Rage Of The Assassin by Russell Blake Page A

many treasures, their inner beauty was what gave them their value. He’d been working on them for a month, first designing them, then machining all the parts required, and finally fitting them together with the precision of a Swiss watch. Now all his work was done, and the only thing that remained was to hand them off like a proud parent.
    “Big surprise. Going to be a big surprise, all right,” he said softly, reaching out to touch one of the smooth surfaces and then jerking his hand back like he’d touched a stove burner. “Oh. Got to clean it. Don’t want any fingerprints. That would be bad. Very bad.”
    He moved to the workbench, spotless now that he was finished with his current project, and slid open a drawer. Inside was a package of bright yellow hand towels. He withdrew one and took a bottle of cleaner from the top shelf, and set to wiping the exterior of the box for the tenth time that day.
    The door buzzer chimed. He shuddered and swung around, jarred from the comforting routine of the task. He looked at the clock approvingly.
    “Right on time. That’s good. Very good. Prompt. Time’s valuable,” he said, repeating a saying he’d heard his entire life.
    He resisted the desire to switch the lights on and off again and instead made for the door, leaving the room illuminated as though banishing the night with technology. “It’s a big day. A very big day indeed. Right on time. Yes, sir. Good.”
    He unlocked the deadbolts and relocked them once in the hall, then rushed to the stairs, his anxiety building with each step. Strangers in his place. Unthinkable. But there was no other way. It was necessary, and they’d be gone soon enough.
    At the front door, he eyed the four heavyset men in the dim light of the security screen before calling through the metal plate, “Yes?”
    “We’re here for a pickup. The Don sent us.”
    The Don . He’d almost forgotten that was how his benefactor’s men always referred to him, so long had it been since he’d interacted with any of them.
    “You have something for me?”
    The man nearest the camera fished a photograph from his breast pocket and held it up so El Maquino could see it onscreen. It was a picture of a boy at eleven years old, his limbs gangly as he’d begun to grow, awkward as a colt even in the still. It was El Maquino as a child, after he’d been forced to leave Sinaloa to be raised by distant relatives of the Don in Mexico City.
    “Okay. Just a minute.”
    He unlocked the door and pulled it open, the heavy steel barrier perfectly balanced on hinges that rarely got any use, a tribute to El Maquino’s engineering talents. The men stepped through, two of them pushing heavy-duty hand trucks designed for moving refrigerators, and he closed it behind them and relocked all the deadbolts before nodding to them. “This way.”
    Once inside his loft, he approached the boxes and gave a long set of instructions on how to move them without damaging the contents. The men paid close attention, even as he repeated himself again, like a tape loop. On the third go-round, the leader of the group held up a hand to stop him from going through the entire process yet again.
    “We understand. But we’re on a schedule, so we need to get moving. Thank you for all your help. We’ll take good care of them, don’t worry.”
    “Right. But remember they’re delicate. Won’t do to drop them or jostle them. Won’t do at all. You need to be careful. Very careful. Otherwise it could all go wrong, and that would be bad. Very bad.”
    The leader nodded. “Of course. We’ll be careful.” He paused. “Too bad the elevator’s out of commission.”
    “I don’t like elevators. Better to get exercise. Stairs are good for you. Very good.”
    “Well, we have our work cut out for us. How much did you say they weigh?”
    “Exactly one hundred sixty-two kilos apiece. No doubt about it. One sixty-two. I verified it.”
    “And it’s okay to incline them some? We’ll have