Blood of the Assassin

CHAPTER 34





The stuttering neon lights on the stylized sign depicting a prancing red horse outside El Caballo Rojo flickered on and off like an arrhythmic heartbeat as battered cars growled past on the dark street, leaving a pall of exhaust in their wake. A few haggard working girls loitered on the sidewalk, flashing their wares at potential customers with a world-weariness far beyond their tender years. The bar was one of countless watering holes where men went to drink. There were no other attractions – no live music, no dancing, no mingling or rubbing shoulders with eligible singles. It was a mission-specific saloon where hard working laborers went to drown their sorrows and numb the pain from body blows that a harsh and all-too-brief existence delivered at every turn.

Inside, the rustic tile floor was stained from countless spilled beers, vomit, and blood from the inevitable fights that broke out once the evening had degenerated into a blurry haze for the inebriated patrons. Two stocky bartenders stood like sentries behind the long wooden slab fielding screamed drink orders from the harried cocktail waitresses whose outfits left little to the imagination and even less to modesty. The walls were all rough-hewn planks and adobe brick, with an occasional cow skull or rusting horseshoe adorning the spaces between faded black and white photographs of corrals, horses, and vaqueros, the iconic Mexican cowboys from the turn of a forgotten century. Even though smoking had been outlawed for several years, every surface area seeped fossilized nicotine from decades of men sucking smoke into ravaged lungs and fouling the unfiltered air.

Rauschenbach shook his head no as he pushed his way into the darkened interior, declining the desperate company one of the cadaverous prostitutes offered, his eyes roaming over the crowd until he spotted his contact sitting in the shadows, wearing the agreed-upon red button-up cowboy shirt, drinking beer from a long-necked, rust-colored bottle.

He made his way past the hard-scrabble crowd, pulled another stool from beneath the small table, and sat down across from the hulking man, taking in his buzz cut and sallow complexion, his skin the jaundiced tone of a junkie or someone suffering from chronic liver disease. A waitress came over and he pointed to his new friend’s beer, and she nodded and offered a perfunctory smile, the fading beauty of a prime now past still lingeringly attractive in the shabby surroundings. Neither man spoke until she returned and deposited another bottle in front of the German, then cocked a carefully plucked eyebrow at his companion, who shook his head. She teetered off on too-high heels and Rauschenbach took a short pull on his beer.

“I have a few items I need within the next few days,” the hit man started, seeing no point in wasting time with small talk. “I could probably have them ordered locally, but I was told you could handle this. Acquire them in the U.S. and ship them down.”

“What have you got?”

Rauschenbach pulled a matchbook from his windbreaker and tossed it across the table. The man read the neat script jotted on the inside without comment, then nodded and put the matches in his shirt pocket.

“I can do that. Anything else?”

“Papers. Local driver’s license, work permit. I can e-mail you photos.”

“Not a problem.”

“And I could use a pistol. Something recent, in good condition, preferably with no history – or alternatively, with the serial number removed.”

“SIG, Glock, or Beretta? I have all three.”

“Which model SIG Sauer?”

“P226. Hardly ever fired by a little old lady on Sundays. .40 caliber, so better stopping power, unless you want 9mm. I’ve got those too.”

“P226’s a nice weapon. But I prefer the 9mm.”

“I’ve got a beauty. A P226 X-5 9mm with a nineteen-round clip. Like new.”

Rauschenbach appeared to think for a moment. “How much for the gun and a box of ammo? Hollow points?”

The man took a long swig of beer. Guns were illegal in Mexico, and possession without a very-difficult-to-obtain permit was a felony except for certain hunting shotguns and small caliber rifles.

He named a figure in dollars, and Rauschenbach didn’t blink.

“Seems pricy. What is that, about three times what it cost you in the U.S.?”

“Then fly to the U.S., buy one, and try to get it into Mexico.”

Rauschenbach named a lower figure, half of what the man had asked. Both took sips of their brews and regarded each other, like prizefighters between rounds. The jukebox kicked to life and a rollicking accordion blared from the crackling speakers, soon joined by a tuba and what sounded suspiciously like a bus boy dropping a tray of used silverware in time to some beat only the musicians could discern. A wailing tenor piped in, singing about loneliness on the trail and the rough life of the cowboy, and a few of the more lively celebrants screamed along in what they imagined singing might sound like.

