Night of the Assassin: Assassin Series Prequel by Russell Blake (people reading books .TXT) 📗

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