Read Online Revenge of the Assassin (Assassin Series 2) by Russell Blake - Free Book Online Page B

or suspected, for almost that long. El Rey could only hope that he’d kept the information to himself, which he believed was strongly likely. Anyone else knowing would have compromised the old man’s hoped-for hold over El Rey , and he was sure that Gustavo had leveled with him about his problem in Buenos Aires. His only miscalculation had been in believing that he could control the assassin and force him to do his bidding.
    It was a pity – it was hard to find friends these days. But it was also unavoidable.
    El Rey had two choices. He could disappear, hoping to elude any pursuit, or he could stay put and see what happened. But he didn’t want to trip any alarms and a sudden departure immediately after the murder of his chess partner might trigger the exact sort of manhunt he was hoping to avoid. After much thought, he decided to wait and see rather than running. He liked Mendoza more than anyplace else he’d been, and he wasn’t anxious to leave if he didn’t have to. So he’d gathered up his passports and double-checked his escape kit, which he’d stowed in the large safe behind a paneled section of his home study, and resigned himself to being patient and waiting it out. Nothing was ever gained by making rash moves.
    Jania had sounded genuinely surprised and shocked, so Gustavo hadn’t told her anything. That was good. He would have hated to have to kill her over that sort of indiscretion. On balance, then, it wasn’t a bad start to the day. She would get to live.
    He hummed to himself as he walked to the glass front entry, silently debating not opening, and then dismissing the idea. Better to go about his business as though nothing had happened – which in a way, it hadn’t. His shopkeeper’s uncle had been the victim of a failed burglary attempt, or alternatively, had been killed by some of the unsavory elements from his murky past. Either way the police looked, they’d encounter a dead end. There was no trail to him, or the shop, to follow.
    He flipped the sign over from closed to open and unlocked the door. If today was like any other weekday, he’d be lucky to see five customers before dinner time.
    El Rey brought his notebook computer from out of the back office and settled in behind the counter on the high padded stool where Jania spent most of her time. Peering at his watch, he mentally calculated how many hours he’d be on this lonely duty and sighed resignedly as he moved the cursor to his favorite web browser to surf the web.
     
    El Rey closed at two o’clock for the customary two hour lunch break that all of Argentina took. Sometimes it was extended to three hours on slow days, which today, given the two customers so far, he felt qualified as such. He walked a block to his favorite lunchtime restaurant, a small Italian place on one of the main streets, and ordered a salad and some duck ravioli. Following his meal, he opted for an hour and a half at the gym.
    Refreshed from the exercise, he stowed his gear in the locker he rented by the month and made his way back to the shop. The usual sprawl of students was lounging around, carousing on the promenade in front, but other than that, he saw nothing of note. He grudgingly opened the door, propping it open to lure tourists in, and remounted the stool, waiting for closing time to come.
    At six, two men in trench coats entered, removing their fedoras, and Antonio instinctively stiffened, their bearings unmistakable. The taller of the pair approached him – a rough-looking man in his early fifties whose baby face had long ago succumbed to the effects of wine and gravity, and whose day-old stubble was laced with gray.
    “ Señor Balardi? Antonio Balardi?” he asked officiously.
    “Yes. How can I help you?” Antonio answered in a modulated, quiet voice.
    “I’m Detective Rufio Starone, and this is Detective Franko Lombardetti. We’d like to ask you a few questions,” the taller man responded.
    “Certainly. Would you mind showing me some