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

They’d covered all possible approaches yet he was still worried. Maybe it was the place, or maybe because it was the last night of Papi’s latest binge. But Alberto had an ugly feeling in his guts – and it wasn’t something he’d eaten. He sensed there was something out there coming for them. And whatever it was, it meant them harm.

He called to his men for their radio check-in; everyone responded immediately, sounding alert and precise. They were the best. Seasoned professional killers from a half dozen countries, making thirty-five grand a month each to lay their lives on the line. He didn’t like the odds of anyone foolish enough to take them on in the dead of night.

But his gut still told him they had a problem.

The assassin checked the bright luminescent face of his stopwatch, noting with satisfaction that he was on schedule. He listened for the sound of the party at the marina, which was still some distance away. Faint gusts of music muttered a vague cadence over the water. The target was making it almost too easy for him. Perhaps it was just providence calling time on Papi. But whatever the wheels within wheels of cruel nature, he thanked his lucky stars that he’d taken this contract – one of the largest he’d ever been offered, at a million and a half dollars.

He’d planned the attack to the second and researched everything from the marina layout to the surroundings, even going as far as locating blueprints and a schematic for the ship and committing them to memory. This was his specialty – the impossible to carry-off execution of untouchables was his stock-in-trade. It had made him infamous in a relatively short time. But this would be the most difficult sanction yet, due to the heightened vigilance of the security team he knew would be on-edge the final night of their rough duty, which concluded in a vulnerable location. He’d thought through all possible ways of terminating Contreras, and when he’d decided on his final plan, even he was impressed at the ingenuity of it. Now he just needed his contractors to be on time and to do their job, and Papi was better than dead.

He slipped below the surface of the water and submerged to a depth of fifteen feet. That would be sufficient for his purposes. The small waterproof GPS unit he’d programmed with the coordinates of the dock glowed orange with just enough luminescence to be readable from three feet away. By his calculations, he would need ten minutes to swim to his starting position before the plan engaged, and he’d allowed himself fifteen, just in case. Better safe than sorry on a night like this. His tank held sufficient air to breath for an hour, which he hoped would be far more than necessary.

It had been difficult arranging for all the pieces he’d need to end the life of the brutal cartel boss; expensive too, but sometimes cost was key. He’d learned through harsh experience not to pinch pennies or cheap out. By the end of the night he’d be far richer, so in the end, whatever his sunk costs were would have paid for themselves. He was nothing if not pragmatic about the job.

His easy, practiced stroke propelled him smoothly through the warm water as he neared the private marina. He sensed he was close when he felt a current heralding the mouth of the harbor, as the surging tide pulled him through the broad opening.

Visibility was zero in the inky darkness so he was flying entirely by his instruments, which told him he had another hundred and fifty yards to go. Contessa was berthed at the dock closest to the harbor’s entrance, commanding the entire length, so there was no cover or alternative to doing the dive. This was the only way to get close.

A commotion from the sea bed startled him with a cloud of muddy sediment. A large stingray rose from the muck and glided by him, nudging his neoprene-encased legs with one of its wings. He more sensed the creature than saw it; he was momentarily caught off guard. His respiration increased as he flailed in alarm, causing a rush of bubbles to hurtle to the surface. Battling for control over his breathing, he struggled to slow his heart rate – after a few seconds of inward composure, he had it back to beating at a moderate pace. He didn’t pause long to dwell on the near-miss, beyond musing that it would be ironic if his meticulously-plotted assassination fell apart due to surface froth from a panicked brush with a bottom-dwelling Myliobatoidei.

Another glance at his watch confirmed that he still had five minutes to go. By his reckoning he should be sixty or so yards from the front of the boat, and ninety from his targeted position. After a few more moments of swimming, he dimly registered the hull of the massive ship above him – an opaque outline floating on an already-dark surface, faintly illuminated by lambent swirls of the surrounding marina lights. Carefully calculating the distance, he moved to the spot his schematics told him would be the correct one for his purposes.

From a mesh sack attached to his dive belt, he fished out a suction cup with a handle on one end, which he affixed to the hull. The assassin could feel the vibration of the big generators that provided all the power when the massive twin MTU turbo-diesels were at rest. As expected, Papi had all systems operating on the luxurious yacht. He extracted a waterproof battery-powered drill. After taking one final confirming look at his position on the hull, he jammed the bit against the fiberglass and depressed the trigger. The diamond-tipped steel shredded its way through the material – almost five inches thick. The bit was six. Two minutes later he was through. He dropped the drill back into his sack and extracted a small gas canister with a rotating