Russell Blake - Night of the Assassin

El Rey checked the image through the viewfinder one last time and nodded, satisfied with the composition.

“It’s so hard to create an interesting film. Sustaining the drama, capturing the pathos, making the audience feel like they’re involved…” El Rey lamented.

“Let me down. You don’t have to do this. Please,” the cartel boss whimpered, saliva flecking from his mouth with every word.

El Rey moved to the table and donned a clear plastic raincoat, taking care to snap up the front of it. When he turned to face El Chilango, he looked at his watch and ignited the tip of the welding torch he held in one hand with the long handed fireplace lighter he held in the other. El Chilango ’s eyes grew wide.

“So you can give me any amount of money I want?” El Rey asked.

“Yes. Anything. You’ll be rich. I can make you rich. Millions,” he pleaded, beginning to cry as he saw the blue flame and understood the implications of the camera and his complete nudity.

“Tell me. What does it cost to bring a twelve year old ballerina back to life? How much is a little girl’s life worth? What’s the going rate?”

El Chilango struggled to process the question, to make sense of what was being asked, and then awareness dawned on him.

“Nooooooooo…” Urine streamed down his bare chest as he lost control of his bodily functions out of raw terror.

El Rey pushed the surgical rotary saw aside and picked up a red suede muzzle designed to keep victims silent that Victor had gotten from a bondage store, and approached El Chilango, humming a song he’d heard that morning. Waltzing Matilda. Catchy in an odd way.

Shortly thereafter he began his first film appearance in earnest.

Three hours later, Victor’s phone rang.

“It’s done. Dispose of the remains and hose out the shop. Thanks for everything,” El Rey said, before hanging up. He’d settled up with Victor earlier, so there were ‘no worries’ in that respect.

He pocketed the three small cassettes for the camera and labeled them one through three, then slipped them into his pocket before turning off the work area lights. He was glad he wouldn’t have to clean up after that mess – it was all he’d been able to do to avoid getting soaked with blood in the end. The dismemberment and cauterization had been gratuitous, but then again his little cinematic epic was intended for a very specific audience. He suspected what it lacked in finesse would be made up by the subject matter. He’d stretched things out as long as they would go and, fortunately, El Chilango had been healthy and strong.

It was amazing the amount of abuse the human body could take and still keep on functioning.

Still, in the end, nothing lasted forever.

El Rey limped down the street, still humming, his leg starting to throb but still largely numb from the two injections. He’d get out of town in the late morning and be back home within twenty hours of taking off, with any luck at all.

A few minutes later, he saw the lights of his hotel and exhaled with relief at the thought of a few hours of rest.

It had been a long day.

The Quantas first class lounge was mostly empty so El Rey had the area he was sitting in all to himself. He nibbled on some cashews and drank some more orange juice while gazing through the window at the huge airplanes landing as he waited for his flight to be called. His leg hurt like hell, but he’d be fine. He didn’t want to take any pain medicine but reconciled to perhaps availing himself of the expensive free alcohol that flowed like water in the first class cabin. It wasn’t like he would need to be in total control while thirty-nine thousand feet over the Pacific Ocean. It would be safe to violate his own prohibition against alcohol for once. It was, after all, for legitimate medicinal reasons.

Fortunately, his seat pod folded flat into a bed, so he would be able to sleep for much of the way if he had any luck at all. The trip over had been relatively smooth and he was hopeful that it would be on the return as well. His English was more than good enough to follow the dialog in the in flight films, so he could catch a movie or two while waiting to drift off. He never watched TV or movies back home, so it was a guilty pleasure he planned to indulge while aloft.

The El Chilango contract would be the last of the year for him. He wanted to recuperate from the shooting, and also not be overly available to any of the cartels – preferring to select the assignments he accepted with care. He wouldn’t get to the point where he could command millions for a hit by being open to every job thrown his way. He intended to only take the truly challenging sanctions, thereby creating a reputation as a man who could do the impossible – the court of last resort when only the best would do. That would take as much stagecraft and pomp as it would competent execution. Everything in the end was a performance, and if he managed his career correctly he would soon be the star of center stage when it came to headline-making assassinations.

The loudspeaker announced his flight and an attractive young redheaded Australian woman came to assist him with the wheelchair that sat waiting in a corner. He’d told the airline that he was disabled, a diving accident, and the staff had been more than accommodating. As the perky airline worker pushed him to the gate, he again remarked at how clean everything was that he’d seen while in Sydney. It wasn’t home, of course, but Australia certainly had its charms. He could understand the appeal as a retirement destination, although for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what the people were saying half the time.

Once onboard, he stowed his overnight bag and settled in for the long journey ahead of him. He had booked a seat at the very front of the 747, with nothing in front of him, and he hoped the section would be only a third full, as it had been on the way there.

Eventually the door closed and he saw, with satisfaction, that nobody else was in his row. Thankfully, he’d be left in peace. El Rey plugged his headphones into the center console and adjusted the channel to the classical station, then thumbed through the onboard magazine to see what had been selected for his viewing pleasure by the attentive entertainment concierge at Quantas. A smiling stewardess came down the aisle and offered him a glass of Veuve Clicquot champagne, which he gratefully accepted while returning the woman’s smile. She brought it promptly, along with a porcelain bowl of warm, mixed nuts. She told him to simply ask if he had any other requests or needs. He leaned back in his chair with a weary sigh as he sipped the bubbly ambrosia from the glass flute, and peered through the window while the plane backed away from the gate. Shaking out an iron pill and antibiotic, he washed them down with the last of the elixir, and before long the massive contrivance was lumbering down the runway and up into the cold morning light.