It had been difficult arranging for all the pieces he’d need to end the life of the brutal cartel boss; expensive too, but sometimes cost was key. He’d learned through harsh experience not to pinch pennies or cheap out. By the end of the night he’d be far richer, so in the end, whatever his sunk costs were would have paid for themselves. He was nothing if not pragmatic about the job.
His easy, practiced stroke propelled him smoothly through the warm water as he neared the private marina. He sensed he was close when he felt a current heralding the mouth of the harbor, as the surging tide pulled him through the broad opening.
Visibility was zero in the inky darkness so he was flying entirely by his instruments, which told him he had another hundred and fifty yards to go. Contessa was berthed at the dock closest to the harbor’s entrance, commanding the entire length, so there was no cover or alternative to doing the dive. This was the only way to get close.
A commotion from the sea bed startled him with a cloud of muddy sediment. A large stingray rose from the muck and glided by him, nudging his neoprene-encased legs with one of its wings. He more sensed the creature than saw it; he was momentarily caught off guard. His respiration increased as he flailed in alarm, causing a rush of bubbles to hurtle to the surface. Battling for control over his breathing, he struggled to slow his heart rate – after a few seconds of inward composure, he had it back to beating at a moderate pace. He didn’t pause long to dwell on the near-miss, beyond musing that it would be ironic if his meticulously-plotted assassination fell apart due to surface froth from a panicked brush with a bottom-dwelling Myliobatoidei.
Another glance at his watch confirmed that he still had five minutes to go. By his reckoning he should be sixty or so yards from the front of the boat, and ninety from his targeted position. After a few more moments of swimming, he dimly registered the hull of the massive ship above him – an opaque outline floating on an already-dark surface, faintly illuminated by lambent swirls of the surrounding marina lights. Carefully calculating the distance, he moved to the spot his schematics told him would be the correct one for his purposes.
From a mesh sack attached to his dive belt, he fished out a suction cup with a handle on one end, which he affixed to the hull. The assassin could feel the vibration of the big generators that provided all the power when the massive twin MTU turbo-diesels were at rest. As expected, Papi had all systems operating on the luxurious yacht. He extracted a waterproof battery-powered drill. After taking one final confirming look at his position on the hull, he jammed the bit against the fiberglass and depressed the trigger. The diamond-tipped steel shredded its way through the material – almost five inches thick. The bit was six. Two minutes later he was through. He dropped the drill back into his sack and extracted a small gas canister with a rotating 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.