Revenge of the Assassin

along the route. The Suburbans had bulletproof glass and armor plating, so any danger from a sniper was moot. The president was in far more danger when he’d been standing in the open than in the SUV. At least that part of the ordeal had gone off without incident.

The blast as the storefront exploded tore through the line of vehicles — the third and fourth Chevrolets flipped over from the force, their armor providing slim protection against six mounds of Semtex coated in three- quarter inch steel ball-bearings — the claymore mine-like bombs favored by the cartels. Once the orange eruption had done its work and the trucks were immobilized, an anti-tank rocket streaked from an apartment window four hundred yards away, the laser guidance system directing it unerringly to its target. The Suburban exploded in a fireball, and it was several seconds before the surviving detail opened fire on the apartment, directing a barrage of bullets at the already vacated window.

Smoke and fire belched from the devastated truck, and sirens wailed through the downtown as emergency vehicles raced to contend with the effects of the attack.

Juan Ramon was two miles away by the time the special forces commandos stormed his building, motoring towards the edge of town on his motorcycle, the pizza delivery box on the back rendering him anonymous as the army clamped down on the area in a vain attempt at containment.

The evening news reported that thirty-seven lives had been lost in the savage attack, including six reporters, a host of soldiers and police, and four of the president’s elite personal guard. Fortunately, the president had escaped unharmed, the explosion having narrowly missed his vehicle at the front of the motorcade.

All public appearances were cancelled until further notice, pending a full investigation. Cena was out of the hospital within a week, the damage to his left arm and part of his face requiring two additional surgeries over the next three months, but the prognosis for a full recovery good.

Juan Ramon disappeared shortly thereafter, never to be heard from again.

Chapter 3

Spring in Argentina was mild, the days warm and the nights only somewhat chilly, at least in Mendoza. Sometimes the wind would blow from the towering Andes mountains down into the valley and make things unseasonably miserable, but thankfully this year there had been none of these unexpected surprises. Seasons in South America, like in Australia, were the reverse of the northern hemisphere, so April was in reality autumn for the region, which enjoyed a kind of Indian summer during that period, before plunging into a cold and snowing summer.

The young man pulled his pea coat around him as he made his way past the small markets and cafes on one of the main arteries, stopping at his favorite to buy coffee and a breakfast roll. Groups of high school students loitered across the street, smoking and talking loudly as they waited for their classes to begin. Leaves blew down the sidewalks and into the deep storm drains that bordered every street, acting as a kind of informal network of tunnels for the region’s stray dogs. The man paid the smiling cashier and shouldered past the line of waiting patrons, all in a hurry to eat and run, the business day about to start for the offices around the stock exchange building, to be followed a few hours later by the retail shops at the street level.

He passed in front of the Park Hyatt hotel and meandered through the large park that was a central feature of the downtown tourist area. Groups of Rastafarian-inspired hippies were laying out blankets on the sidewalks of the park to display their handcrafted wares, consisting mostly of leather wallets and beaded necklaces, with the ever popular multi-colored friendship bracelets a staple. An odor of marijuana lingered over the bunch, and the man hurried past them lest one try to engage him in conversation.

The park denizens were largely friendly and cheerful, in spite of their living in near poverty conditions in a nation that was bankrupt fifteen times over. The papers were predicting more power shortages and gas rationing for the year, and the unofficial exchange rate put domestic inflation at twenty-five percent, even as the government number was more like three. Nobody took the official utterances seriously, just as nobody took the tax system seriously. If a small business didn’t cheat early and often, it wouldn’t be in operation for very long. The official tax rate was so high that it rendered most types of commerce impractical, creating a booming secondary economy that operated on an all-cash basis.

The man took in the grandiose buildings of the downtown pedestrian promenade as he sipped his coffee. Mendoza was an odd town — strangely prosperous due to the surge in demand for the region’s excellent wine, while the rest of the nation languished, but with a frailty just below the surface that was uniquely Argentine. Nobody believed that lasting prosperity was possible, which was a direct function of the looting of the country for decades, culminating in the 2002 financial collapse that wiped out much of the nation’s middle class and gutted its economy.

He paused in front of the small storefront two blocks from the park and set his coffee down on a planter as he fumbled with a key ring. After a few moments, the steel grid that protected the plate glass window slid up into its housing, and he found himself staring at his reflection. Longish dark brown hair with sun highlights worn in a laisser faire style, a perennial three day growth of dark stubble, high cheekbones and piercing, nearly black eyes staring out of a light brown complexion. A pair of non-prescription horn-rimmed eyeglasses completed the look, which for all appearances was that of a scattered young academic, or perhaps a painter or sculptor who’d met with moderate success.

He studied the result with satisfaction. The man looking back at him bore little resemblance to the cold- blooded international cartel super-assassin known as ‘El Rey’ — the King of Swords — made infamous by his leaving a tarot card bearing the image of the seated king at the scene of his executions. No, that man was thinner, younger, with black hair and a differently shaped face. The only photographs of him known to exist were from his construction security pass when he’d been part of the crew building a convention center in Baja, and he’d taken care to alter his image for that shot. Cotton stuffed in his cheeks had created marked jowls, short- cropped ebony hair parted on the side and a bushy moustache sculpted a classic Mexican laborer look, as had the skin dye that had darkened his complexion by three tones.

The only thing that man had in common with the aristocratic young proprietor of the shop was a frigidity to his gaze. There were some things you couldn’t change. The slightly tinted Dolce and Gabbana eyeglasses were sufficient cover, though, given that he was an unknown in Argentina. He’d considered contact lenses, but discarded the idea as unnecessary. After all, he was on the other side of the world from his hunting ground in Mexico and was now a respectable business owner dealing in curios and knick knacks for the tourist crowd.

He’d bought the business for a song from the old woman who had owned it for a decade, and even though it barely made enough to cover the rent and his lone employee, Jania, he was happy with the bargain. It gave him something to do, without placing any demands on him. Jania took care of the sales and bookkeeping, which was simple, and he frittered his time away in an innocuous pursuit. Most of his day was spent in his comfortable little back office, and it was relatively rare that he had to deal with customers — a strong positive from his standpoint because interacting with patrons was the one aspect of the business he disliked.

He unlocked the glass door and glanced at his watch. Still two hours before the shop would be open, which meant that Jania would be there within an hour and forty minutes. She was always punctual, along with being very attractive and conscientious, making her the perfect employee. At times, he sensed she would be receptive to a more intimate relationship, but he didn’t want to mix business with pleasure. His life was fine with the bevy of dancers at the strip clubs he frequented. Those relationships were simple and efficient, and nobody probed too deeply into his life. Which was how he liked it. Clean, with no baggage or explanations required; everyone lying as part of the transaction and nobody surprised or concerned about it.

He relocked the door and made his way to the back office, where he reclined in his executive chair and savored his rich cup of brew. He had developed a number of bad habits since relocating; coffee being one of the vices he’d taken up and red wine another. It was impossible not to drink both in Mendoza, so he’d adapted, although strictly limiting his intake to two cups of coffee per day and one glass of wine. He offset these by spending two hours at his gym, an hour spent on hard cardio and another on isometric exercises and weight training, and he’d joined a martial arts studio, where he attended classes four times a week. It was a somewhat tedious routine, but he’d resigned himself to it as necessary, especially since he was number one on the Most Wanted list in Mexico for an attempted execution of the former president. Better to be a dull boy than to invite unwanted scrutiny. He was