Return of the Assassin (Assassin Series 3) (2 page)

A weasel-faced man with a curtain of oily black hair hanging over his eyes pushed a ragged mop along the concrete floor of the squalid corridor. Grim and Spartan, the ten by twelve cells housed the solitary confinement prisoners, their creature comforts limited to a single bed attached to the wall, a toilet with no seat and a sink.

Nine men were currently interned in the section’s sixteen slots, which were reserved for the most dangerous and violent miscreants in the Mexican penal system. A guard sat at the far end of the hall, watching the prisoner clean the floor, ensuring that there was no contact between janitor and the other inmates.

The area stank of bleach, urine and body odor – a perennial stench familiar to most prisons. The guard’s small radio was tuned to a Banda station that featured creaking accordions and slightly off-pitch tenors lamenting love’s harsh truths, accompanied by the occasional cough of an inmate or toilet flushing. Conversations were forbidden in the wing, although at night it was impossible to prevent whispers from drifting through the block.

A plume of cigarette smoke emanated from a cell halfway down the row, where a particularly brutal inmate was spending thirty days for attacking another prisoner, nearly killing his victim with a sharpened bedspring he’d stabbed through his kidneys a dozen times. This Juárez cartel enforcer was already serving a life sentence, the maximum possible in Mexico, so being thrown into solitary was the only recourse the guards had beyond a thorough beating – not an advisable tactic to take with cartel soldiers, who were adept at bribing the whole criminal population, and who tended to hold a grudge.

The man with the mop peered slyly into the cell at the end of the row as he went about his chore, catching the eye of the man considered to be the most dangerous in Mexico.
El Rey
was sitting on his bed, reading a week-old newspaper, apparently untroubled by his incarceration, tranquility radiating from his face. He raised a single eyebrow in silent inquiry as he observed the mopping man’s movements. The janitor glanced over his shoulder and, seeing the guard immersed in cleaning his nails, inched closer to the bars separating him from the assassin.

A particularly raucous musical passage began on the radio as the man fixed
El Rey
with a cold glare.

“You’re dead man walking, cockroach. You don’t screw
Don
Aranas over and live,
puta
,” he murmured in a stage whisper only audible for a few feet.

El Rey
said nothing. The situation really didn’t call for a response.

“I’m going to cut your heart out and drink your blood. You don’t look like such hot shit now, do you?
El Rey
. What a joke,” the janitor taunted.

El Rey
listened for any indication that the guard had heard, and satisfied that he was otherwise occupied, flipped a page of the paper and sighed. “Keep talking, shit-bird. The talk may help you work up the courage to come for me,
eh
? It won’t save you, though. I’ll peel your skin off and use it for toilet paper. You’re just a bitch. I’ve killed tougher than you while I was napping,” he whispered back. “But hurry. It’s boring around here and I could use some fun. Maybe I’ll make an ashtray out of your skull before I send it to your bastard children with your balls stuffed in your mouth…”

The mopper sneered. “Tough talk. I’ll remember that when I’m carving you.”

“Sure thing, big man. Any time.”

El Rey
was used to the threats from the impotent Sinaloa cartel members who were itching for a chance to earn the million dollars that
Don
Aranas, the head of the organization, had offered to whoever killed him. They meant nothing and provided modest amusement value for the assassin in an otherwise tedious existence.

Still, an attack was a concern, even in solitary. It wasn’t impossible that a guard could be bought off, although in this facility it was unlikely. Altiplano was the flagship of the Mexican system, and the personnel were the most honest. Even so, stories abounded of inmates being killed while their captors were off using the bathroom – a fact of life behind bars.

The mopping man frowned at
El Rey
’s response and made an insulting gesture with his hand before moving grudgingly back down the hall. He’d killed dozens of men with his bare hands, so terminating the assassin didn’t pose a huge challenge. The million was practically already his – he just needed to figure out which guard he’d have to split the bounty with.

