Requiem for the Assassin (31 page)

She eyed him with a combination of fear and awe. “You’re so…calm. How can you be so calm after that?”

He shrugged. “You can panic for both of us.” He slowed as they reached the pavement and turned on the first street. “I’ll drop you off somewhere so you can take a bus north to Loreto. If there’s an APB, they’ll be looking for a couple. So we split up. We’ll rendezvous in Mexico City tomorrow.”

“Really? I can’t come with you?”

The trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’d have thought you had enough excitement for one day. No, we split up, you’ll be in Loreto by late afternoon, and if anyone stops you, which they probably won’t, you show them your ID and tell them a sob story about a sick friend or a boyfriend who did you wrong. Whatever you want.” He glanced at her. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You’re a natural. Just lose the hat. Buy a new one at the station and some different shades.” He slowed more when he spotted an eighties-era Plymouth coupe. “That should do. Follow me once I’ve got it started, and we’ll ditch the rental a few streets away. No point making it easy.” He glanced at his bag in the rear seat. “Get one of my shirts out and wipe down every surface you touched. Dash, door, seat, windows, whatever. I’ll finish it when we ditch it.”

She stared at him like he’d asked her to eat a fistful of live tarantulas, and then twisted to get his duffle.

Chapter 51

Mexico City, Mexico

Briones watched the ghostly outline of the warehouse on the monitor in the back of the surveillance van parked two blocks from the target. He’d been in position for three hours, and the incursion team was primed and ready to move on the building. Three SUVs and a van were parked haphazardly in the walled complex’s lot, and there had been no sign of movement or life since the last appearance by one of the building’s occupants four and a half hours ago at the back door, where he’d smoked a cigarette while drinking a liter bottle of Pacifico beer, commonly referred to as a
ballena
– a whale.

Briones leaned over to the sergeant who would lead the assault team.

“All right. The mics aren’t picking up any movement inside, so they’re asleep. It looks like there are motion detectors there and there,” Briones said, pointing to two areas circled in red on a color printout of an aerial view of the building. “You’ll want to cut the power once the men are in position and go in through both entrances. Use explosive charges to get them open if they’re locked and you can’t pick them quickly. Chances are we’ll only have a minute or two from the time the power goes out until they’re awake and checking why the AC went off, so we want to use those seconds wisely.”

They’d agreed that cutting the power was a necessary evil, but given the area’s penchant for outages, the hope was it wouldn’t cause instant alarm. Their layout expert had looked over the visible structures and assured them that there was no backup generator in evidence, so the plan was to black out the building, get in, and engage the kidnappers using flash bangs wherever possible – nonlethal stun grenades that would be devastating indoors.

The squad was equipped with night vision goggles, offering the men a significant advantage over anyone inside the darkened building. The forty highly seasoned men that were waiting nearby were veterans of countless similar assaults and could be counted on not to make mistakes.

Still, there was always a chance that they’d overlooked something. That was the constant worry when determining the approach and the tactics to use. They’d counted seven men inside after round-the-clock surveillance, and it was obvious the gang was using the building as living quarters as well as their headquarters. No employees arrived during the day, no deliveries or shipments came or went, so the warehouse was either empty or out of use for commercial purposes – which made sense if it was the staging area for multimillion-dollar kidnappings, which paid the rent better than bags of fertilizer or wholesale gardening supplies, the business registered at that address.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said and, after checking his earbud, shouldered his way out of the van, night vision goggles in place.

Briones watched the jiggling greenish image being sent from the sergeant’s helmet camera on a split-screen monitor as he approached his men, who were all similarly equipped: bulletproof vests, NV gear, stun grenades, and standard-issue Beretta 9mm pistols and M4 assault rifles. Four of the men were demolitions certified and would be tackling the doors.

He glanced at the digital readout of the clock next to the console and leaned back, turning to one of the technicians next to him. “Ready to cut the lights?”

“Yes, sir. On your order.”

