Revenge of the Assassin

calculated risk he’d had to take — one that had paid off, in the end.

From that point it had been simple. The modifications he’d made to the remote console had increased the effective range to a hundred and seventy yards, which was more than enough for his purposes. He’d taken it out and practiced with it for a week in a deserted area outside Puebla, and had gotten so good with the controls he could fly it with his eyes closed. Effective flight time was under ten minutes before the battery ran down, but he’d calculated that three minutes was sufficient. Even with it sitting in standby mode overnight, he’d had five minutes of power left. More than enough for his purposes.

The explosive had been key. A concentrated, extremely powerful variation of C-4 manufactured in Iran; it had three times the explosive power, which meant that six to eight ounces would create the desired lethal blast zone. All he needed was to get it within fifteen feet of the president to vaporize him. Mission accomplished.

With a little makeup and special attention to a close shave that morning, he could pass for a woman, albeit not a beauty. Then again, nuns didn’t typically win pageants, so he felt that he’d fit right in.

El Rey ducked into the alley and jumped on a Vespa motor scooter, straddling it with the nun’s garb now pulled up around his waist. The engine turned over with a puff of blue smoke, and he gunned the gas, then slammed the scooter into gear and roared off in the opposite direction from where his pursuer would be within twenty more seconds. As he approached the far end a police car pulled across the alley, blocking his way. Without hesitation he did a fast turn and set off, full speed in the direction he’d come. Better a cop on foot than two in a car, probably with shotguns.

He slowed as he reached the alley mouth and then executed a tight right turn, catching a glimpse of the pursuing police captain just rounding the corner. El Rey opened the throttle wide, putting distance between himself and Capitan Cruz, who had his gun drawn.

A navy blue car came swerving out of the next street, sending the Vespa skittering from underneath him as he bounced off the hood and then crashed head first into the windshield.

The last thing he saw as he blacked out was a vaguely familiar face nearly obscured by the white balloon of an airbag — the officer he’d shot at the summit — gripping the steering wheel with one hand as he stared in shock at the nun he’d just run down, blood streaming freely from his nose.

Chapter 30

“I don’t give a shit. I want my men here, twenty-four seven. Two in the room, two outside, and if he tries anything, they shoot,” Cruz said to the doctor, who was obviously annoyed with the quasi-military presence of the tactical squad members in full assault gear, toting sub-machine guns and looking menacing. “And he will remain cuffed to the bed. Both hands. And his feet shackled to the rail. This man is easily the most dangerous man in Mexico, so I want no more discussion about what is or isn’t good for his convalescence or pain management.”

“Captain, I understand, but this is most irregular. He’s got a concussion, and a cerebral hemorrhage we’re managing now, after the surgery, and two fractured vertebrae, as well as several broken ribs. He won’t be going anywhere or trying anything. I really think this is unnecessary…” the doctor complained.

“That may well be, but you don’t know him like I do. He’s a magician, not to mention that he’s killed dozens, if not hundreds of people in cold blood. I wouldn’t put it past him to chew his own arms off to escape, so there will be no negotiation. If I need to call the hospital administrator, I’ll be more than happy to do so. What’s it going to be?” Cruz threatened.

The doctor backed down. Fighting for his patients only went so far, and he didn’t need any additional grief in his life.

“Well, I don’t like it,” he lamented pugnaciously and then stalked off down the hall, shaking his head.

Cruz turned to the four heavily armed officers. “I want you on high alert. No fraternizing with the nurses. Do not eat anything, and only drink bottled water. You will be replaced in eight hours. Expect a full-scale assault to free this man, and also expect him to try to kill any and all of you with anything he can get his hands on. Do not let down your guard under any circumstances,” he warned them.

The elevator at the end of the hall opened, and Briones approached, his nose swollen, with a bandage across it holding a piece of gauze in place.

“Broken, eh?” Cruz asked.

Briones nodded. “Damned air bag hit it just the right way. A fluke. It actually blew my hand up, and my hand broke it.”

“So, you punched yourself in the nose?”

Cruz started chuckling, as did Briones. It was a little funny, and the dark humor helped relieve the accumulated tension.

“Yeah, but you should have seen the other guy…”

Cruz grinned, and then described the security precautions in place at the hospital. Briones listened intently and then nodded.

“The doctor just told me that he’s come to,” Cruz informed him. “They spent five hours operating on his skull, trying to drain the blood and fix the damage. He says the prognosis is good. I wish he’d stuck a pair of forceps into his brain and ended this, but that’s not how the Hippocratic Oath works, apparently. So El Rey’s still with us,” Cruz explained. “I’m going in to interrogate him. You want to be a fly on the wall?” he asked Briones.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The pair opened the door and walked into the room. El Rey was handcuffed and chained to the steel frame, and held down with restraint straps for good measure. His eyes followed Cruz and Briones from beneath a bandage enveloping his head as they walked to the foot of his bed. Cruz noticed that he had remarkable eyes. Bright, intelligent, but chillingly void of any emotion.

“What’s your name?” Cruz asked.

The man smiled almost shyly. “You can call me Romero.”

Cruz recognized that the assassin was mocking him by choosing his first name.

“Very amusing, indeed. You’re quite a card, eh?” Cruz leaned over the bed and lowered his voice. “You’ve pulled your last stunt, my friend. It’s over. You’ll spend the rest of your life rotting in prison for your reward. I hope it was worth it…”

El Rey didn’t say anything; just stared at them both with a disinterested gaze before closing his eyes.

“You’ll never be able to keep me prisoner. No prison will be able to hold me. Enjoy your moment of triumph. You deserve it,” El Rey said in a hoarse whisper directed to the ceiling.

“Oh, I think you underestimate my resolve. I agree, under normal circumstances you’d have a good chance at escape. But you, my little bird, are going to be kept in solitary in a special facility that houses the worst of the worst — under twenty-four hour guard. If you’re lucky they’ll give you solid food once in a while, and not make you eat through a straw. Assuming you can even chew, and the doctor that did the surgery on your brain didn’t scramble it.”

El Rey opened one eye. “Do what you have to do.”

“Oh, I intend to. Believe me. But I do have one question. Who hired you to kill the president? Who put you up to it?” Cruz asked.

“It was pro bono. Call it my charitable contribution to the great nation of Mexico.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. But no matter. I suspect whoever did it will want their money back, or will be looking for you harder than we did. You’ll be praying the prison is secure every night as you cry yourself to sleep,” Cruz said, smiling humorlessly.

“Right. You’re delusional. I watched the president being blown into a million pieces. Nice try, though.”

“Maybe you thought you did, but I’m afraid all you accomplished was to kill a few more innocent men. Seems like your reputation is a little bigger than your actual effectiveness. Par for the course with blowhards,” Cruz said.

“I’m sure that’s the last thing your men were thinking when they disintegrated in flames at the apartment. I read about it in the paper. Sad, really. You don’t train them very well, do you?” El Rey