Russell Blake: Night of the Assassin

The boy nodded his head in the affirmative.

“Another lesson. Never tell me you know something if you don’t. I don’t mind it if you don’t know – not knowing if you haven’t been shown isn’t your fault. Not knowing because you weren’t shown because you pretended to know…that’s stupidity,” Emilio cautioned.

“I know how to tell time; how to read a clock. I’m not stupid,” the boy declared angrily.

“Ah, so he speaks. Very good. But you still haven’t learned my first lesson. By showing me how you’re feeling, either with your voice, or eyes, or body, you’re giving me an advantage over you. And I can use that to destroy you. So we’ll work on you learning to control your emotions; to be cool and collected at all times. It’s the first lesson I’ll teach you, and probably the single most valuable.” Emilio studied the boy’s features, the dark brown eyes radiating a quiet intensity. “Once you master the ability to manage your inner domain, you will have power over others, instead of them having power over you. Learning to do so is a matter of practice. The more you practice, the more composed you’ll become, and the faster you’ll progress. It’s not just about hiding your emotions from others – it’s about arresting your state. If you lose control, you lose. It’s that simple. If nothing else, always remember that. You lose.” Emilio glanced at the pitchfork, then back at the boy.

“And something tells me you don’t like losing, eh? Well, here’s another piece of experience from a lifetime of mistakes: winning takes work – usually a lot of it. And practice. And commitment. Which is where I come in. So happy birthday, treat your watch with care and it will function well for many years – and get to the hay – it’s not going to move itself.”

Emilio turned and strode out of the building and onto the dirt riding path, leaving the boy to his thoughts.

Emilio could tell he was one tough little bastard, that was for sure. It wouldn’t be easy reining him in. It was like with the horses. You had to break their spirits sufficiently so that they could learn how to behave in a productive manner, but not crush them entirely – you wanted a thoroughbred that desired to win…or it became a plow horse. Don Miguel was a smart man, and he had been clear that he expected the boy groomed to be a suitable heir to his rapidly expanding fortune. The next five or six years would be the ones that forged the boy’s character and made him into whatever he would ultimately be. Tough was good. So was stubborn. And smart. Don Miguel had stressed how intelligent the boy was, devouring every book he could get his hands on. That could be a powerful combination of character traits. Emilio would steer him in a direction where he had an outlet for his obvious simmering anger.

The Don didn’t have time to raise him and teach him what he’d need to know. Every day brought more and more threats to the Don ’s survival; the truth was, he would be in hiding much of the time, directing his affairs from a safe distance. Don Miguel was now a major player in the Mexican trafficking scheme, but with the spoils came the risks. There was a constant and never-ending supply of enemies who would cut his throat for the slightest advantage. The danger was very real and immediate. So he would leave his beloved estancia, his horses, and become a general in the ongoing war, coming home only for brief visits when he deemed it to be safe. It was an unforgiving existence that could end at any moment, but it was he life he’d chosen, and now he ran things in much of northern Sinaloa – he was becoming a fabulously wealthy man, even by cartel standards.

In the Don ’s business, there was no retiring, no quitting to pursue other interests. The trade operated according to the law of the jungle: you kept killing until something killed you. If you were the meanest and smartest predator, perhaps you’d have a long life. So far, Don Miguel had proved to be up to every challenge. That could change in a blink, but Emilio didn’t think so. He was one in a million; easily a genius, as well as utterly ruthless and clinically calculating. That combination of traits was rare, especially in a business that boasted more testosterone than a boxing club.

But the Don was also looking to the future. He realized that the boy would always be a target, no matter what pursuit he chose as an adult. Which meant that he needed to be equipped with skills that would enable him to survive in a world filled with enemies. Even if he didn’t become a predator himself, he would need to learn the lessons that would keep him from showing his soft underbelly to those that would cheerfully rip out his entrails.

Emilio was the boy’s best shot at survival. He would teach him the lessons he would need to learn well in order to stay alive, and hopefully to flourish.

He would make the boy into a man.

Starting today.

Sixteen Years Ago

The boy had grown considerably over the thousand days since Emilio had taken over his care, and had mastered all of the tasks he’d been assigned. He was remarkably self-possessed, excelled in his studies, and had worked diligently on his exercises. Emilio had transitioned him from hay to a real workout, in order to keep up with his rapidly-developing physique. His upper body was sculpted by a series of isometric exercises, culminating in chin-ups and push-ups; his lower body was conditioned with increasingly longer runs. Even as he approached his fourteenth birthday, he could easily be mistaken for two years older and his gait had taken on the measured confidence of an athlete.

Don Miguel had occasionally stopped by – each time he’d been surprised by the boy’s development. Gone for six months at a time, it seemed that with each visit, the boy was a few inches taller and with a few more pounds of muscle. Don Miguel was pleased with the metamorphosis and indicated his satisfaction with generous increases in the boy’s allowance, as well as in Emilio’s remuneration. The boy was now easily half of Emilio’s workload because the number of skills to be learned increased with his age. He was already an accomplished horseback rider and swimmer, and had shown considerable aptitude for archery. It wasn’t unusual for the boy to spend hours each day patiently firing at targets with his hunting bow, gradually increasing the distance as he mastered a given range. That was how he approached things – methodically, analytically. He’d quickly taken Emilio’s counsel to heart and worked at controlling his emotions no matter what the stimuli. Emilio had taught him any number of tricks to help him remain detached and calm in any situation.

On his fourteenth birthday, Don Miguel was nowhere to be found, but had sent a substantial financial stipend to be lavished on the boy’s newest tier of training – weapons. Emilio had received instructions to teach him to become proficient with handguns and rifles, and had sourced a variety of guns of all shapes and sizes. By this point, he knew the boy would practice until he mastered whatever the challenge was – and he wasn’t disappointed with his firearms progress. Within a year, the boy was a crack shot with any weapon you handed him, firing either right or left handed. He’d become ambidextrous through discipline and application, and spent three to four hours every afternoon at the private shooting range Emilio and he had constructed for his use.

Firearms were illegal in Mexico, but out in the country, with no neighbors for miles and with all the local police on the payroll, nobody seemed to mind the constant volleys of shots that echoed through the trees for hours on end. Nobody was being hurt, no harm was done and everyone was getting bountiful Christmas bonuses each year, so there was no reason to rock any boats. It was live and let live as far as law enforcement was concerned, which worked out in everyone’s best interests.