David Lindsey - The Face of the Assassin

He knew from the GPS where Bern had been when he made his phone call. He knew the vantage point Sabella was speaking from. And he agreed with Bern that Sabella was probably in an upper-story room on the north end of the plaza.

But he needed to have some idea where Mondragon was. He knew how the son of a bitch worked, and Quito, too. They were hanging back off the plaza, waiting for their boys on the street to shuffle the cards and stack the deck. And Quito’s boys were good at that, so it wouldn’t take too long. Vicente would be sitting in his beloved Mercedes, probably a block away from Jardin Morena. Kevern only hoped he wasn’t too late and that they hadn’t all moved on somewhere else.

When they arrived in Santa Luisa, Kevern told the driver to keep a two-block distance from the plaza, approaching each perimeter block from one end so he could look the length of it for the Mercedes. He spotted it on the second turn. Holy shit.

Taking no chances, he had the driver pull to the curb a block away.

“Give me your keys,” he told the driver. He did. “Give me your cell phone,” he added. He did. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he explained. “I’m one of the good guys, but I’ve just got to have a car at my disposal in case I fuck this up.”

He got out of the car in the driving rain and started back toward the Mercedes, hugging the walls of the buildings to try to ward off a drop or two. It didn’t work. The poor man’s architecture in Mexico City wasn’t big on overhangs. Every drop that fell went out of its way to land on him.

But God loved him anyway. When he spotted the Mercedes again and saw where it was sitting, everything was perfect. It was in the middle of the block on the opposite side. On his side, cars lined the curb. He would have cover all the way, until he got even with the Mercedes. Then it would be just a sprint across the narrow calle and he’d be at the driver’s window.

Or he could take his chances and shoot from cover. He thought about it. The only person he could be sure about was the driver. For whatever reason, Vicente always sat directly behind the driver. Susana would be on the other side. Vicente didn’t carry a gun, but there was one behind the driver for him. Big question: Was Quito on the passenger side? Or was he off helping the boys?

Kevern decided that a long shot was too risky. If he missed the driver, and if Quito was there, he’d have three people shooting at him. If he got up close and fired fast shots point-blank through the driver’s window, he’d have a good chance of getting Quito, too, if he was there. No good going after Mondragon, as he might hit Susana in the process.

Shit. Enough planning. Suddenly, his stomach rebelled. He didn’t vomit, but he spit up a ropy dark bile that burned his throat. He was sweating furiously.

Wiping his mouth on his jacket sleeve, he crouched and ran through the rain, staying behind the cars along the curb until he was even with the Mercedes. And then there was more proof that God loved him. Two-not one, but two-cars came along the street from his left, slow cruisers, as if they were wading through the surf. Beautiful.

He waited, soaked through and through, until the first one was even with him and then he started across the street. When the second one slipped past, he was two steps from the driver’s window. All he did was reach out and pull the trigger twice. He saw the splatter at the same time he jerked open the back door, all set to jam the barrel of his automatic into Mondragon’s chest.

“Lex!! Oh!… Oh God… Lex! OhGodohGodohGod.”

He crawled in beside Susana and slammed the door.

“Where the hell are they?” he asked, digging for his pocketknife. He cut the plastic on her wrists, then reached down and swiped the blade through the one around her ankles.

“Baida’s place.”

“How many?”

“Two. Quito. Mondragon.”

“Four altogether, then?”

“Yeah, yeah. One was killed… in the pharmacy, and then the other when they stormed into the apartment. They killed a woman with Baida. Bern’s shot in the leg, Baida, too.”

“Then Quito and Mondragon went up?”

“Yeah, yeah, they went up.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, yeah, but they’re going to kill Baida. He wants to defect? Is that right… is that what Bern was saying?”

“Right,” Kevern grunted, nodding.

“Incredible. Incredible. Then we’ve got to hurry. We’ve got to stop it… Where… are the others?”

“Dead. It’s a flute. It’s a fluke I’m here, just a damn fluke.”

Susana stared at him taking it in. “Then… they think you’re dead.”

“Yeah.”

“Good good good,” she said. She had rammed the fingers of one hand into her thick hair, holding them there, thinking.

Kevern grabbed Mondragon’s gun from its cradle in back of the driver’s seat, then reached over into the front seat with a strained groan and wrestled the driver’s pistol out of the holster at his waist.

“Which one you want?”

She took the driver’s big Sig Sauer because the magazine capacity was thirteen.

“Okay, let’s think,” Kevern said, beginning to feel woozy again, worried that he had busted something inside. He was a little chilled, although sweating like a fool, which you couldn’t tell because he was soaked from the rain.

“You okay?” She had checked the Sig and was looking at him now, frowning.

“Yeah… you know, shit, it was a hell of a wreck. I’m just rattled. Listen, let’s just take it easy goin’ in. If they’re tending to business inside, somebody’s going to be looking out…”

“Let’s go,” she said. “They’re going to check in with this guy sooner or later, and then we’re screwed.”

“Yeah, listen. I’ve got a sitio stranded over there, okay? A block away.” He pointed with his gun. “Just so you know…”

Then they opened the doors and stepped out into the rain.

Mondragon sat in silence for a few moments, his goggle eyes resting on the woman. Bern looked at Baida, whose eyes were fixed on Mondragon. Bern could hear him breathing. He knew Baida had been shot somewhere in the shoulder. He didn’t know how bad it was, but the piece of sheet they had wrapped around the wound was completely soaked in blood.

Without speaking, Mondragon stood and walked out of the room, in the opposite direction from the bedroom. Bern could hear him opening drawers, hear things rattling. He was in the kitchen. When he returned, he was carrying a butcher knife and a small paring knife. He sat down in the chair again and put the knives on the floor between his shoes.

“You know, Ghazi, you were more a human being when you were a Mexican,” Mondragon said. “When you got mixed up in that Middle East shit, the real Ghazi died. Hezbollah. Muslim Brothers. That fundamentalist Great Satan shit. That wasn’t you anymore. So it didn’t bother me to steal the damn money from a radical Islamist. Stupid fuckers.” Mondragon shook his head. “But the Latin American game, the Colombian game, the Mexican game, you forgot what that was like. You forgot that it’s a different kind of chaos here.

“You came back with this big badass reputation. Mr. Terrorism. The demonic genius. Yeah. And right away I fucked you out of four million dollars. Then Mr. Terrorism sends two little maggots from Bogota to London. Now here we are, and I’m about to fuck you again. Only this time, it’s going to cost you everything.”

Mondragon swiveled his eyeballs at Carleta de Leon’s body. Bern guessed that he was doing that only to taunt Baida, to ratchet up the anticipation of what he was going to do to her.

Then Mondragon smiled and looked at Baida. It was the first time Bern had seen a smile on those lips, and it was shocking. Mondragon jerked his head toward Bern.