Page 68 of Grave Peril

Chapter 17

A top assassin had to acquire many skills, and one of them was patience. Almanza had honed that one into a fine art. He could wait as long as he needed to, certain that the kill was his.

At the Kemah boardwalk, he’d blended in, acting like a tourist. It had been a better tactic to use the crowds as cover, rather than enter the private houseboat and risk exposure.

He’d watched, not bothering to count the hours. All the while, he’d salivated for the taste of death. Rip and Lela would come out in plain view, and he’d been primed for action. The event had taken place flawlessly. He’d flowed with the crowd, carrying his weapon under his long coat. He’d imagined it as a warrior’s robe, just like the ancients had worn.

He’d glided by like a dark ghost. The SEAL’s life was his to take. He had power over life and death, a heady elixir. The knife had gone in smoothly, razor sharp, cutting deeply.

Almanza hadn’t waited for the coroner to arrive. He’d bumped into his victim and stabbed him at just the right angle, putting muscle behind the narrow blade. Without stopping, turning, or reacting, he’d moved on down the boardwalk.

He’d continued walking at a steady pace and left the tourist area. When safely away, a cab had picked him up. It had been that easy.

Almanza took pride in his professionalism, his lack of emotion. He’d taken a life, one more to add to the list. And he felt no sadness for the victim, only a sense of accomplishment. It was his job and he’d done it well.

For days, Almanza had holed up in the crumbling house in Third Ward. The residents were unaware of his deed, and had their own fights for survival to worry about. But he had no need to brag. He expected no less of himself than to conclude his task and take payment for it.

Zap was generous in these matters, and the jobs he’d assigned had filled the assassin’s coffers—not that he was saving for retirement. In his line of work, the special assignments wouldn’t stop coming until he was as dead as his victims.

Then word came. A messenger delivered the news that the SEAL had survived.

That couldn’t be true. It was impossible. The dagger he’d used, the sharpness of the blade, and the entry point guaranteed extermination. There was no chance of a victim cheating death. If the wound hadn’t killed him, bleeding out would have finished him off.

Yet the messenger had the nerve to relay that bit of unwelcome news, then vanish back into the neighborhood. It was a lie. Almanza would find the idiot who’d deceived him and kill him.

It was a very poor joke, and Almanza wasn’t laughing.

He sat in a dank bar, drinking cheap beer. A couple of drunks clung to their barstools, waiting for refills. And gang members hung out, drinking from bottles and playing pool. The smoke-filled room was suffocating, and the other customers got on his nerves.

Itching to kill someone, Almanza ordered another beer. The place was a dive, but it had a TV. He had to see for himself. Halfway through his second beer, the news came on. It was mostly stories that didn’t interest him at all, since the rules of society didn’t have anything to do with him.

Almanza needed a shower. But the water at the house was murky, and the pressure was so low that it made showering impractical. He was sick of the dump and anxious to go home.

His tolerance for people was low, and he contemplated leaving. The news anchor droned on about the stock market, then interest rates. Who gave a shit?

Almanza downed the last of his beer and stared at the screen. Then a view of Kemah flashed above. “Turn it up.” The bartender complied.

There were photos of the SEAL on the ground, drowning in his own blood. No doubt onlookers had snapped pictures of the gore. The report started with reciting what Almanza already knew. A man had been stabbed while on vacation at Kemah. He’d been staying on a houseboat with an unidentified woman.

Unidentified my ass.

Then the tone shifted. The reporter admitted amazement at the string of events. The victim had been flown to the hospital then rushed into surgery. The injury had been a stab wound, close to the heart. But after a lengthy operation, he’d stabilized.

Shit. That couldn’t be.

The reporter finished the story: “We have no additional information on the man. Against doctor’s advice, he fled the hospital within hours of the surgery. It’s unknown how he managed to leave, whether he had assistance, or where he is now. We’ll keep you updated as more information is released.”

Disbelief turned to rage. Almanza had stabbed that military asshole. The injury had killed him. It must have. The execution method hadn’t failed before.

Unless the victim was some sort of bionic man, the dude was dead. No other answer made sense. Yet fate seemed determined to shove an alternative down Almanza’s throat.

The fucking SEAL had survived and was out walking around, refreshed from his vacation instead of dead. And that was what Almanza would be. His life was worth no more than dirt. He’d worked for Zap for many years, but that didn’t mean he would get away with screwing up.

Almanza shoved his beer glass away and stared at the wall. Maybe he should have another drink. It might be his last.

*****

At the house, Almanza stretched out on the bed, waiting for the call he knew would come. Or maybe he’d be murdered in his sleep. He wasn’t afraid to die. He’d killed enough that death wasn’t a stranger. He wouldn’t turn into some sniveling coward.

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