Briones tapped the comm line live. “Sergeant, get moving. I’ll give the signal on the power when you’re inside.”

The helmet image swept the compound front gate, framed on either side by a high concrete wall and held in place by a length of chain with a padlock, and then an officer carrying bolt cutters knelt by the lock and snipped it off. He stood and pulled the barrier partially open, and the officers darted through, now using hand signals to communicate. Two halogen lights brightened the parking lot from atop a tall metal pole, and the sergeant paused just inside the gate, waiting for them to go out.

Briones turned to the technician again. “Cut it.”

The technician murmured into his headset, and two seconds later the parking lot lights went dark.

The helmet image brightened as the sergeant and his men sprinted to the rear door, another team moving to the front. It was immediately evident both were locked, and after watching the specialists trying to get them open for a half minute of the clock’s relentless countdown, Briones gave a whispered order.

“Blow them.”

Fifteen seconds later the charges were in place, the sergeant communicating with his counterpart at the front door via the comm line, and Briones watched as a blinding flash lit the screens and the doors blew inward, the hinges and locks vaporizing from the blasts.

The sergeant’s camera followed a half-dozen men into the smoking gap, and then they were in a large warehouse, mostly empty except for a few pallets loaded with bags of soil. The men ran to the office structure at the far end of the space as the front door team burst through, and then muzzle flashes lit the pitch black from the office doorway.

Two flash bangs detonated near the door, and twenty
Federales
pressed their temporary advantage, moving in running crouches, nobody firing, their discipline serving them well as they approached. The lead officer tossed another flash bang through the doorway and waited as it exploded, and then the squad was through, dozens of men pouring into the offices.

Several gunshots sounded from within, another two grenades detonated, and then nothing for half a minute. When the sergeant’s voice came over the speakers, it sounded tight but calm.

“The area is secured. Repeat. The area is secured.”

Briones thumbed the microphone to life. “What about the girl?”

Everyone in the van could hear the sergeant’s breathing. “In a back room. Unharmed from our end. Three hostiles are dead, one wounded, the other three in custody. Go ahead and turn the lights on.”

Briones exhaled a long sigh of relief and waved to the tech, who gave the order with a smile of satisfaction on his tired face. Briones stood and pulled his jacket on, emblazoned with
Federales
across the back, and barked instructions to the others. “Get the ambulances in and secure the perimeter. I don’t want anyone getting within a quarter mile of that place until I give the okay. And if I hear a hint of a leak, as in media crews showing up, I’ll personally fire everyone in this room, am I clear?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, knowing that it would be just a matter of time before the buzzards arrived to get their footage for the morning news, but it was an obligatory warning and might make them think twice before placing a cell call. He strode from the van toward the warehouse gate, and two officers joined him. The operation had been a decisive success, ensuring that they’d all have jobs tomorrow, as well as the senator’s appreciation. A line of vehicles raced toward them, emergency lights flashing, bringing the coroner’s staff and medical technicians and forensic crews, as well as the van that would take Isabel to headquarters for a statement and a reunion with her father, who would be the first phone call Briones made once he’d verified with his own eyes that she was alive and well.

Chapter 52

Jorge Tovar finished his breakfast of toast and black coffee and placed the dishes in the sink, where his housekeeper would attend to them on her alternating day’s stint at his house. He looked outside, checking the weather again, as if he distrusted what his eyes had taken in from his earlier peek at the sky, and then moved to the hallway, where his briefcase rested by the front door.

The house was neat, a three-bedroom dwelling in a good section of town, inherited from his parents, who had been successful business people. Tovar had never had any desire to follow in their footsteps, though, and had sold the company when they’d died in a bus accident while touring Guatemala, preferring a career that had called to him ever since he’d been a young boy, up late under the covers every night reading the translation of the latest le Carré or Ludlum novel.

A spy was what he’d sworn to be, and he’d jumped at the chance to work in CISEN when he’d been tentatively recruited while in university, after having made it clear to anyone who would listen that he wanted the lifestyle of a Bond, James Bond, with all the shaken-not-stirred cachet it held.

