Rage Of The Assassin by Russell Blake

of light. His knees buckled and he moaned in pain, and then two strong hands gripped him beneath his arms as a black cloth bag slid over his head.
    “Don’t struggle or it’ll be worse for you. And if you scream, I’ll cut your balls off. Do you understand?” a voice asked from behind him.
    Godoy managed a grunt in the affirmative and wondered why Leticia wasn’t yelling. His confusion deepened when he heard a different voice addressing her. “Did you really think you’d be able to get away with this? Stupid bitch. Now he’ll pay for your treachery.”
    “Please…” Godoy pleaded through the cloth. Some part of him hoped to convince his attackers to release him, although another understood that it wasn’t going to happen. Kidnappings were a regular occurrence in Mexico City. Godoy had believed himself to be immune from the crime, given his station within the police department, but his throbbing skull convinced him otherwise.
    “Shut up,” his assailant growled. Another blow struck the side of Godoy’s head and he gasped as he fell to the floor. He was spared the agony from a kick that landed on his ribs a moment later, his consciousness replaced by the comforting numbness of oblivion.
    The kidnappers worked quickly and efficiently, two of them hoisting Godoy between them as the third placed a call on a cell phone. They manhandled him down the stairs, and after checking to ensure the sidewalk was still empty, waited till a dark brown van drew to a stop at the curb in front of the entrance.
    Two minutes later the van was on one of the capital city’s wide boulevards, Godoy stashed in the cargo area with a pair of captors for company. The third kidnapper sat in the passenger seat and lit a cigarette. The snatch had gone off without a hitch, and the prospect of a healthy payday was now a virtual certainty.
    One of the men in the back tossed Godoy’s wallet forward and the passenger caught it with ease. He rifled through the thick sheaf of cash and pocketed it, and then stopped when he came to Godoy’s official credentials. His boss hadn’t told them anything about whom they were grabbing – it was immaterial, given the sin he was guilty of – and the passenger’s eyes widened at the photo ID with the Federal Police crest emblazoned across the top. He leaned toward the driver as he took a drag on his smoke.
    “Looks like we’ve got a VIP aboard. A cop, no less.”
    “A cop? He’s not armed, right?”
    “No. We searched him. He’s clean.”
    “What kind of cop doesn’t carry a gun these days, even off duty?”
    The passenger studied the identification, sounding out the words. His reading skills were rudimentary, limited to whatever he’d mastered when he’d quit school in fifth grade.
    “Says he’s some kind of associate commissioner. So a higher-up.”
    The driver turned onto another street and shrugged. “Well, he picked the wrong bimbo to bang – which he’ll figure out the hard way. Hey, got another smoke?”
    The passenger shook a cigarette free and handed it to the driver. “I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?”
    The driver grinned as he reached for the lighter. “Not to me. He could be the pope, for all I care. I just need to know that the boss wants him.”
    “Stupid bastard should have known better than to cross him.”
    The driver nodded grimly. “You got that right.”
     

Chapter 19
    El Maquino stood over his boxes like a mother hen as he checked and rechecked the wall clock. He’d forced himself to stop switching his lights on and off, but his teeth were tingling from the constant brushing. He trembled with nervous energy at the thought of strangers soon to arrive in his abode, even though he knew it was necessary for them to be there. He couldn’t carry the boxes downstairs by himself, or he would have. He’d tried but given up when his back had transmitted the reality of their weight now that they were fully assembled.
    They weren’t much to look at, he knew, but like