Blood of the Assassin - By Russell Blake Page 0,17
he grew bored and decided to explore the wilderness of the mountains around Copper Canyon, preferring the company of coyotes and mountain lions to his fellow man as he bided his time, waiting for the call that never came.
Until now.
He wondered who they wanted him to kill.
His eyes flickered open and he looked around the jet’s interior, expensively appointed, all leather and polished wood, lacquered to a high gloss, then reached to his side and found his glass of orange juice. Fresh squeezed, he noted approvingly; then finished it and closed his eyes again.
Whatever the government’s errand, he would know soon enough. Which was just as well. He’d been growing restless from inactivity. Truth be told, he would actually welcome an assignment. Whether he liked it or not, he was conditioned to seek out excitement, and the staid civilian life he’d been leading had been almost as bad as a prison sentence – unable to leave the country, inactive, each day the same as the last.
The plane adjusted its course, a minor deviance, and he shifted, trying to get comfortable.
Within an hour he’d be back on the ground, and soon thereafter at CISEN headquarters, being briefed.
Might as well get a little rest, he reasoned.
Things would get interesting soon enough. They hadn’t pulled him off the side of a mountain to check on his health.
No, they had something they wanted him to do.
And if they were drawing on him, it was sure to be something challenging.
That was the only thing he could be certain of.
Chapter 7
Mexico City traffic was a perennial snarl, cars honking as they brooded in the morning haze, gridlocked on the overcrowded roads. El Rey stared blankly through the tinted windows of the Suburban at the crowds of well-dressed pedestrians milling in the downtown area, trumpeting the city’s prosperity with their expensive clothing and designer handbags, a far cry from the wretched poor lining the streets only a few blocks away. The city was a study in contradictions: fabulous wealth lived side by side with squalor, the less fortunate gazing at the wealthy with envy and bitterness and a certain quiet acceptance that was unique to Latin America. Unlike their more fortunate neighbors to the north, the impoverished in Mexico had no hope of ever being anything but poor. It was just the way things were, and it was considered largely pointless to fret over the natural order.
A somber man in his mid-thirties sat in the passenger seat, his crisp blue suit tailored to hide the pistol he wore in a shoulder holster, his gleaming black hair conservatively cut, shining against his olive skin, the white of his oxford shirt in deep contrast with the dark bronze of his complexion. He hadn’t said a word since El Rey had gotten into the big SUV, which was just as well – the assassin wasn’t looking for a new friend.
When the Suburban pulled to a stop at CISEN headquarters, two armed guards peered into the vehicle before waving them through the gate into a parking lot with twelve-foot-high surrounding walls that ensured nobody would be seen coming or going from the modern four-story building. They rolled into a stall near a side entrance, and the silent man in the passenger seat stepped out and spoke his first words of the trip.
“This way.”
El Rey slid from the rear seat, backpack in tow, and followed his guide to the entry door, which opened as if by magic, pulled wide by another suited man. They entered the building, and two security guards bracketed El Rey front and back as they made their way to a ground floor conference room, their footsteps the only sound in the marble hallway.
Once he was seated they left him alone. El Rey studied his fingernails, confident that there was a hidden camera somewhere in the room and unwilling to give the observers any more information than they already had.
Five minutes later the door opened and Rodriguez entered, trailed by three men, none of whom El Rey recognized. They took seats across from him, and then Rodriguez cleared his throat and slid a manila folder across the table.
“That’s the file of a man named Werner Rauschenbach. He’s in the same line of work you used to be in. German. There are two pages of summary on his exploits and history. Take a few moments to read them,” Rodriguez instructed.
El Rey flipped the folder open and glanced at the photos inside, and then studied the documents. When he was done,