Reality had been disappointing, but still eventful enough to keep him engaged, and he’d never regretted his decision, even though the last six years had been spent piloting a desk, with rare exceptions – like his running the assassin, which had turned into a disaster in the last few days.

He groaned as he bent to retrieve his case, and scooped his keys out of a ceramic bowl. He’d have to do something about
El Rey
, but he didn’t want to take any further steps until he had a consensus determination from the intelligence committee that oversaw the man’s case. His superior, Bernardo, had agreed to convene a meeting within the next forty-eight hours. The only holdup now was getting Rodriguez to it, his schedule packed since returning from sick leave.

Tovar locked his front door and made his way down the quiet sidewalk to the lot where he kept his car. The streets in his area were clogged with automobiles, making parking impossible in front of his house. The air felt sticky and thick, and his skin seemed to be coated with a fine dusting of grime by the time he made it to his vehicle – one of his few luxuries, an Audi A7 sedan that would do zero to a hundred kilometers in just over five seconds.

He waved to the attendant and continued into the depths of the three-level garage as he checked his email on his phone. Sensitive communications were routed to his work computer, but still, he routinely had to field twenty or more queries every morning before hitting the office.

The car chirped at him as he neared. He tossed his briefcase on the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel, and paused to check his shave again in the rearview mirror – a neurotic habit like many others that had grown on him over time, like moss on a mature tree.

The Audi exploded in a blast of orange flame, lifting all four wheels off the ground in a shower of fire and shattered glass, and the chassis distended like a pregnant Dachshund as the surrounding vehicles’ alarms sounded.

By the time the fire trucks had stifled the blaze, there was little left but the smoldering frame. A later examination would locate enough of Tovar’s dental plate lodged in the blackened dashboard to make a positive ID. His passing warranted two inches in Mexico City’s second largest paper, which described him as a career bureaucrat with the Ministry of the Interior, and it would be a week before the forensics report came back and confirmed trace elements of C-4 plastic explosive in the twisted wreckage. None of which made it to the media, which had already moved on to other news.

~ ~ ~

El Rey
sat in the living room with his computer on his lap, speakers on, munching on a corn tortilla. Classical music filled the room as he tapped in a query. Carla came down the stairs and eyed him before moving into the kitchen to get coffee. When she’d filled her cup, she sat at the dining table, staring at him.

“What is that you’re listening to?” she asked.

“Bach. Cello Suite in D Minor.”

“It’s depressing. Like a requiem.”

“I like it,” he said and returned his focus to the screen.

She’d caught a prop plane out of Ciudad Constitución that had taken her as far as Culiacán, and then an evening flight to Mexico City. They’d both managed to evade any roadblocks, and he’d theorized that the local police had been caught flat-footed – La Paz didn’t see the violence that mainland Mexico did, so when something big hit, reaction times were glacial as lazy and apathetic cops scrambled to remember what real police behaved like.

Cruz appeared in the stairwell and sniffed the air. “Smells promising. Coffee and…?”

“So far just coffee,” Carla said.

“There are tortillas on the counter,”
El Rey
said.

Carla glanced at Cruz. “Come on. I’ll make some eggs and fix a proper breakfast. You can’t live on tortillas alone. At least I can’t.”

El Rey
shut off his computer and went upstairs while Carla worked in the kitchen. He turned on the cell phone he used to communicate with CISEN, and dialed Rodriguez’s number via Skype so the phone’s location couldn’t be traced. When Rodriguez answered, he still sounded congested, but alert.

“
Bueno
.”

“Rodriguez. I think I’ve figured out some of what this train wreck is all about, but it’s not ironclad proof yet.” The assassin paused. “In the meantime, if you’re telling the truth about CISEN having no part in this, that only leaves whoever is in the chain of command beneath you as possible culprits. I’d start with Tovar. He doesn’t strike me as particularly stern stuff.”