Blood of the Assassin (Assassin Series 5) by Russell Blake Page B

the country, weary of the escalating violence that had claimed most of his family.
    Four ponies trotted in a large wood-fenced area to the side of the main house, which was majestic in a time-worn hacienda way, ravaged by the sun and elements but still standing proudly, a testament to the care that had gone into its construction almost a century earlier. A dozen men with leathery brown skin stood at strategic positions around the buildings, their Kalashnikovs and AR-15s held with comfortable familiarity – each of them an ex-marine who had gone into private practice for ten times the money with the cartel, and all veterans of countless armed skirmishes and massacres.
    A heavy-set man in his late-thirties, wearing jeans, pointy-toed ostrich-skin boots with hammered silver toe caps and a red western-style shirt, waved his white cowboy hat at the man in the corral, who returned the signal with a nod before returning to the horses. The man set the hat back on his head and turned to the three men standing attentively by his side, all of whom were similarly attired. Alvadez cleared his throat, the dust kicked up by the hooves cloying, and spoke softly, an unmistakable undertone of menace in his voice.
    “I don’t care who he is. He must pay for my nephew’s death, as well as the amount he’s cost us with his most recent raids. I want it known that to go up against us is to invite destruction,” he hissed.
    “ Si, Jefe . But he’s untouchable. The head of the D.F. anti-cartel taskforce. We’ve been trying to learn his whereabouts for months, with no success. He’s like the invisible man,” one of the entourage – Alvadez’s most trusted inner circle – complained.
    Alvadez spat onto the dirt by his feet and glared at the speaker – Jorge, a captain who had been with him for six years. The subject of their discussion had engineered a raid where he had lost over a dozen men, as well as one of his sister’s sons, a young man he’d been grooming for a leadership position in the cartel.
    “There’s always someone who knows. And it’s always a matter of money. I don’t care what it costs – I want him. This is personal, do I make myself clear? So put the word out however you need to. Pick a number for the reward that will sway even the most loyal.”
    All the men grinned at the idea. Los Zetas’ annual revenue was in the tens of billions of dollars, and money was like water for Alvadez. Gold-capped teeth flashed in the sun at their leader’s suggestion.
    “There’s also, of course, the danger that going after him invites even greater retribution. He’s the number one man in Mexico when it comes to law enforcement and the cartels. The outcry will be...well, I don’t need to tell you what the reaction will be,” Jorge persisted.
    One of the ponies let loose a whinny and broke into a canter and Alvadez smiled at the sight of such a perfect form, so innocent and unspoiled, the result of centuries of careful breeding.
    “Since the election we’ve been getting pounded. I thought we had a deal, but apparently not, and it’s getting worse, not better. We’ve tried diplomacy. Now we need to go for the throat. This man has made himself a visible target of our wrath, and in his latest foray his men killed one of my family. I don’t care what it takes. I want him dead. Is there some part of that you find ambiguous or confusing?”
    The three men’s faces blanched. Their leader’s tone had taken a dangerous turn, and they knew from experience that his anger could manifest in a dramatic and violent fashion. Nobody wanted to be on the receiving end of a tantrum. The fields around the hacienda were littered with the buried corpses of personnel who had disappointed in one way or another.
    And then, like storm clouds parting before the sun, he grinned as he watched the trainer work with the horses, directing them this way and that. With his smile, the tension diffused, and the men observed the equestrian display with