Blood of the Assassin - By Russell Blake Page 0,31
almost unheard of. It should be worth more. A lot more.”
The older man sighed, weary of the game. “How much more?” He bit off each syllable.
The younger man reclined and took another drink of beer. It was promising that the older man hadn’t just gotten up and left, confirming his instinct that the information was valuable.
“I was thinking double.”
The older man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “In every relationship, there comes a point where one of the two parties involved realizes that he’s not getting adequate value from the other to continue.”
“Which wouldn’t be the case here, as this is the most hotly sought info I can recall, and a bargain at four times the price. Besides which, if anything happens once I give it to you, I’ll be under substantial scrutiny, as will everyone else who had access. That additional risk needs to be compensated for. It’s not unfair.”
The older man sat back and contemplated killing the younger one, right there, and then calmly walking out of the bar. He could do it. It wouldn’t be the first time.
The younger man seemed to understand the internal struggle. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have a pistol pointed at you under the table,” he announced in a flat voice.
The older man offered up a wan smile that never reached his eyes. “That’s not really in the spirit of friendship, is it?”
“No. But I don’t want to wind up another Los Zetas casualty. Just in case you were so offended by my explanation that you were considering terminating our relationship. Not that I think you would. Purely precautionary.”
“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” the older man replied easily. “You can put your gun away. It’s unnecessary.”
The younger man nodded and eased his weapon back under the jacket next to him. “So where do we go from here? Are you prepared to meet my price, or do we enjoy our drinks and agree that this isn’t a good exchange?” he asked.
The older man removed a bulging yellow envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table, watching the bartender to ensure he wasn’t paying any attention.
“This is the amount we agreed to. I don’t have any more with me. If the information vets, I’ll get you another envelope with the balance within twenty-four hours. But I won’t wait. You know I’m good for it. Now it’s your turn.”
The younger man hefted the envelope and then pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and passed it to the older one, who unfolded it and read the few details with interest.
“What about security precautions?”
“Two men in the lobby at all times. Armed.”
“That’s it?”
“A driver. But from what I understand, they vary the pick-up times, so there are no set patterns. All very clandestine and hush-hush.”
“Any chance of turning the driver?”
“Zero. His daughter was killed in a cartel gun battle. Collateral damage at a plaza in Michoacán. It’s personal for him.”
“Ah. Well, then, no point in dreaming about what might have been.” The older man finished his Chivas and slid out of the booth. “I’ll be in touch with the rest of the money. I think if I were you, I’d consider a long vacation at the beach. Soon. You probably don’t want to be around. You have any time due?”
“I haven’t had a break in two years.”
“Then it’s your big chance. I’ll arrange another meet so you can get paid.” He turned to go.
“No hard feelings?” the younger man asked, the hint of concern in his voice betraying his anxiety.
“It’s just business. Don’t sweat it.”
He watched as the older man strode to the door and swung it open, then stepped out into the waning light and was gone.
Chapter 14
The sedan pulled up to the security gate and, after the driver showed his credentials, was waved through. It rolled to a stop at the building entrance, the rear door opened, and Cruz stepped out into the dusk and marched up the stairs into CISEN’s headquarters. Once inside, an armed guard escorted him to one of the meeting rooms, and he sat cooling his heels for a few minutes before footsteps approached from down the long hall.
Rodriguez entered, followed by three other men. He recognized the last man; his hair was longer, but the studied blank expression was as familiar as his dead black eyes.
El Rey. The assassin, whom he’d last seen at the arraignment.
The newcomers took seats around the large conference room table and Rodriguez nodded to Cruz.