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

valve on the end, where it connected to a custom-fabricated seven inch tube that would be a snug fit in the hole. He jammed it up into the new opening and twisted the valve, wishing he could hear the satisfying hiss that would terminate the target.

Hopefully.

That was where part two of the plan came in.

The assassin depressed a button on the suction cup and it dropped away from the hull. He swam to the far side of the ship that was facing the bay and cautiously poked his head out of the water, right next to the section where the engine vents drew in air. Another glance at his watch confirmed that he had a hundred and forty more seconds before it was show time. He groped in the sack and, after re-submerging, drilled another hole, this time where the central air conditioning units were situated. He repeated the procedure with a second gas canister and returned to the surface again, hurriedly extending a telescopic tube akin to a car radio antenna. The assassin fitted a third, larger canister onto the end of the extension and, now in position and prepared, waited for the fireworks to begin.

Alberto was the first to hear the big chopper’s rotors. By the time he had radioed to his men, the sound of the aircraft had increased to a chattering roar. A searchlight stabbed through the night, racing over the buildings and then towards the marina, tracing over the assembled boats until it finally alighted on Contessa’s superstructure, blinding the two armed sentries in the top-level bridge. Alberto screamed into the radio to his men to hold their fire – nobody from the helicopter was shooting. The piercing light slowly moved along the concrete path, locking onto the armed men and freezing each in place before it moved on to the next. Eventually, satisfied that there was no unusual mischief going on at the marina, the beam shut off and the chopper rose, hovering for another twenty seconds before banking and moving back towards its home base in Manzanillo.

Alberto swore to himself. That had been way too close. It was one of the navy copters, no doubt sent over to check on reports of armed men on the waterfront. The army and the navy chiefs in the area had been paid off, so there shouldn’t have been any problem. It likely took a couple of radio exchanges before they called off the dogs. Few things in life scared Alberto, but the prospect of taking on a contingent of armed Mexican marines was one of them; the army wasn’t a problem, but the marines knew their shit. They were the equivalent of the American green berets, the toughest of the tough, and they generally meant business. Alberto should know. He employed three ex-marines who were genuine, authentic hard cases – even in a world where blood was spilled casually on a daily basis.

The unexpected fire-drill over, the patrols commenced again. Everything returned to a fragile calm. The night was still, and Contessa gently rocked against the swell of the incoming tide, the music from within still booming its siren song into the deep.

The assassin made his way through the cabin to the main stateroom, his silenced pistol at the ready. He’d brought it in a waterproof bag, in which he kept anything that couldn’t get immersed during the dive. He didn’t think he’d need to use it, but better to be prepared. He’d pulled his flippers off and set them on the rear deck, where he could grab them in a hurry. Worst case, he could always swim without them, although it would be much rougher going. That wasn’t his most pressing problem now, though. He needed to memorialize his success and get the proof back to his clients so he could collect the second half of his fee – and build his reputation in the process.

He pushed the door to the master stateroom open and encountered a tableaux straight out of hell. Papi lay naked in the center of the bed, surrounded by his three young playmates, also naked. All were dead. The nerve gas he’d bought from the Russians had done its work, circulating via the three zoned air-conditioners. He’d been guaranteed that the gas would kill within ten seconds of inhalation, but he needed to be sure. That’s what made him who he was. He was the man who made sure.

The sight of the female corpses, bloody foam caked around their mouths and noses, already cyanotic, had no effect on him. This was his job, his chosen profession. Collateral damage was regrettable, but part of the deal. The girls would have likely been dead within a few years anyway, either at the hands of these goons…or their rivals. It was a fast money life, which didn’t come with a retirement plan.

Breathing through his respirator, the assassin studied the dead cartel boss, then fired a single shot through his forehead, more for effect than anything. He inspected his handiwork dispassionately before reaching into the watertight gun bag for a cell phone and a laminated rectangle. Approaching the man, he positioned the card almost tenderly on his exposed throat before snapping a photo with the phone. The figure on the card seemed to watch the proceedings without interest, his medieval regal gaze unblinking in perpetuity, the double-edged blade of his clutched sword forever pointing at the heavens. Satisfied with his handiwork, the assassin dropped the phone back into the sack and sealed it before placing it into the web bag hanging from his dive belt.

A noise from above jolted him. He heard movement from up on the bridge – heavy footsteps that carried down into the mid-ship stateroom, which could signal either a problem or a shift change. The one part of the plan he hadn’t been able to nail was a detailed agenda for the security team. There was just nobody he could find that could be paid off, so he’d had to wing