Blood of the Assassin - By Russell Blake Page 0,115
his seat and re-clipped his safety belt as the assassin rolled down his window and brandished Briones’ pistol. Briones veered left as instructed, providing a better angle for El Rey, who fired off ten shots in two seconds, the concussion of the gunfire deafening in the car.
Rauschenbach’s vehicle swerved as the rear tires flattened. He lost control and the Dodge skewed sideways, doing at least eighty, and then it clipped the far curb and flipped, twisting end over end in an eerily graceful somersault before rolling three, four, five times and crashing to a halt on its roof. Pieces of the vehicle flew everywhere as Briones swerved to avoid the worst of it. A heavy wheel rim smashed into the front of the cruiser as he locked up the brakes and drifted into a slow motion skid, which was abruptly terminated when he slammed into a concrete support beam. The airbags deployed, saving Briones and Cruz’s lives, but El Rey slammed into the back of the rear seat, his neck whiplashing before his head careened into the rear door panel.
Steam hissed from under the ruined hood as Cruz and Briones pawed at the airbags, blood pouring freely from the younger man’s nose and staining the front of his shirt. A small cut over Cruz’s left eye trickled a stream of crimson down the side of his face. Sirens wailed from behind them as Cruz fumbled with the door handle before releasing his belt and stepping unsteadily onto the pavement.
He slowly approached the mangled wreck, gun held by his side, and saw furtive movement from inside the twisted carcass, the lone remaining front wheel slowly spinning in the air seemingly of its own accord like a ghostly weaver’s loom. He caught a flash of the German, hanging upside down by his safety belt, the shoulder harness holding him in place, and then gunfire erupted from inside. Cruz kept walking with a measured pace as ricochets chipped chunks out of the street next to him, and then he raised his Glock and drew a bead on Rauschenbach, squinting, one eye closed, brushing sweat and blood from his forehead as his gaze connected for a brief eternity with the German’s.
The pistol bucked twice. Both rounds hit Rauschenbach in the upper torso. His gun fell from his hand with a clatter, and then he hung suspended, his arms limp, blood coursing down them onto the smashed interior panel of the roof. Cruz slowly lowered his Glock and took in the scene – gas trickling in a pool beneath the car, the assassin dead or dying, flames beginning to lick from beneath the hood. He sighed, suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline rush abruptly dropping off an internal cliff, and without a word, pivoted to return to the car to help Briones and El Rey.
Cruz didn’t even wince when the German’s car exploded, searing the air behind him, nor did he glance back as pieces of Dodge rocketed into the sky before the inexorable force of gravity exercised its pull and brought them plummeting back to earth. A part of a door landed a few feet to his left and he turned to regard it, his gaze devoid of interest, and then he realized he was still gripping his pistol so hard that his knuckles were white. He flipped open the holster with his thumb, slipped it back into place with a trembling hand, and mechanically refastened the safety strap.
He needed to get his men help. It was over.
He had done his job.
And he felt old.
Chapter 50
The helicopter set down on the parking lot of the Congress building, squarely in the center of the large yellow H painted on the black pavement, and a contingent of Chinese bodyguards rushed beneath the still circling blades and formed a protective shield around the door. After a brief pause it slid open with a crash, and two more security men stepped onto the ground before the Chinese leader poked his head out, and then was assisted from the aircraft as still more bodyguards, these Mexican, lined the area.
Grim-countenanced soldiers stood in their gray camouflage uniforms brandishing assault rifles as he paused to wave at the crowd across the street, some cheering, some toting protest signs, many unsure what all the fuss was about but caught up in the excitement. The delegation moved up the steps to the hulking edifice’s oversized iron and glass doors, where an honor guard waited at stiff attention, in full dress ceremonial splendor, swords held rigidly