Russell Blake - Night of the Assassin

Tortora appraised him anew.

“I believe you. My friend indicated that you’d done the impossible in no time. And he’s not an easy man to impress. If he’s singing your praises, you’ll have your hands full with work whenever you want it.”

They discussed more details, such as names for the passports and logistics of contacting each other, and after an hour, concluded their meeting.

El Rey liked the man. He was perfect. Avaricious but old enough so he wouldn’t be a runner. Morally neutral on the issue of the business, and not squeamish. A good combination. The money would all accumulate in accounts only El Rey had signature authority over, using his new passports and names, so it would be in no danger once it hit his banks. As to the cash, he wasn’t worried about that disappearing. There were some things that just weren’t worth doing, and he got the sense that the pawn shop proprietor had quickly figured out that fucking him over was one of them.

He had a spring in his step as he returned to his Toyota, one more problem dealt with. This was shaping up nicely, perfectly following the plan he’d had in mind since he was sixteen. He would become the highest paid assassin in the world within a few years, famous for meticulously-planned sanctions that defied belief. He would become a sort of miracle worker. El Rey would be a name that cartel bosses used to scare their kids at night, and it would be synonymous with a ghost, a phantom who could do the impossible. In a world where nobody got scared, an environment where violence and death was daily currency, there would be something that even the most hardened veterans would fear.

The name of the beast.

El Rey.

The jungle was everywhere. That was El Rey ’s impression of Costa Rica, if anyone were to ask him. It was everything he’d always imagined when he heard the term rain forest, right down to the toucans and monkeys. And even though everyone spoke Spanish it was as different from Mexico as he imagined South America would be.

He had arrived there to learn how to fly. Specifically, how to operate prop planes and helicopters, should he ever need to be able to do so. Rather than resting on his laurels, he’d made a personal commitment to continually learn new skills, expanding his abilities as well as the likelihood of survival. In the end, he hadn’t been able to convince the Mexican special forces to teach him how to fly, so the first stop after he’d gotten his new papers was to find a place off the beaten path where he could master the discipline.

The flight school in the capital city of San Jose had been more than willing to teach him everything he wanted to know for certification of fixed wing, and he had clocked almost all the required hours he needed. Helicopters were a different story, but he’d been able to find a pilot who was willing to unofficially give him lessons and explain everything about the mechanics of the crafts. El Rey had been in Costa Rica for three months and was about ready to get the hell out and back to what he considered civilization. For his money, San Jose couldn’t hold a candle to Guadalajara or Monterrey or Mexico City.

He pulled up to the hangar at the edge of the runway and got out of his rental car, and after greeting his trainer, they moved to the small Cessna 172 prop plane to undertake their pre-flight checklist. El Rey was now certified, but he wanted to clock as many hours as possible while he was in Central America so he was confident in his abilities.

Just as they were getting into the cockpit, his cell phone rang, and he excused himself for a moment and took a call.

It was Tortora.

“Our friend called me. He has an urgent matter for you. Thinks it could be a real opportunity. How soon can you be in Sinaloa?” Tortora asked.

“Tomorrow, at the latest. I have to look at flight schedules. Worst case I can charter a plane. I’ll check in later to let you know what my timing looks like. Did he indicate how urgent?”

“He didn’t go into detail. Said he’d prefer to discuss it with you in person. Shall I tell him you’re en route?” Tortora asked.

“Please. But don’t tell him from where. That’s our little secret.”

“Of course not. Call me when you know more,” Tortora said, and then the line went dead.

El Rey walked over to the plane.

“Sorry, Roger, got to cut out. Tell me. Just for the sake of conversation – how much would it cost to hire a plane to get me to Mexico City if I needed to leave in the next few hours? My mother isn’t well,” El Rey explained.

“I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the distance? Fifteen hundred miles?”

“A little less. More like twelve hundred.”

“Boy. I don’t know. You want me to make some calls and find out? Not too many prop planes could make that without setting down at least once. You care if it’s a jet or prop?”

“Not really. But I need to get going by one o’clock on the outside.” El Rey checked his watch. It was nine in the morning.

“I know a guy who has that King Air over there. He might be into it. But it would probably be ten to fifteen grand…”

“Make the call.”

An hour later, and they’d gotten nowhere, so El Rey went to the passenger terminal and checked with Taca. They had a five o’clock flight that would get him into Mexico City a couple of hours later, and then he could get a plane to Culiacan in the morning. He booked it, paying in cash, and returned to his leased condo to pack. He didn’t have much – a rucksack with his clothes, thirty thousand dollars in hundreds and a credit card, in the name of one of his companies, with a fifty grand limit. In his line of work, he’d found it paid to travel light.

The flight to Mexico City was tiresome, and once he landed he exhaled a sigh of relief. For all its exotic charms, Costa Rica hadn’t been his cup of tea and he was glad to be back on home turf. He checked the flight schedules to Culiacan and found one that departed at eight a.m., which would put him in Culiacan with time to spare for an afternoon meeting with Valiente. He booked a room at one of the large hotels connected to the airport terminal that catered to business travelers and settled in for the night, preferring to order room service than venture into town.

The next day, he touched down in Culiacan and rented a car at the airport. Now that he had a variety of IDs it made life much easier for him. He could change around who he was whenever he felt the urge, avoiding any chance of there being a pattern in his coming and going.

When he arrived at Valiente’s office, the cartel honcho greeted him warmly and invited him to sit. After some cursory pleasantries were dispensed with, including congratulations on Valiente being the new regional chief for the Sinaloa cartel’s northern operations – Altamar’s former role – they got down to business.

Valiente slid a grainy black and white photograph of a man across his desk to El Rey, who studied it before looking up at the narcotraficante, no emotion showing on his face.

“That’s German Coriente. Known as ‘ El Chilango ’. He used to be one of the ranking members of the Jalisco Cartel,” Valiente explained.

El Rey waited patiently for more.

“He disappeared a year ago, after a contract was put out on him by the head of our Sinaloa cartel, Don Aranas. The contractor who took the assignment failed to execute him and was never heard from again. We assume that El Chilango stopped him somehow, and extracted information from him on who hired him to do the hit. Shortly afterwards, he disappeared, and it has taken a full year for us to find him,” Valiente continued.

“Where is he?”

“Australia. He got a Chilean passport and moved to Sydney, where nobody knows him. He’s hired several mercenaries for security, and bought a wine exportation company to establish residence there.”