The man threw out another number, two-thirds of the asking price, and Rauschenbach nodded. He wasn’t cost-sensitive, but haggling was mandatory, and he would arouse considerably more suspicion if he simply agreed to the first figure.

“Terms?” the German asked.

“Half up front. Half upon delivery in three days. Four, max. I’ll e-mail you for a meet when I have everything in hand.”

“Fine. How do you want to do this?”

“Finish your beer, then go to the restroom and count out the money. I’ll be there in a minute, and I’ll knock on the stall door. You hand it off, and that’s it. But don’t short me. I’ll check it once I’m in my car.”

“Got it. Bathroom, no shorting, one minute. Nice place you picked, by the way,” Rauschenbach said, eyeing the crowd. Two men at the bar were posturing drunkenly, scrawny chests puffed out, glaring belligerently at each other – a fight waiting to start. The other patrons seemed bored by the brewing altercation, and Rauschenbach got the feeling that there were more than a few tussles on any given night. One of the bartenders caught his eye, his hair a greasy oil slick combed straight back off his forehead, a broken nose and a scar on his cheek badges of honor. Rauschenbach shook his head, and the bartender shrugged and returned to the television he was watching – yet another in a long string of soccer matches that seemed an inevitable part of Mexican life.

“Everybody minds their business here. Nobody wants any more trouble than they already have.”

“It’s got that going for it,” Rauschenbach agreed, and then the fight broke out amidst breaking glass and a few rowdy cheers. The other bartender swung from around the bar with an axe handle clenched in his hand, and both men stopped when they saw him approach – neither wanted his night to end with a trip to the emergency room, a fractured skull or a broken hand their memento from their visit. Both separated, and then one made his way to the door as the bartender glared at his back. The scuffle was over before it started, and the bar returned to normal even as a cleaning woman hurried to sweep up the broken beer bottles.

Rauschenbach flagged down the waitress and tipped her ten pesos, then wove through the drinkers towards the bathroom, which lived up to every expectation he’d had from the lounge area. The two stalls reeked of urine and boasted cursory, infrequent cleaning, and neither had a seat. A large roll of toilet paper was mounted on the wall near the entry, where visitors took a few lengths when entering and hoped they guessed right. Rauschenbach stepped into the stall and pushed the creaky door closed and secured it, then peeled off a small wad of hundred dollar bills and folded them.

When the knock came he flushed the toilet, then opened the door and edged past his new friend, slipping him the money as he mumbled a hasty “Lo siento,” and then he was out of the nauseating pit and making his way to the exit, the pungent stink of the toilet seeming to trail him like a noxious fog.

Outside, he moved past the hookers and loitering criminal types and flagged down a cab – an always-dangerous risk in the city at night, where gypsy cabs were used for kidnapping – and gave the driver the address of a restaurant a block from his hotel. If the driver had any thoughts about trying to assault the German, they quickly died when he appraised him in the rearview mirror.

Rauschenbach reclined on the cracking vinyl seat and watched as the tawdry parade drifted past his window, the taxi taking its time winding through traffic, which was heavier as they turned onto a main artery.

One important errand out of the way, he thought with satisfaction.

Tomorrow he would get some photos taken and the papers would be handled, and then he would be more than halfway home. He’d spent considerable time scoping out all the possible strike points that day, and he had a good idea of where he would have the highest odds of success. And the best part was that it would be completely unexpected. Even the most aggressive security details, which he knew the Chinese would be, wouldn’t see his gambit coming. It was too much of a long shot. Literally.

Which would work in his favor.

The only way he was going to pull it off, given what he’d already seen in preliminary security precautions, was to plan something nobody would expect.

Which was why he got paid the big bucks.

He specialized in the impossible, and celebrated the unexpected.

In a week he would be in position, waiting, ready to end a man’s life, whom he had nothing against and who had never done anything to harm him. But that man had offended someone, threatened some plan, and the client had been willing to pay a nosebleed price to eliminate him on Mexican soil.

The lights of Mexico City sped by as the cabbie increased speed, and Rauschenbach took another draw of reasonably clean air through the cracked window, the constant pall of pollution that hung over the city smelling like pure alpine air after the misery in the bathroom. He wouldn’t miss D.F. a bit, and was looking forward to pulling the trigger and then getting out of there and back to his villa, where he could live out the rest of his life in comfort and style, thanks to one spectacular final payday.