Russell Blake - Revenge of the Assassin

Three hours later, the first piece was assembled, and he took a lunch break, unwrapping a sandwich he’d bought at one of the family-operated shops by his apartment. Mexico City made the best tortas , hands down. It was one of the things he’d missed while out of the country. Argentina had brilliant beef and Italian food, but if you wanted a good old-fashioned torta with everything on it, there was only one place to go.

He absently thumbed the ridges of his abdomen, where the muscles could have been the model for photos of washboard abs. His exercise regimen included three hundred chin ups and three hundred sit ups per day, in addition to the same number of pushups, a weight training course, an hour of martial arts stretches and drills, and an hour of hard cardio. He’d been addicted to his routine since a teenager and was Spartan in his existence. Other than tortas .

Finished with his break, he studied his project, and then nodded to himself. It was perfect. Now he would need to create a foolproof cavity for the detonator to fit. He plugged a digital scale into the wall, and then set the triggering device he’d made earlier on it. Five ounces. He’d weighed the explosive earlier, and it had come in at nine ounces. He’d considered more explosive, but based on his research into the material, that would be enough to ensure a death zone of twenty feet. More than enough for what he had in mind.

Next, he set the first part of the contraption he’d built on the scale, and then set to creating a cavity for the trigger. It was slow going, but eventually he was done, and he placed it back on the scale. Five ounces eliminated, for a net addition of nine ounces once the explosive and trigger were in place. He returned to reading the specifications, and soon concluded that the new, improved device would work. He’d know soon enough.

He moved to the far end of the workbench and set about assembling the specialized electronics for the unit, which occupied much of the rest of the day. By the time he was finished, it was getting dark, and after swigging his third liter of water, he moved his work and re-packed his tools. He would be back tomorrow, and in a few more days would start experimenting. But the hard part was done. He’d built the hardest part of his president-killer.

El Rey donned his shirt and rubbed his hand over the two day stubble on his head. He’d opted for a new look and had shaved his head and facial hair to the same length. The difference was remarkable. He looked more like a Latin rap star now than a laborer, which was immaterial to him — aesthetics had never been important. It was all about the final result, which was invariably more about planning than looks. That, and execution.

He smiled to himself.

Execution, indeed .

Briones knocked twice but entered the office without waiting for a response. Cruz looked up from his computer screen, where he was going over budget and personnel requests. The task force was burning money on the El Rey hunt, but it couldn’t be helped. Just the payments to informants in the hopes of securing a meaningful lead were now up over a hundred thousand dollars — with nothing to show for it. That was a lot of petty cash in a month. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the following month they wouldn’t have that burn. The most dangerous public presidential appearances would be over. If they were successful in stopping El Rey , the money was noise. If not, Cruz wouldn’t have to worry about it. He’d be out of a job.

“Yes, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?” he asked.

“We’ve got a lead. An anonymous call came in yesterday asking about the reward — wanting to know more details about it. We’ve had our share of these, but this one seemed genuine. One of the desk guys fielded it and talked the caller into coming in to headquarters. She’ll be here in twenty minutes,” Briones reported.

Cruz looked at his watch. Twelve fifteen. “She? Who is she ? What do we know about her?”

“Not much. She was guarded on the line. Wanted to understand how the payment would be paid, and whether it would be subject to tax,” Briones said.

“Tax? Interesting. That’s someone who believes she’s going to be collecting…” Cruz smiled.

“That’s what I was thinking. Which is why I’m excited.”

“What’s her name?”

“All she would give us was a first name. Gabriela,” Briones said.

“Put her in one of the interrogation rooms on the main floor when she arrives. I want to tape our discussion.”

Cruz’s building had two floors of interrogation rooms. The main floor was for friendly questioning of low priority suspects. The basement chambers were more discreet, and there were no recorders or observation rooms — only drains in the floor and electric outlets.

Briones nodded and left, a noticeable spring in his step. He’d taken the hunt for El Rey personally ever since the assassin had given them the slip on the rooftop. Truthfully, he’d been emotionally invested before that — El Rey had, after all, shot and almost killed him ten months earlier. So the lieutenant had skin in the game, as well as blood. The prospect of information leading to his capture had noticeably improved his disposition.

Half an hour later, Cruz’s phone rang. The woman, Gabriela, was waiting downstairs.

He strode to the restroom and ran cold water over his face, using some to smooth his hair, then dried himself with a paper towel. His eyes stared back at him, and he couldn’t help but notice the shadows beneath them. The hunt for the super-assassin was taking a toll on everyone but El Rey , apparently.

Briones waited outside of meeting room two, his hip holster empty. Cruz wasn’t wearing a gun — it was locked in his office. He didn’t plan on going outside.

“What have we got here?” he asked perfunctorily.

“Fifty-eight, anxious, greedy eyes. I gave her a soda and told her I couldn’t answer any questions, that the leader of the task force would be with her in a few minutes.”

Cruz smiled. Briones was learning.

“Let’s go meet our mystery woman, shall we? Gabriela, right?”

Briones nodded and opened the door. Cruz strode in with all the self-importance he could muster, Briones trailing him before closing the door. The two Federales took seats next to each other, facing the woman, who seemed nervous and fidgety. Behind them, a one-way mirror reflected the harsh fluorescent lighting.

“I’m Captain Romero Cruz, the director of the DF anti-cartel and El Rey task force. I understand you’ve come with some information for us?” Cruz asked in as official a voice as he could summon.

Gabriela seemed suitably impressed. She looked like she’d had a harsh existence and was clearly not from the wealthy side of the tracks. She was missing several teeth, and her hands were gnarled from a lifetime of manual labor.

“I’m here to find out about the money,” she announced with a voice ravaged by hardship.

“Ah, yes. The money. The reward. For information leading to the apprehension of the suspect.”

“I saw his photo on the television. It looked different, but it was him. I’m sure of it.”

“Yes? Why don’t you tell us about it?” Cruz suggested.

“How do I collect the money? Is it in cash? Will I have to pay taxes on it?” she demanded guardedly.

Cruz sat back, allowing a moment of impatience to flash across his face.

“Good questions. It will be paid by check following the successful capture of our quarry. And no, you won’t have to pay taxes. But you don’t need to worry about any of this if you don’t have information that results in us finding him,” Cruz explained.