Authors: Russell Blake
He took another sip of coffee and closed his eyes.
Today would change everything. He had never been closer. Years of work, and he would be the one who put his stamp of approval on the agreement, which couldn’t have been ratified without his backroom jockeying and the pressure that only he could bring.
A pigeon strutted its early morning mating dance, its cooing a rhythmic lament as it swept back and forth across the roof, the shy object of its affection watching from its perch on the metal edge, eyeing the male’s bombastic display with approval. Step step step swoop and coo, wings to the side, its chest puffed out, fanning the area in what was surely an impressive avian maneuver.
The man watched the show twenty feet away with dry amusement, and then returned to his errand. The breeze was around twelve miles per hour, and he turned the upper knob on the scope several clicks to compensate. Distance, he knew, was two hundred fifty yards from his position on the roof of one of the Wallenstein Palace buildings undergoing renovation. An easy shot with this rifle. Hardly worth his special talents, although he wasn’t going to argue with the million euro fee he would earn for a morning’s work.
He had been waiting for two hours, having posed as a workman the prior week in order to get a feel for the best available position for the hit. This was a tricky shot, at an odd angle from his hiding place, but he had pulled off far worse from much greater distances. And at the end of the day, all his client cared about was the final result. The instructions had been very clear: the assassination had to take place this morning, and no other.
Which was fine by him.
Werner Rauschenbach prided himself on his ability to pull off difficult sanctions, and considered himself to be the best. He’d made a small fortune from his career as a high-priced assassin specializing in political and mob-related executions. The former Soviet republics were rife with gangs battling for supremacy, and every few months he got a call seeking his assistance in the elimination of a rival or a non-compliant politician. He had started off at fifty grand a hit a decade earlier, and had worked his way up now to where an ordinary contract drew between two hundred and fifty and five hundred thousand euros; a higher-visibility target, like the one today, could run as high as a million.
At least it wasn’t raining hard, or worse yet, snowing. That could complicate matters for his getaway. Ready for the action to begin, he slid back the rifle bolt and chambered a round – likely the only shot he would need to fire.
He shifted on the roof tiles and took another look through the scope. Everything was perfect; now he just needed the guest of honor to show up, and he could finish and get out of there.
His breathing accelerated when he saw the Mercedes swing around the corner and move to the front of the building. He knew the car well – one of his hallmarks was research and planning. Executing the target was usually the easy part. Getting away in one piece was a little more problematic. In this case, it was made doubly difficult because of the location: there weren’t a lot of places to hide, and his next best choice had been up on the hill, over seven hundred yards away. Not an impossible distance, by any means, but at two hundred yards he could practically throw a rock and hit the man, so he had erred on the side of caution.
The luxury sedan rolled to a stop near the steps at the front entrance, and the driver got out and walked to the rear door, pausing for a moment before opening it.
Rauschenbach squinted and aligned the crosshairs on the driver’s head, which in the high magnification looked like it was only a few feet away. His finger moved to the trigger, and he waited for his target to appear.
Rejt set his paper down on the seat of the Mercedes and took a last sip of coffee before heaving himself out of the vehicle. On the sidewalk, he handed his driver his empty cup, and for a brief moment, as the sun kissed the garden across the street, the palace standing proudly in the background, he was struck by the beauty of the country – his country, for which he had worked so hard.
The slug tore the top of his head off, instantly terminating brainwave activity, already dead before he hit the ground. The driver ducked and watched his boss crumple in front of him, having barely registered the sound of the shot that ended his life – a sharp crack from near the same gardens Rejt had been admiring.
The driver sprang to the car, putting its bulk between him and the shooter, and fumbled for his cell, dialing the emergency number once his fingers began working again. The shock from the bloody killing only a few feet away caused his hands to tremble almost uncontrollably, and it was all he could do to hold the phone to his ear and demand help from the duty officer who answered.
