Russell Blake - Night of the Assassin

“I can make it. Let’s just get this over with.”

He limped to the door, which Nigel finally opened after locating the correct key.

“Name’s Nigel. Doctor Nigel to you,” he said, offering his hand.

“I’m shot in the leg. Let’s clean it and sew it up,” El Rey said, moving inside.

The walked to the back of the shop, where there was a small exam room with a stainless steel table in the center. Nigel flicked on the lights while Victor returned to the van to shackle their captive.

“Best get you up on the table, then. Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Nigel said, donning a disposable surgical apron and mask. He turned to where El Rey now lay and peered at the wound. “I’ll have to cut away your party dress, if you can deal with the loss.”

“Do what you have to do.”

Nigel expertly untied the dressing and snipped away the neoprene, cutting the entire wetsuit leg off just below the groin and pulling it off. Blood seeped slowly from the holes on both sides of El Rey ’s thigh. Nigel moved to the medicine cabinet, filled a syringe with Novocain and injected it carefully on the edges of the wound, finishing by squirting some directly in. The pain receded, replaced by sweet numbness.

Nigel swabbed the bullet hole and then used a pair of forceps to examine it.

“You got lucky. Missed the bone, and nothing major hit other than muscle. It’ll smart for a bit, but I can stitch you up and you’ll be a new man in no time,” he assured El Rey. “The slug passed clean through so I’ll just dump some antiseptic in, give you some antibiotics, some orange juice, and do a bit of sewing. Job done, mate.”

“Give me two more syringes of the anesthetic, too. I need to do some more work tonight, and it’s helping.”

“Too right, then. Couple of sticks of feel good to go. Can do. Now let’s close you, shall we?”

Fifteen minutes later, the wound had been tended. Nigel sprayed both stitched areas with a metallic silver spray and stood back to admire his handiwork. El Rey sat up and began drinking a bottle of orange juice Nigel had brought him. The vet handed him two bottles of pills and two full syringes.

“That there’s iron, for rebuilding your red blood cells, and that’s doxycycline. Take one every eight hours for ten days. The numbing juice should be good for an hour or two each go. I’d remember to use alcohol to sterilize the area before you inject, and lose the syringe after using it once. Don’t want to introduce any more germs than you need to, right? Now, if you’ll take down your suit, I need to give you a shot in the bum so you don’t die of sepsis.”

El Rey pulled down the zipper at the front of his neck and obliged. The injection in his ass hurt almost as much as the gunshot had. The pain subsided after thirty seconds, and he realized it was hot in the suit, so he left it unzipped when he pulled it back up.

“Are we done?” Victor asked, coming back in after eavesdropping the discussion.

“Yep. He should rest for a few days. Call me if there’s any complications, like high fever or obvious signs of infection.” Nigel gave a wan smile. He fixed El Rey with a steady gaze, his eyes twinkling with merriment. “You’ll have a little pucker there, once you heal, to show the ladies. Cut out the stitches in seven days. Could do it in four, but seven is better if you’re going to be walking around on it, which I imagine you will.”

“Thanks, Doc. You’re a dream,” Victor said, shaking Nigel’s hand. El Rey simply walked out of the room towards the front of the store, anxious to get his captive to the warehouse and fulfill his contract.

He was ready to get to work.

Outside the warehouse, the streets were empty, save for a mangy, lean dog nosing its way down the sidewalk in search of edible bounty. It paused at a rubbish container thirty yards from the sliding metal door, sniffing for anything to feed on. It looked up, startled by the van swinging round the corner, and quickly ran off in search of safer pickings.

Victor got out of the van and slid the door open before driving inside. He killed the engine before returning to the door to close it.

El Rey stopped him. “Let’s get him out of the back, and I’ll take it from here. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

Victor eyed him. “It’s your party. You can play whatever music you like,” he said, strolling to the back of the van and opening the door. El Chilango lay, still unconscious, with duct tape over his mouth, his legs bound with it and his wrists cuffed together in front of him. Victor rooted around in his pocket and wordlessly handed El Rey the key to the cuffs.

They dragged the ex-cartel chief out and dumped him onto the floor.

Victor took a quick scan of the workspace. “Everything yah asked for is here. There’s some clothes, the Sony, and all the rest.” He grinned wickedly, looking cadaverous under the harsh fluorescent lighting. “Just ring me, and I’ll be by in ten. I have to go attend to making sure the clean-up boys did their job and didn’t miss anything. Good luck, mate,” he said, as he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the van. It swung back out onto the street. El Rey closed the large door behind it, latching it in place so they wouldn’t be disturbed.

He took a good look at his prisoner and hobbled to the table in the corner, unfolding the clothes he’d left there before changing into them. Once he was done, he studied the items scattered around the table and moved to a wickedly sharp combat knife and a pair of surgical scissors. He’d set the camera up later. He wanted to get everything right for his performance art debut. He had a very specific idea about how his project would begin.

El Chilango came to with a start and instantly began shivering as he registered the cold cement floor against his naked body. He shook his head in an effort to clear it, tried to move his arms and legs. It was no good. He’d been bound. Out of the periphery of his vision, he made out movement, and he craned his neck to see what fresh hell he’d fallen into. A young Latino man stepped into view.

“I see the smelling salts worked. How are you feeling?” El Rey asked in Spanish.

“What are you doing? What do you want? Money? I have a lot of it…” El Chilango said.

“I’m glad to hear that. Hopefully you have a current will, too. It would be a shame if it all went to waste, no?”

El Chilango grimaced. “I can make you rich. Anything you want, I can give you.”

“That’s an attractive offer. Really. It’s not every day someone offers to make all my dreams come true,” El Rey mused, walking over to a tripod where a small video camera was positioned. He looked through the screen and adjusted the height a little and then, satisfied, pulled a balaclava from his pocket and pulled the knit mask over his head. He depressed the record button and verified that it was operating correctly before moving back to El Chilango.

“What the fuck are you doing? Did you hear me? I can give you any amount of money you want. Any. A million dollars. Five million. Ten. Anything. Just say the number and I can make it happen…” El Chilango was panicking after seeing the mask – he realized what was happening. “Please. You don’t have to do this. I can make you rich for life-”

His protestations were cut off by the clanking of chain feeding through an electric winch that hung overhead. The motor whined, and he felt pressure on his ankles as it slowly started lifting him off the floor.

“Oh God, no. Please. Name a number. Anything…”

Once he was suspended upside down, he began shrieking and howling in stark fear, squirming and struggling in a futile effort to get free. The motor stopped when his head was three feet off the floor. He spun gently in a circle from his efforts, slowly returning to the central position, his face looking in fear at the camera.