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

to retrieve the cell phone. Peering at the target’s inert form on the bed, he pressed a speed dial number. Victor’s voice answered.

“Front door. Two minutes. I’ve been hit, so I’ll need a medic as soon as possible,” El Rey whispered.

“Hit? How bad?”

“I’ll live. He clipped me in the leg. Be there in two minutes, and send the cleanup crew to get the gear and the boat.”

“I’ll have the lads push the bodies into the bay as well, if yah don’t mind,” Victor suggested.

“No worries,” El Rey answered, in the ubiquitous manner he’d heard used countless times by the locals since his arrival.

Gimping over to the bed, he lifted El Chilango by both arms and dragged him roughly into the hall and then down the stairs. The man would be out cold for two hours, he knew, and when he awoke his head would feel like someone had hammered it with a board, which wasn’t far from the truth, given the gashes the pistol had left, the blood already coagulating and crusting where it had streamed down his face.

On the ground floor, he slid the man to the front entrance foyer and watched through the side window for the vehicle. Twenty seconds later, he saw an outline pull up. He swung the door open, to be greeted by the sight of Victor trotting from the black delivery van they’d arranged for the evening’s festivities. He took a hard look at El Rey, standing in the doorway with blood oozing through the T-shirt affixed to his leg, and then wordlessly went to El Chilango and began dragging him to the back of the van. El Rey limped over, helped get the target into the back and climbed in after him.

“Get me a doctor. I think the bullet passed clean through, but I need to get cauterized and stitched up,” he instructed.

“I’ve got a call in. Should hear back any minute. Let’s do that before we hit the warehouse, shall we? I can secure our friend here so if he wakes up in the interim he can’t get up to any mischief,” Victor said.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Victor closed the back doors and ran around to the driver’s seat. Within seconds, they were headed down the carefully-manicured street, bound for the main road. Victor’s cell rang.

“Yeah. I need it now. Ten minutes out, maybe fifteen. Your shop? No worries,” Victor said, and hung up. He leaned towards the rear compartment. “We’ll swing by his office. He’s pretty good for this kinda thing,” Victor assured El Rey.

They drove through Sydney until they reached a rough looking section. Victor pulled to the curb in front of a small storefront featuring photos of yellow Labrador puppies bounding about in a grassy meadow. A short, bald, overweight man stood in the doorway, fumbling for keys to open it. El Rey looked up when Victor swung the rear doors open and gingerly slid himself out and onto the sidewalk, waving off the unspoken offer of assistance. He looked at the little man and then at the shop window, then glared at Victor.

“A veterinarian?” he whispered.

“Bloke’s top shelf. Have you running marathons in no time. Does all my sensitive jobs. No worries, mate. Nigel, come over and let’s get our man here inside,” Victor called out.

“I can make it. Let’s just get this over with.”

He limped to the door, which Nigel finally opened after locating the correct key.

“Name’s Nigel. Doctor Nigel to you,” he said, offering his hand.

“I’m shot in the leg. Let’s clean it and sew it up,” El Rey said, moving inside.

The walked to the back of the shop, where there was a small exam room with a stainless steel table in the center. Nigel flicked on the lights while Victor returned to the van to shackle their captive.

“Best get you up on the table, then. Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Nigel said, donning a disposable surgical apron and mask. He turned to where El Rey now lay and peered at the wound. “I’ll have to cut away your party dress, if you can deal with the loss.”

“Do what you have to do.”

Nigel expertly untied the dressing and snipped away the neoprene, cutting the entire wetsuit leg off just below the groin and pulling it off. Blood seeped slowly from the holes on both sides of El Rey’s thigh. Nigel moved to the medicine cabinet, filled a syringe with Novocain and injected it carefully on the edges of the wound, finishing by squirting some directly in. The pain receded, replaced by sweet numbness.

Nigel swabbed the bullet hole and then used a pair of forceps to examine it.

“You got lucky. Missed the bone, and nothing major hit other than muscle. It’ll smart for a bit, but I can stitch you up and you’ll be a new man in no time,” he assured El Rey. “The slug passed clean through so I’ll just dump some antiseptic in, give you some antibiotics, some orange juice, and do a bit of sewing. Job done, mate.”

“Give me two more syringes of the anesthetic, too. I need to do some more work tonight, and it’s helping.”

“Too right, then. Couple of sticks of feel good to go. Can do. Now let’s close you, shall we?”

Fifteen minutes later, the wound had been tended. Nigel sprayed both stitched areas with a metallic silver spray and stood back to admire his handiwork. El Rey sat up and began drinking a bottle of orange juice Nigel had brought him. The vet handed him two bottles of pills and two full syringes.

“That there’s iron, for rebuilding your red blood cells, and that’s doxycycline. Take one every eight hours for ten days. The numbing juice should be good for an hour or two each go. I’d remember to use alcohol to sterilize the area before you inject, and lose the syringe after using it once. Don’t want to introduce any more germs than you need to, right? Now, if you’ll take down your suit, I need to give you a