Several police officers, stationed outside the ministry, jogged to the car from their positions by the front doors, and upon seeing the carnage, drew their pistols and scanned the rooflines for signs of a gunman, but decided to wait for backup before they tried to tackle him – wherever he was.
Rauschenbach was already moving off the roof seconds after he’d seen the minister’s head explode, and was lowering himself to the ground on the far side of the building with a rope, having left the rifle on the roof. He’d used an Accuracy International AWM rifle filched from the German army, which he could easily replace, and preferred to carry nothing from the hit – he built the cost of whatever tools he needed for a job into the budget, ensuring that there was never a trail back to him.
He dropped to the ground and sprinted to a BMW S1000R motorcycle parked adjacent to some scaffolding, and with a glance at the crumpled tarp that he knew covered a dead security guard, pulled on a black helmet, and started the motor with a roar. After looking around one final time, he slammed the bike into gear and twisted the throttle, tearing up the sidewalk before hurtling off the curb and onto the street.
The wail of sirens in the background was drowned out by the sound of the engine as he raced through the gears, bouncing down the cobblestone streets as he wound his way along the twisting route to the highway that would take him out of town. He was just breathing a sigh of relief when a police car swung out of an alley immediately behind him with its lights flashing and siren screaming, and a male voice blared over the public address system in Czech.
“Stop where you are. Pull to the side. Motorcycle. Pull over now. That is an order.”
Rauschenbach considered his options, and then revved the engine into the redline and made an unexpected hard left, flying up a narrow byway barely wide enough for two people. The police car skidded to a stop and reversed, blocking the entrance, and he glanced at his mirror for a split second before pouring on the gas. One of the cops had his pistol out. Werner didn’t want to test the police’s marksmanship skills – it was those sorts of stupid, unexpected surprises that could get one killed.
The little alley veered left and he ducked down as he urged the motorcycle on, the walls streaking by him in a blur, and then he was out of the passageway and bouncing on a manicured lawn, trying frantically to maintain control of the handlebars as the wheels slid on the slick grass. Another police car came around the corner of a nearby building on two wheels, and he fought to steer the motorcycle to the far street on the other side of the park. A third police car blew down the road he was racing towards, and he gripped the brakes, swinging the bike around. His eyes scanned the perimeter of the park in front of him, and then he made his decision and gunned the engine. The bike leapt forward and he pounded up a set of stone stairs, a squabble of sparrows scattering skyward at his approach.
Rauschenbach darted across the road just as another police car veered onto it, and he swerved to miss the vehicle as he made for the labyrinthine streets only a few hundred yards away. The motor howled as he twisted the throttle, and he disappeared around another ancient building just as one of the officers opened fire at him. Chunks of stone flew off the centuries-old façade, and then he was gone, the sound of his revving engine the only trace of his passage.
Four minutes later he got off the motorcycle in an empty church parking lot and walked to a parked light blue Renault coupe. He stripped off the worker’s coveralls he was wearing, balled them up, and threw them into the nearby bushes. His blue pinstripe suit and conservatively striped tie were slightly rumpled but serviceable, and as he eased behind the wheel of the little car he caught a glimpse of his gray eyes in the mirror, the small scar above the right eyebrow an almost imperceptible reminder of a past close call from his days in the military. His salt-and-pepper hair framed a ruggedly handsome face, square jaw, high cheekbones, a slight tan – the picture of a respectable businessman.
He turned the key and put the car into gear, exhaling with relief. The job was done, and he would be in Dresden within an hour and a half, even allowing for some holdup at the border. He was carrying one of his many identities, this time a Dutch passport, and had a rock-solid alibi for his time in the Czech Republic if anyone questioned him. A seller of pharmaceuticals, he’d filled his trunk with samples and literature, and even the most aggressive border agent would come up dry after a few minutes of searching.
