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

had a veneer of civility from his education, but he was as dangerous as a cornered pit viper, and his men were quick to remember how he'd made it to the top of his group. “I’ll be back shortly. Make good use of your time.”

Pilar strode from the room, shaking his head. This was a classic turf battle, and he needed to get on top of it before Valiente’s goons showed up with machine guns. He wasn’t afraid of that – his compound was well equipped with all the latest alarms, electronic sensors and advance warning devices, and he had enough firepower to stop a battalion. He felt safe at his home, and he was confident that if an attempt against him was going to be made, it wouldn't happen there. The dense foliage that extended for miles created a natural barrier, and there was only one road in. So for the moment, at least, he was safe.

Pilar had thought through Valiente's likely next step, and he wasn't overly concerned about a frontal assault. But he was vulnerable in ways besides the obvious. If this power struggle lasted very long, business would be negatively impacted, and that would cause disruption among the lieutenants, which could be as dangerous as a shooting war. It was bad enough that Pilar's rivals were homicidal psychopaths without him having to worry about younger, more junior aspirants to the throne cutting his heart out while he slept.

He moved to the pocket doors that separated the great room from the rear deck and took in the beauty of his grounds. It was times of extreme adversity that defined leaders, and even though he fancied himself a civilized man, he understood that it was necessary to be swift an unequivocal in his response to this threat. Pilar had no problem killing – it went with the territory. But he’d always tried to keep the violence at arm’s length, which while not always successful, enabled him to maintain his presumption of superiority.

Something in the tree line caught the sun, and Pilar squinted to make it out. The hair on his arms bristled as he detected movement and a flash, and the neurons in his brain were ordering his body to drop to the floor as the high-velocity partially-jacketed round blew his cheekbone apart, taking the better part of his cerebrum with it. By the time the guards had a chance to respond to the single shot from the perimeter, the shooter had long since departed, the sound of the dirt bike he’d pushed silently for a half mile a noisy memory in the woods.

Mexico City’s sky was laden with hulking, dark clouds when El Rey pulled over the hills and into the infamously dangerous metropolitan traffic. The Toyota had run like a champ, was a pleasure to drive, softening the blows of the rutted patches between Culiacan and DF, or Distrito Federal, as the locals referred to Mexico City. He’d gotten the contact information of a man Valiente, his new patron and sponsor, had known since childhood. Valiente had made a phone call and proposed a relationship that his friend couldn’t possibly refuse. The man owned a pawn shop but he’d fallen into leveraging his contacts in the underworld and being a facilitator for extermination work – the human kind. It was a difficult role for him because he was basically a good and decent man, but the money was simply too attractive to turn down for a no-risk proposition. He had three contractors who handled domestic disputes and business disagreements, and he took twenty percent of the contract price to handle the money and vet the clients.

El Rey needed someone trustworthy to launder his money and deal with the payments. If he was going to do this professionally, he needed a front office, so to speak – and pro representation. He could handle sourcing the jobs but he couldn’t haul around several million dollars in hundreds and be effective. He needed a banker and an accountant. Valiente’s contact seemed ideally suited for the role. And Valiente had warned his friend what he was dealing with, lest he get the bright idea to take El Rey’s money and run for the hills. In the cartels, if you vouched for someone and made an introduction, and then that someone screwed the person you’d introduced, you could expect to be held accountable for your recommendation’s actions. Valiente had seen more than enough of El Rey’s handiwork in a short period to know he didn’t want that coming after him.

The narcotraficante chief had become El Rey’s biggest admirer and had promised to spread the word of his prowess in return for a commitment to never accept a contract on him. That seemed reasonable to El Rey, and Valiente was an up-and-comer in the most powerful cartel on the planet, so as sponsors go, he could do worse. His plan was to limit his activity to a few hits a year, but to steadily increase the fee he charged as well as the level of difficulty of the sanctions he accepted until he became the highest paid killer in the world. Mexico was the right place for that, given the amount of money flowing through the cartels, although he’d heard good things about Russia, too. Problem there was that he didn’t speak the language. He’d studied English in school and, of course, there was his Spanish. But that was it. So he wouldn’t be doing any work in St. Petersburg or Vladivostok.

He merged toward the right lane and took an off ramp from the congested freeway into an even more congested area of the city. After circling around for half an hour, he eventually located the pawn shop and managed to find a parking spot. He threw his black duffel bag over his shoulder and made his way two blocks to the contact’s store. The neighborhood was sketchy even by Mexico City standards, which was saying a lot, but then again, money