Night of the Assassin (Assassin Series 4_prequel) (13 page)

“I’d rape your sorry ass as well, but I’m afraid I’d catch something. So instead, I’ll leave you to the rats. They’ll come soon enough,” he disclosed as he urinated on Altamar’s face, rinsing off most of the acid so the man would remain alive. He wanted the agony to last as long as possible, and he didn’t want the scumbag to get off lightly by dying after a few minutes of unspeakable pain.

“I’ll be back after I get the money you so generously offered. I should have held out for five, but since it’s not about the money, two is more than enough – no point in being greedy, and it would be harder to carry. When I get back, if the rats have left anything of you, I’ll release you just as I promised. Without a face, but then again, you’ve done as bad or worse, so you can’t really complain,” he reasoned. Altamar gurgled, choking. It was now hard to tell given the condition of what had been his face, but the young man thought he might be choking, the acid having removed his nose along with most of his skin and tendons. He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a pocket knife, which he opened as he approached the drug kingpin. Kneeling down, he stabbed it into the man’s windpipe just above his clavicle, and then stepped back to study the wound. Blood frothed forth, and he turned and trotted out to the truck, returning a few seconds later with a pen. He used his teeth to pull out the ballpoint mechanism, leaving a slender tube, which he then jabbed through the bloody opening. He listened attentively, and was rewarded with the sound of air moving in and out through the pen, albeit labored breathing – but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“There. You’ll live. Although you’ll wish you hadn’t. I’ll be taking the lantern. The rats seem to prefer the dark for their work. They seem emboldened by the night. Have a nice rest,” he said, and then walked out of the barn and shut the door. The big Ford Lobo engine started, and the last thing Altamar registered as the wheels crunched on the gravel outside was the sound of the exhaust disappearing in the distance.

Then the rats came.

A green Ford Explorer pulled into the darkened lot of the little restaurant. A man got out, carrying a backpack with two million dollars in it, carefully sealed in Ziploc freezer bags. After surveying the road and verifying he was alone, he swung the rear of the SUV open and withdrew an inflated tire inner tube. He strapped the backpack securely to the tire using two bungee cords and stuck a cheap plastic flashlight into the exterior flap of the bag, the lens sticking out partway. He gingerly carried the ensemble down the banks to the edge of the
Canal Rosales
, and scanning the area again, flicked the switch on the flashlight before putting the inner tube on the water’s surface and pushing it out towards the middle of the moving current. He watched as it floated slowly away from him to the middle of the fifty foot wide canal, the little light bobbing as it made its way downstream. Once it was out of sight, he returned to his truck and drove away.

The young man spied on him from a hundred yards downstream through binoculars, noting the passage of the floating treasure as it moved slowly by him, and watched the man’s tail lights disappear down the road. Once he was satisfied that he was alone he ran down the overgrown bank as far as he could make it, before diving into the canal. Within a few minutes he had caught up to the tire. He switched off the flashlight so they would be completely invisible in the dark, moonless night. He made for the shore, and once close began moving against the current to a concrete embankment he’d drifted forty yards beyond. A few minutes later he exited the chilly water, pausing to remove the backpack from the contrivance before lashing the flashlight back in place on the tube, switching it back on, and pushing it out into the stream again, on the off chance they’d been stupid enough to position someone further downstream at the bridge that spanned the canal a quarter mile away.

He moved into the brush and located his black army boots exactly where he’d left them, with a change of clothes. He quickly stripped off his soaking black T-shirt and pants and wrung them out before stuffing them into the bag with the cash. After slipping into another black shirt and a pair of jeans, he put his boots on and was ready to move within two minutes. He edged silently through the brush and found the path at the end of which he’d left the truck, and debated his next move.

There was more to attend to. He’d need to keep his word and deal with Altamar. He started the engine, and then had a thought so evil it surprised even him. There was a sense of poetic justice to it, really.

He put the big truck in gear and pulled off into the night, tapping his fingers to the faint Latin rock beat playing on the radio.
So this was what it was like to be rich
.

Sort of cold and wet, but it would do.

By the time he made it back to the barn it was five-thirty in the morning, and dawn would be shining its rays onto the valley within forty-five minutes. He wanted to make short work of his remaining chores, so he sprang from the truck and moved to the barn door, carrying the lantern with him as he whistled a happy tune. When he opened the door he was greeted by angry squeaking from a mass of rats that were feeding on Altamar, most of which scurried away in fear when he swung the lantern at them.

He inspected the feared cartel chief’s ravaged torso and face, checking for signs of breathing, and was rewarded by his chest laboring to draw air through the tube. Amazing that he’d made it. The scumbag had the constitution of an ox.

The young man crouched down, unlocked the padlocks that secured the chains on the man’s feet and hands, and left them by his side. He stood, surveying the barn’s interior, and saw that there was still abundant desiccated hay on the floor. Altamar emitted a groaning sound from where his mouth had been, but where now there were merely gums and teeth, his lips having been neatly removed by the acid, and then the rats. The young man fished the camera out again and took another photo, ensuring that the time stamp wasn’t on.

“I’m back. A deal’s a deal. I released you. I think that it’s a safe bet that with a mug like that you won’t be doing the cover shot for
TeleNoticias
any time soon, but maybe you can get some part-time work scaring kids for Halloween. You’re free to go, so thanks for the memories and have a nice life. Oh, and I know you’ll need some light given the condition of what’s left of your eyes, so I’ll be a nice guy and leave the lantern burning for you. Hope you make it out before the fire gets out of control. That’s got to be a horrible way to die,” the young man said in a kind, soft voice, before tossing the lantern against the ground and watching the kerosene splatter onto the dry hay from its broken reservoir. The fire immediately spread and began to roar, and soon the entire barn was ablaze.

