Russell Blake - Revenge of the Assassin

Thank God for Dinah. They were building a life from nothing, and she was a perfect partner. He felt guilty talking shop with her — he’d never told her that El Rey had been responsible for her father’s death, preferring to leave the fiction in place that it had been some sort of crazy, or a robbery gone horribly wrong. Better to let the dead slumber in peace than allow them to ruin the lives of the living. Knowing the truth wouldn’t have helped Dinah get over the heartbreak of a murdered parent, so there was no point to sharing it with her.

As the car wound its way through traffic on the way back to headquarters, Cruz remained silent, lost in his thoughts. They only had a few days to go until the president’s speech, and he didn’t like their chances. Barring a miracle, Cruz dejectedly realized that he wouldn’t be able to catch the assassin in time, which meant that the only thing that stood in the way of El Rey murdering the president was his security detail.

That wouldn’t end well.

El Rey put the final touches on the device he had so painstakingly assembled and smiled at the thought of the seemingly near escape from his apartment. He’d caught the cleaning woman paying just a little too much attention to him, and she’d been a hair too quick to avert her gaze when he’d noticed her. The effort to appear uninterested had appeared almost comical to him, and he’d quickly determined that his days in the apartment were over. That night he’d moved his few belongings out under cover of darkness and had rigged things to provide a nasty surprise for anyone breaking into his place. Which he had no doubt would be the police.

He’d seen the news coverage of his old photo and had thought that he’d sufficiently altered his appearance to be in the clear, but the woman had somehow matched him. It happened, occasionally, and rather than dwell on it he’d cleared out. But he wasn’t worried. It had been a fluke, plain and simple.

He stepped back from the work table and inspected his project with pride of craftsmanship. It would do.

Now all that remained was to get it within range of the president, and the rest would be history in the making. Then he could go back into retirement and savor the life of a rich man in South America — a future that in no way seemed bad. It would all be concluded soon enough, and then he would disappear, never to be heard from again.

Don Aranas greeted his guest, Estaban Mareli, and offered him a seat at a small table in the open air of the courtyard. This particular home was built in a typical hacienda fashion, around a private central court with a fountain, with Saltillo tile underfoot and rustic sponge painting in bright orange and purple hues splashing color on the walls. The water tinkled in a pleasing way, creating a kind of Latin Zen effect.

“Coffee?” Aranas offered to Mareli, gesturing at the white clad man waiting in the wings by the dark alder and stained glass French doors.

“Please.”

Aranas held up two fingers; the man nodded before turning to enter the house.

Mareli studied Aranas’ face for a few moments. “How are you, my friend?” he asked.

“Ah, you know. Things could be better. We’ve lost a number of shipments on the Mexican side of the border over the last few months. An irritant, although in the end, not material,” Aranas replied.

“Yes, I’ve seen the numbers. I agree it’s unfortunate. But sometimes a necessary cost of doing business, eh ?”

“Perhaps. But I liked our luck better under the last two regimes. This one seems to be favoring groups that aren’t aligned with our interests, and that is causing complications.” Aranas rubbed his chin. “I thought we had it taken care of, but it appears not.”

“Well, the only thing that is sure is that nothing will remain the same. Change is everywhere. We adapt or we perish,” Mareli offered.

The coffee arrived, and neither man spoke until the steward was out of earshot again.

“Yes. Change. Speaking of which, we had another regrettable occurrence recently. Our mutual acquaintance, Carlos Herreira, was passing information to the Mexican authorities. Steps had to be taken,” Aranas said.

Mareli feigned surprise. “The authorities? Jesus. What are people thinking these days? I don’t understand it. He was always dependable, and then one day he goes and does something like this…?” He put one hand on the table and studied his nails, as if for guidance. “What is there to say? When a dog goes rabid, you have to put him down, even if you love him. I’m sure you only did what was necessary.”

Mareli had known this was going to be the subject of the discussion, but figured a show of indignation was obligatory. He lifted his fine china cup and took an appreciative sip of the rich brew.

“You introduced us.”

“Seven years ago. And the man was as reliable as a Swiss watch until now.”

“Hmm. He was indeed. I do not hold it against you. He was honest, until he wasn’t. And he paid the ultimate price for his treachery,” Aranas said.

Mareli showed no emotion, but internally he was relieved. One never knew how the cartel chiefs would react, although Aranas was one of the most stable of the bunch. What the fuck had the idiot been into that he’d crossed the Don? It didn’t take a genius to understand that was suicide.

“So how can I help you today? How can I be of service?” Mareli asked, wondering what the drug lord wanted. He suspected he knew, but didn’t want to presume.

“Our arrangement is still working well — once the drugs hit the border, we’ve had minimal problems, which is good for everyone. I’m grateful for the protection, as always, even if I do think it comes at a steep price,” Aranas observed. The fifteen percent of the profit he paid Mareli’s group for safe passage into the U.S. and assistance with distribution always came up, but there was no negotiation. And in truth, it was worth it. In the old days, they could expect at least ten percent losses due to law enforcement and sometimes more. It netted out to be roughly the same, but there was peace of mind with Mareli. “I only wish our Mexican officials were as honest as you are. You do a deal with them, and then they stab you in the back as you’re getting up from the negotiating table. A pity, and unforeseeable, but it is what it is.”

“Our arrangement has survived the test of time,” Mareli agreed.

“Carlos’ untimely demise has put me in an uncomfortable situation. I need you to find me someone to replace him. Someone you can vouch for, who will be dependable. I think this year and next will be banner years in the arms trade for Mexico, and my demand is strong. I’m asking you to help me with this. I don’t like dealing with the freelancers that come and go. Yet another headache I can do without.”

Finally. The real reason for the summons. Aranas needed another conduit for weapons. Not unexpected, considering the conflict he was involved in, or the abrupt termination of his last vendor.

“I will ask for a recommendation. There might be an existing entity, or someone who wants to get into the business. We can take care of the supply issue on our end, but he’s largely on his own with the Mexican side. Let me talk to my people and see what we can come up with,” Mareli assured him. “Is this an urgent matter?”

“No, but I don’t want to wind up in a situation where I have to go into the open market when I’m having other difficulties. As you know, word travels fast, and if rumors of my group being unable to secure necessary arms were to circulate, it would embolden my enemies.”

“I see. I’ll make this a priority. You have nothing to worry about,” Mareli said, returning to his coffee.