Blood of the Assassin

CHAPTER 49





They watched as Rauschenbach tore towards a security checkpoint, where two police cars were parked, blocking the road, hood to hood, lights flashing. A passel of officers standing in front of them watched with puzzlement and growing alarm as the cruiser hurtled towards the checkpoint. Cruz grabbed for the radio to send a warning, but as he pressed the transmit button the German’s vehicle blew through the blockade, knocking the cars aside and crushing his front fenders in the process. Sparks flew from beneath the front tires, but the cruiser was still drivable, judging by its minimal reduction in speed.

“He’s headed for Sonora Street. If he can lose us, he’ll be in the clear,” Briones shouted as they slammed over scattered wreckage in the road, running the newly formed gauntlet between the two cars without hesitation.

“You can take him,” El Rey said from the back seat.

“Try to get closer. I’ll shoot out his back tires. That’ll slow him down,” Cruz commanded, and then lowered his window and pulled his Glock. Briones jammed the accelerator to the floor and they gained a few car lengths. A piece of Rauschenbach’s fender tore off and skittered against the pavement. Briones reacted too late, and the errant piece of metal shattered the windshield, starbursting the safety glass and making it almost impossible to see out of it.

“Damn,” Briones swore, leaning his head out the driver’s side window so as not to lose the German.

“Hold it steady,” Cruz yelled over the wind noise, and leaned halfway out of the car, gun trained on Rauschenbach’s rear bumper. The range was iffy, at least sixty to seventy yards, but he wasn’t trying to split a mouse hair. He was only looking for one hit, and he had a full clip to gamble with.

The boom of his pistol sounded, then again and again and again, as he rapid fired in a rough pattern, his aim thrown off by the car’s bouncing on the uneven pavement.

“Pull to the left. Let me try,” El Rey screamed, and Cruz slid back into his seat and re-clipped his safety belt as the assassin rolled down his window and brandished Briones’ pistol. Briones veered left as instructed, providing a better angle for El Rey, who fired off ten shots in two seconds, the concussion of the gunfire deafening in the car.

Rauschenbach’s vehicle swerved as the rear tires flattened. He lost control and the Dodge skewed sideways, doing at least eighty, and then it clipped the far curb and flipped, twisting end over end in an eerily graceful somersault before rolling three, four, five times and crashing to a halt on its roof. Pieces of the vehicle flew everywhere as Briones swerved to avoid the worst of it. A heavy wheel rim smashed into the front of the cruiser as he locked up the brakes and drifted into a slow motion skid, which was abruptly terminated when he slammed into a concrete support beam. The airbags deployed, saving Briones and Cruz’s lives, but El Rey slammed into the back of the rear seat, his neck whiplashing before his head careened into the rear door panel.

Steam hissed from under the ruined hood as Cruz and Briones pawed at the airbags, blood pouring freely from the younger man’s nose and staining the front of his shirt. A small cut over Cruz’s left eye trickled a stream of crimson down the side of his face. Sirens wailed from behind them as Cruz fumbled with the door handle before releasing his belt and stepping unsteadily onto the pavement.

He slowly approached the mangled wreck, gun held by his side, and saw furtive movement from inside the twisted carcass, the lone remaining front wheel slowly spinning in the air seemingly of its own accord like a ghostly weaver’s loom. He caught a flash of the German, hanging upside down by his safety belt, the shoulder harness holding him in place, and then gunfire erupted from inside. Cruz kept walking with a measured pace as ricochets chipped chunks out of the street next to him, and then he raised his Glock and drew a bead on Rauschenbach, squinting, one eye closed, brushing sweat and blood from his forehead as his gaze connected for a brief eternity with the German’s.

The pistol bucked twice. Both rounds hit Rauschenbach in the upper torso. His gun fell from his hand with a clatter, and then he hung suspended, his arms limp, blood coursing down them onto the smashed interior panel of the roof. Cruz slowly lowered his Glock and took in the scene – gas trickling in a pool beneath the car, the assassin dead or dying, flames beginning to lick from beneath the hood. He sighed, suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline rush abruptly dropping off an internal cliff, and without a word, pivoted to return to the car to help Briones and El Rey.

Cruz didn’t even wince when the German’s car exploded, searing the air behind him, nor did he glance back as pieces of Dodge rocketed into the sky before the inexorable force of gravity exercised its pull and brought them plummeting back to earth. A part of a door landed a few feet to his left and he turned to regard it, his gaze devoid of interest, and then he realized he was still gripping his pistol so hard that his knuckles were white. He flipped open the holster with his thumb, slipped it back into place with a trembling hand, and mechanically refastened the safety strap.

He needed to get his men help. It was over.

He had done his job.

And he felt old.