El Rey
resumed reading his paper. It had been three and a half months since his capture, and his bones had knitted and the scars had healed, although he still pretended to have motor skill problems with his right side following the brain surgery he’d had after being arrested – there was no point in alerting his jailers that he was fully mended. He needed every edge he could get, and information was power.

His plastic surgery-enhanced nose had been ruined by the collision with the police cruiser windshield that had brought his freedom to an end, but other than that and a few hairline scars from the accident on his right cheek, he was in good shape. Every morning he forced himself to perform his clandestine ritual of isometrics followed by three hundred pushups and sit-ups, and it had gradually gotten easier over the last month.

The trial wouldn’t take place for at least another half a year, but he was being treated as though he was already convicted, which under Napoleonic law, in all but formal sentencing, he had been. Unlike the U.S., in Mexico the accused was considered guilty until proven innocent – an impossibility in his case. There would be no jury, just three judges who would be anxious to curry favor with the president.

His life sentence was a foregone conclusion.

He’d put out feelers through the prison network to probe arranging a breakout, but so far nothing looked encouraging. This facility was famous for being escape-proof, so his chances weren’t great. But he had a lot of money offshore, and anything was possible if one was motivated – at least, that’s the perspective he’d adopted, although a part of him understood that it was a long shot.

Experience had taught him the value of patience, and he had resigned himself to a long stretch of what he viewed as self-improvement time. He had wounds to heal, and had to build his strength back, which he was now close to achieving. Soon it would be time to turn up the heat and execute a plan to get free. He already had some ideas. But he would require more information before he could settle on the most promising ones.

It didn’t help that the most powerful drug lord on earth wanted his head on a platter. That was the understood price of his failure to fulfill the sanction he’d been contracted to perform, but it was a complication that increased the pressure to escape. Even though he’d executed the hit against the president flawlessly, the end result was that, for whatever reason, the man was still alive, and Aranas was out the ten million dollars he’d paid as a deposit to have him assassinated.

The money wasn’t the big issue for the drug kingpin. Rather, it was that his problem with the new head of state hadn’t been solved, and
El Rey
could be perceived as having bilked him out of the down-payment. That wasn’t the case, but it didn’t matter. Aranas had issued a contract on the assassin, and that was that. Negotiations weren’t an option.

El Rey
had learned that he had a real issue at month number two of incarceration. As he took a shower, alone, a prisoner slipped in and tried to shank him. Thankfully his bones had healed sufficiently to enable him to blind his attacker with an eye dig, then snap his neck like a piece of dry kindling, but he understood that more pretenders to the throne would follow. The guards had seemed surprised when he’d limped out of the showers, fresh and smiling, anxious to be taken back to his cell.
El Rey
recognized immediately that there was both risk and opportunity in the situation. Money could also work for him if some of the guards were bent. It was merely a price discussion at the point of discovering a receptive one.

And
El Rey
wasn’t cost sensitive.

But the usual contrivances that made the prison economy work weren’t of any interest to him – drugs, cigarettes, a weapon, access to another prisoner for retribution. The only thing he wanted was to escape. He’d sent a flurry of whispers that there was five million dollars waiting for whoever helped him achieve this ambition. There was no point in bargain shopping, and anyone involved would have to disappear forever.

So far, he’d gotten some nibbles, but nothing firm, and in the meantime, other guards were circling to pluck the easier money to be had by turning a blind eye while a Sinaloa goon killed him.

Ah, well.
Life had never been perfect. He just needed to be vigilant. It would keep him from getting complacent, he reasoned. Help him maintain his edge.

Good practice for his new life once he was back in the world.

Which he had no doubt he would be, eventually. Even if things looked bleak at the moment.

It was just a matter of time, money – he had lots of both.

A bouncing favorite sounded from the little speaker at the far end of the hall, and
El Rey
began whistling along with it, nearly silently so as not to raise the guard’s ire. He tapped his foot against the thin mattress, enjoying his daydream of an eventual prison break. Being incarcerated was a setback, but he’d come back from worse.

