Night of the Assassin: Assassin Series Prequel by Russell Blake (latest ebook reader .txt) 📕

Tortora didn’t blink. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“How many other contractors do you handle?”

“Three. But smaller scale than what you’re doing. Fifty grand here and there.”

“I’d like you to drop them. How much would I need to bring in to replace their income?” El Rey asked.

“Depends. Will you be sourcing your own clients?”

“Absolutely. All you’ll be doing is handling the money. I’ll even collect it most of the time, unless there’s a wire transfer, which is doubtful given my clientele.”

Tortora considered it.

“One of the issues is that if you’re killed, I have lost my business and will have to start over.” Tortora quickly punched some numbers into his desktop calculator.

“I’m not planning on getting killed.”

“Nobody does. But it’s a risk that needs to be adjusted for. I think that if we went fifteen percent up to the first million of income per year, then ten for anything above, I could cut my other contractors loose. But I’d need to see at least half a million gross per year of income to make it worth my while. That’s a lot of contracts,” Tortora said.

“Not to brag, but soon that will only be two contracts a year, and then only one. So not that many. I accept your proposal. Fifteen of the first million, ten above that. Bank fees to come off the top, pre-split.” He lifted the duffel and placed it on the desk. “This is two million five hundred thousand dollars. Take the paperwork money and the fees to create the structure out of it. What will the structuring run, anyway?” El Rey asked.

“Not that much. Maybe fifty by the time everything’s set up. Fifteen for the company formations, and the rest for lubrication and consultants and attorneys. Then maybe ten grand a year thereafter for filing fees.”

“Okay. So call it two point two million cash after deducting for that. Minus ten percent for the banks, leaves us at an even two. I’ll give you fifty of that for your time, given that you haven’t done any heavy lifting beyond opening some accounts. Cut your other operators loose within six months. By then, I’ll be back and working,” El Rey instructed.

“Do you have any questions of me? Guarantees about the safety of your money?”

“Our mutual friend must have explained a little. I know you have an apartment upstairs and a home, with a daughter in university. I know everything about you. I can find you wherever you are, no matter how deep you think you’ve gone, so, no, I’m not too worried. Then again, you’d be stupid to try it, because over the next few years you’ll make a lot of money as my fee increases. And it will. I’m already at two hundred grand a hit, and that will move to two-fifty on the next ones.” El Rey wasn’t bragging or threatening. His calm, soft voice was merely stating fact.

Tortora appraised him anew.

“I believe you. My friend indicated that you’d done the impossible in no time. And he’s not an easy man to impress. If he’s singing your praises, you’ll have your hands full with work whenever you want it.”

They discussed more details, such as names for the passports and logistics of contacting each other, and after an hour, concluded their meeting.

El Rey liked the man. He was perfect. Avaricious but old enough so he wouldn’t be a runner. Morally neutral on the issue of the business, and not squeamish. A good combination. The money would all accumulate in accounts only El Rey had signature authority over, using his new passports and names, so it would be in no danger once it hit his banks. As to the cash, he wasn’t worried about that disappearing. There were some things that just weren’t worth doing, and he got the sense that the pawn shop proprietor had quickly figured out that fucking him over was one of them.

He had a spring in his step as he returned to his Toyota, one more problem dealt with. This was shaping up nicely, perfectly following the plan he’d had in mind since he was sixteen. He would become the highest paid assassin in the world within a few years, famous for meticulously-planned sanctions that defied belief. He would become a sort of miracle worker. El Rey would be a name that cartel bosses used to scare their kids at night, and it would be synonymous with a ghost, a phantom who could do the impossible. In a world where nobody got scared, an environment where violence and death was daily currency, there would be something that even the most hardened veterans would fear.

The name of the beast.

El Rey.

Chapter 11

The jungle was everywhere. That was El Rey’s impression of Costa Rica, if anyone were to ask him. It was everything he’d always imagined when he heard the term rain forest, right down to the toucans and monkeys. And even though everyone spoke Spanish it was as different from Mexico as he imagined South America would be.

He had arrived there to learn how to fly. Specifically, how to operate prop planes and helicopters, should he ever need to be able to do so. Rather than resting on his laurels, he’d made a personal commitment to continually learn new skills, expanding his abilities as well as the likelihood of survival. In the end, he hadn’t been able to convince the Mexican special forces to teach him how to operate a plane, so the first stop after he’d gotten his new papers was to find a place off the beaten path where he could master the discipline.

The flight school in the capital city of San Jose had been more than willing to teach him everything he wanted to know for certification of fixed wing, and he had clocked almost all the required hours he needed. Helicopters were a different story, but he’d been able to find a pilot who was willing to unofficially