He hadn’t stayed free, a frustrating rumor for the authorities, by accident. Nobody had any current photos of him, and any old ones would have done no good – extensive plastic surgery had altered his features to the point where his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him. He was a cypher, a ghost, who slipped across borders with ease, and carried out the most difficult contracts without drama or complications. He smiled to himself at his professional nickname:
Der Eisenadler
. The Iron Eagle. Indestructible, the ruler of the sky. And now with over fifty hits to his credit over an illustrious career.
Not bad for a simple boy from the Berlin slums and a disgraced ex-cop. A millionaire. Homes in Spain, Germany, and Italy. And a book of business from satisfied customers that ensured he had as much work as he wanted. His neighbors knew him as an import/export executive, always traveling, obviously well-to-do, who kept to himself and never made trouble. Which was close enough to the truth, he supposed. He imported cash into his bank account, and exported death.
A commodity that was in constant demand.
Chapter 3
Present day, Zacatelco, Mexico
A battered Chevrolet pickup puttered down the dirt road on the outskirts of town, springs creaking from the washboard surface’s pummeling of its suspension, a red plastic bag taped over its one operating brake light as a safety concession. Raw exhaust belched from a rusting tailpipe, the muffler having rotted out long ago, catalytic converters a silly luxury for the idle rich. Its headlights glowed a dull amber, barely penetrating the two a.m. gloom, the driver squinting as he peered through the smeared bug splatters on the grimy windshield.
Dust swirled in the wind as it roared by the oversized bulk of the stationary black command-center van,
Policía Federal
painted across the side in two-foot-high white letters. From the outside, the vehicle displayed no signs of life, but inside was a hum of activity.
“How much longer until the army gets here?” Lieutenant Briones asked, his voice strained, sitting in front of a flat screen monitor in the rear of the van.
“They said they’ll be in position in five more minutes,” the man next to him murmured, as though raising his voice might alert their target.
“Five minutes! What the hell have they been doing? They were supposed to be here by now,” Briones griped.
“You know how it is.
Mas o menos
.” More or less.
Briones sat back, considering a response, and then decided to let it go. He did indeed know how it was.
“What about our men?”
“In position and awaiting the signal to breach the compound.”
Briones nodded and then lifted a two-way to his mouth. “Army’s late again. But they say they’ll be here shortly,” he reported.
“Damn. What else can go wrong today? Did they think that showing up was optional? Who’s the commanding officer?” the disgusted voice of Captain Romero Cruz, the head of the Mexico City anti-cartel task force, growled from the speaker.
“Your favorite. General Albacer.”
“That explains a lot. I’m surprised he’s still awake. Do you want me to scream at him?” Cruz asked.
“Can’t see that it will do any good. The compound is dark. Five minutes shouldn’t make any difference if everybody’s asleep,” Briones said.
“Are you ready to go in?”
“Yes, sir. The assault force is standing by.”
“Well, thank heaven for small favors. Let’s see if we can take these scum alive, shall we? I want a shot at interrogating them.”
“I understand, sir. We’ll do everything we can to get at least a few survivors.”
“Does everyone know what
El Gato
looks like? You circulated the photos?” Cruz asked.
“Of course. If he’s still got the fuzz, he’ll be hard to miss.”
El Gato
, one of the top captains of the Sinaloa cartel, affected a distinctive beard. He was also known for his shaved head – for which, the rumor was, the facial hair was compensation. He was widely believed to control much of the cartel’s marijuana, meth, and heroin trade in Mexico City. The
Federales
had received a tip from an informant looking at years of hard time for his role in a drunken bar stabbing a few days earlier, who had alerted them to the location of one of his safe houses. Surveillance had been ongoing since then, and a man who looked suspiciously like
El Gato
had been seen going into the house from a black Ford Excursion early that evening. That had triggered the late night strike on the house – Cruz had been tracking
El Gato
for years, but had always been one step behind him.
Not this time.
Their prey was still inside the house, and the lights had gone off at midnight.