He was infinitely patient. And good things came to those who waited.

Of that he was sure.

Present Day, Mexico City, Mexico

Music pulsed and throbbed from the speakers surrounding the massive dance floor, the throng of celebrants moving with abandon, arms thrown in the air, hair flying, asses shaking as the mating ritual of the young and wealthy roared into high gear. Strobe lights flickered to the beat and multi-colored spotlights swept over the crowd, punctuating the carefully contrived gloom in time to the music.

Sak Noel’s ‘Loca People’ boomed its trance groove to the appreciative dancers, who duly screamed the song’s trademark
What the Fuck
refrain, as if doing so was the height of wit. It was two a.m. – the party was gaining steam and would continue until daylight, fueled by alcohol, chemical stimulants and a flood of airborne pheromones.

The women were fit, gorgeous, and wearing little more than smiles as they bumped and ground against their partners, or in groups, holding drinks aloft and emitting cries of glee every time a song ended and a new one began.

Bacchanal
was one of the hottest nightspots for the privileged and pampered children of Mexico City’s aristocracy. Broodingly handsome young men with carefully groomed two-day growths regarded the gyrating femininity with studied indifference, as the women cast sly sidelong glances at their counterparts. Flashes of tanned skin and lithe, long legs complemented the perfect features of many of the dancers, whose movements would have been at home on the set of any decent porn film.

Beauty was a given in this crowd, as was the ability to stay up all night for days on end, untroubled by responsibilities like studies or a job. Hereditary wealth ensured that for a short but glorious period, Mexico City’s lucky youth could party like the world was ending, in preparation for their ascension to the ruling ranks of the nation’s prosperous.

A well-known television actor arrived at the foyer to the admiring gaze of a host of fans before wading into the mass of humanity with his entourage. The heavy smell of moneyed cologne battled against the floral perfume wafting from the revelers, competing with the incense that drifted from wall-mounted holders. Private booths ringed the dance floor, bottles of designer vodka and expensive champagne atop most of the tables, their number and brand signaling the status of the occupants. Thursday was the official early beginning of the weekend’s festivities, lending a sense of abandon and urgency to the gyrations of the writhing flux.

Outside the front door, in the club’s improbably run-down neighborhood, a line of hopefuls waited anxiously for a coveted nod of admittance, a chance to see and be seen. Two burly bouncers loomed each side of the doorman in case anyone became unruly or objected to being turned away – a regular occurrence in the exclusive venue.

Fortunately, it wasn’t raining. When the heavens were opened, the line disappeared and revenue declined proportionately. Young money didn’t like to get cold and wet or be kept waiting any longer than was fashionable, and there were limits to what the partygoers would endure to get in. Mexico City boasted hundreds of hot nightclubs, and competition was fierce.
Bacchanal
had ruled the roost for three years, an almost impossible length of time in the business – testament to its ongoing popularity and slick marketing, which consisted of courting celebrities and remaining highly visible in the tabloids.

A silver Mercedes sedan pulled to the curb, followed by two black Chevrolet Suburbans. A young woman stepped out, chatting on her cell phone as the car disgorged two hard-looking men in suits who followed her like a shadow. The doorman’s eyes widened when he saw them; he smiled in recognition, nodded his approval and politely beckoned her to bypass the line and proceed inside.

Four more men exited the Suburbans and followed the girl in, leaving another pair at the street, standing on either side of the entrance, eyes scanning over the line for any hint of a threat. All the men had tiny earphones in their left ears, with suit jackets that bulged conspicuously from their shoulder-holstered weapons, in spite of the custom tailoring designed to minimize it.

The girl pushed past the doorman and kissed him on the cheek as she brushed by, never pausing her telephone conversation. Her long black hair framed a classically beautiful Mexican face with fine features and medium-complexioned skin set off by a white satin top and skin-tight black pants. She was petite, no more than five feet tall, but her four-inch-heeled designer boots gave her just enough of a boost to equal the average height of most of the other females in the club.