Inspecting his work with quiet satisfaction, the young man turned and walked to the door, pausing to kick Altamar in the groin as he moved by him. It wouldn’t do to have him passing out. He’d want his full attention for this phase of what remained of his short life.

The fire licked out of the door and windows as he started the truck’s engine. After a few moments it was obvious that Altamar wasn’t going to make it out. A shame, really. It would almost be better if he somehow managed to survive. A life in that condition would be fitting punishment for what he’d done to Jasmine and her family.

But a deal was a deal, and he’d kept his word.

He slid the transmission into reverse and pulled away.

There was nothing left to see.

The truck approached the small house and rolled to a stop, the engine going silent as the driver-side door opened. The young man moved to the home’s entrance and expertly picked the lock. Once inside, he crept soundlessly to the main bedroom, where Jasmine was sleeping.

He’d been tortured since he’d seen her face. Even after getting revenge for the vicious brutality, he knew her life was going to continue to be a miserable nightmare. Nobody could help her. He’d gladly leave her the two million dollars if he thought for a second that medicine could fix her face to anything resembling normalcy, but he knew that was an impossibility. It was just another example of a cruel and unpredictable universe punishing the innocents and making their every moment a tortured farce.

He watched as she lay, breathing fitfully, her ravaged profile a constant reminder of the pain she’d endured, and then he pulled his pistol from his belt and shot her in the head.

Ten minutes later he sat on the hood of the truck, watching the house burn, embers blowing into the pre-dawn as they carried his Jasmine’s soul with them. He reasoned that if there was such thing as hell, he would be going anyway, so he was more than willing to carry the burden of ending her suffering and doing what she couldn’t do for herself. He winced as the roof collapsed, the propane for the stove having provided ample fuel to get the blaze started. A single tear trickled its way down his cheek – his lonely offering to a world that brutalized its children and savaged its meek. His shoulders shuddered as he cried for what could have been, and what Jasmine could have had, at the unfairness of it all and the pointlessness of everything.

Eventually, his sorrow exhausted, he gruffly rubbed the moisture from his face with his shirt sleeve before getting behind the wheel and driving away. There was still much to be done, and he could bemoan his existence later.

Solomon Valiente sat in the office of his furniture store,
ranchero
music humming forth from the showroom speakers in an attempt to lure pedestrians in, wondering what the gimmick was in this overture from an unknown. He’d gotten a strange call an hour earlier indicating that a stranger wanted to speak with him on an important matter of urgency. He rubbed his neck, absently fingering the heavy gold links that held the crucifix he never removed. He gestured to the two men standing by his door to allow the young man to enter his office.

Valiente was one of the main rivals to Altamar’s iron hold on his empire, and it was well known that he hated the man, furious over some close family members who had been killed by Altamar’s goons when the power struggle over
Don
Miguel’s holdings was underway. In the interests of prosperity they’d made their fragile pact, but Valiente held a grudge, and he was a dangerous and powerful warlord in his own right.

The young man had approached him through a street-level enforcer that morning and requested a meeting. He claimed to have something of tremendous value to offer Valiente, which had naturally piqued his interest – Valiente was a man best avoided so he wasn’t accustomed to being solicited for anything. Three security men had frisked the young man upon his arrival, verifying that he had no weapons and wasn’t wearing a wire before allowing him anywhere near Valiente’s office; so there could be no trickery or immediate physical threat – always a concern in the cartel game, where you could routinely expect attempts on your life on virtually any pretense.

Valiente leaned forward in his reclining chair as the young man entered and sat at his desk, a stern, armed enforcer bracketing him on either side, ever mindful of the slightest wrong move.

“So, you want a meeting. Here it is. Tell me what it is you have that’s of such value to me,” Valiente started, sipping his coffee while appraising the young man’s face.

“I’m an ex-marine. I want to begin a career as a specialist in contract executions for your cartel. I’ve been trained in every sort of weapons and demolition, and I have a year’s worth of combat experience with over thirty-six confirmed kills,” the young man began.

“That’s interesting, but it’s not of that much value to me. Don’t get me wrong, I can always use good men, but there’s a difference between coming looking for a job, and bringing me something of value,” Valiente observed.

“I know. And I’m not looking for a job. I’m offering my services as a contractor. And what I have to offer you, I believe, is significant. As a good faith token, take a look at this. It was taken seven hours ago.” He removed the small digital camera from his pants pocket, powered it on and thumbed through the photos until he reached the desired one. He handed the device to Valiente.

Valiente peered at the screen and blinked, and then his eyes narrowed to slits.

“Both of you. Get out,” he instructed his bodyguards. The two hulking men exchanged glances, and then with distrustful glares at the new arrival, obediently left the room.

“I could have you killed for this, and Altamar would reward me with anything I wanted.”

“No. He wouldn’t. He can’t give you what you really want. Only I can. Today. Because you don’t want to live in his shadow forever, and I have the ability to make him disappear, now, and never give you any more problems. You and you alone would know he was gone, enabling you to consolidate power and take steps ahead of any of your competitors, ensuring that you’d replace him. Here’s what I propose. You pay me three hundred thousand dollars and he disappears effective immediately.” Valiente’s eyes tracked the young man’s unblinking gaze as he spoke. “You pay me two hundred thousand dollars each for as many of your rivals you want dispatched within the next seventy-two hours, and I’ll make it so. It’s a guarantee that you will take over Altamar’s business at that point, which will make you that amount of money in a matter of hours. I have him right now, so you haven’t attempted anything. I have. So you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.” The young man had spoken in a calm, soft voice, with measured inflection, laying out the options in a methodical manner.

Valiente leaned into his plush chair and considered the proposition while eying the young man. He weighed the options and then rose.