 35 waited by the terminal, ready for takeoff. Five minutes later the jet was climbing on a parabolic trajectory into the night sky, the G-forces pushing
El Rey
back into his seat as the pilots urged the plane to its limits.

Chapter 5

Mexico City, Mexico

A delivery van wended its way through traffic on the Calle Miami near the World Trade Center building in Mexico City, ignoring the dissonant symphony of car horns that greeted its aggressive moves. A smattering of pedestrians ambled down the dimly lit sidewalks, most of the illumination coming from retail outlets open late to cater to an evening crowd.

Captain Romero Cruz sat at a curbside table outside a small restaurant, enjoying the pleasant cooling breeze. He took a bite of his
torta
and gazed across the table at his wife, Dinah, who was eating her
tacos al pastor
with considerably greater finesse. He wiped traces of cheese and mayonnaise from his mustache and smiled. “I’m hoping things ease up in the next couple of weeks and we can get away for a few days.”

Dinah smiled, and the light on the sidewalk seemed to brighten. “Maybe someplace with a beach.”

Cruz nodded with a serious expression. “And cold beer.”

“Although tequila’s been known to do in a pinch,” Dinah agreed.

Cruz raised his bottle of Bohemia beer in silent toast. Dinah matched the gesture with her water, her eyes dancing with playful happiness.

“Seriously, though, we need a vacation,” Cruz said. “I’ve been going nonstop for months. And I know it’s been hard on you, with me gone all the time, working.”

“The pool boy hasn’t been complaining.”

“Is that why he’s looking so tired?”

She nodded. “I was worried you’d figure out our building doesn’t even have a pool.”

“Ah. It’s the little things. Always the little things.” He stifled a yawn. “I’m sorry they were able to drag me back into this sewer. If it had been anyone but the president, I would have said no.” Cruz had quit his job after tracking and stopping a German assassin who’d been trying to execute the visiting Chinese premier, but fate had intervened, and the President of Mexico had made a personal appeal to him, imploring him to continue with his duties. Cruz had agreed provided one condition was met, and within forty-eight hours he no longer reported to his nemesis Godoy, a pompous bureaucratic ass he despised.

“The pay raise and getting even with Godoy didn’t have anything to do with it?”

Cruz smiled, took another large bite of his sandwich, and sighed contentedly, allowing her question to go unanswered. “It’s been eight weeks since we last moved. You know what that means.”

“Time to find another pool boy.”

“Correct. We’ll have a new condo next week.”

She finished her taco and sat back. “Do you think we’ll ever have a normal life?”

Cruz had been relocating every few months for so long he’d grown inured to being in a new neighborhood, a new building, six to eight times every year. It was all part of the toll he paid as the head of the Federal Police anti-cartel task force, which made him enemy number one to the powerful narco-traffickers – and which was a constant source of stress on his relationship with Dinah, who, while accommodating, had also tired of the impermanence of their living situation.

“You didn’t marry a normal man,” Cruz said softly, pushing his plate aside and reaching across the table for her hand.

“No, I suppose not. Still, a girl can dream, can’t she?”

“Maybe a long weekend on the Mexican Riviera. Someplace quiet, but high-end. Like Tulum. That area has gorgeous beaches.”

She nodded. “And beautiful water. Oh, how about Cozumel? Alone on our own tropical island…”

“Well, hardly alone if it’s Cozumel, but still, I get your point.”

The traffic light blinked red down the block, and the stream of vehicles ground to a stop. Cruz was considering the wisdom of a second beer when he saw two young men running toward a gleaming ebony BMW near the light. He glimpsed a flash of metal in the hand of one of the men, and was already reaching for the shoulder-holstered Glock under his windbreaker as he pushed back his chair.

“Romero–”

“Dinah, stay here,” he said, freeing his weapon.

The pair was at the vehicle, and he could clearly see the one by the driver’s window wielding a nickel- or chrome-plated revolver, pointing it at the driver and yelling. Carjackings were a common occurrence that plagued Mexico City as the global financial situation continued to erode, a by-product of living in one of the most populated cities in the world, with many millions at or below the poverty line – which in Mexico was a hundred and fifty dollars a month.

Cruz wasn’t in uniform – he’d changed into civilian clothes before going for dinner – and for a split second he considered the wisdom of getting involved in a street crime without backup. But by then he was already halfway to the car, his pistol trained on the thug, and was fumbling for his shield wallet as he closed the distance.