Night of the Assassin: Assassin Series Prequel, Russell Blake [good story books to read txt] 📗

writing of that epic tale, I was constantly struck by fleeting insights into the mind of the killer, some of which I captured in glowing detail in that tome. But even as I put King of Swords to bed, I couldn’t shake the sense of unfinished business. I’d go to sleep and have vivid dreams, and they were always the same – about the characters in my book. Specifically, they were about the assassin’s past. It was like a disease. I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

That’s unfamiliar to me, for the most part. I had the same general sense when I got done with Al, from The Geronimo Breach, but I had no compulsion to write another book about him, fascinating as his character was. I felt closure at the end of that work. I’d told Al’s story, as well as I could, and there wasn’t more I felt I could add. There were no more words that needed writing.

But I no sooner finished King of Swords than I started making notes for a prequel. Which is really the wrong way to go about it. I’m a simple man. When starting a story, I always like the ‘Once Upon A Time’ part at the beginning, and ‘The End’ at, well, the end. But that’s not how it panned out for me this time. I felt driven to write about the assassin some more, and to mine his background. What created a man who could dispassionately terminate people’s lives for a living? What drove him to do the unthinkable? Was he a monster in the traditional sense? Did he kick dogs or swerve to hit them in the road? Did he put his socks on before or after his underwear?

It was fascinating to me, because El Rey was alive in my head. You see, I knew the answers to the questions I was asking, for once in my life.

And so it came to pass that I have the opportunity to share with you what I gleaned from him. Night of the Assassin is a shorter work written to flesh out the making of the beast, and is best read as a companion piece after King of Swords. It can certainly be read first, but I suspect it will be more satisfying and resonate more if read King first, Night second, then the sequels. That’s how I envisioned it, but you’re free to do as you like. Even if read as a stand-alone or first, Night should entertain and satisfy. I’d just recommend it after King.

Night of the Assassin is a classic prequel, in that it doesn’t repeat information already memorialized in King of Swords – so there may be some gaps that don’t seem to make sense until both novels are read.Night’s purpose, other than to thrill, is to explain, to afford illumination into one of my most fascinating characters yet. El Rey’s past, or at least the highlights of it, are alive on the page. If I’ve done my job right, you’ll be hurtled along on a ride like no other, to be at times shocked, titillated, revolted, sad, and ultimately, swept into a dark world of cartel killers and violence, drug deals and paid executions, love and loss.

Enjoy this humble offering, with my compliments.

Your servant,

Russell Blake

Go to excerpt from King of Swords

Night of the Assassin

Chapter 1

Midnight, Five Years Ago

The lights from Contessa, the 160-foot Christensen super yacht, glowed off the calm surface of the harbor below the Grand Bay Hotel in Barra de Navidad, twenty-six miles northwest of Manzanillo, Mexico – the primary deep water port on the Pacific coast of mainland Mexico. It was a calm spring night, the air heavy with the scent of the ubiquitous tropical flowers, beaded with moisture from the cloudbursts that had sulked over the hazy, humid day. Crickets sang their mating cries to the broiling heavens, the only sound on the water besides the dull thumping of the disco beat emanating from the massive boat’s salon, which lay beneath the superstructure that supported a four passenger helicopter and a complement of jet skis.

The creaking lines of the yacht strained as the tide rolled in and the moon’s perennial pull drew higher the water level in the marina; the heavy ropes that secured the ship to its long dock keened in futile protest. Armed security men clad in black windbreakers patrolled the concrete walkway that curved the length of the exclusive private marina, the unmistakable outline of Heckler & Koch UMP submachine-guns a silent testament to their intent. The battle-hardened men chartered with the safety of those aboard the yacht were dead serious, resonating a constant state of readiness against threats from any approach. The drug cartel skirmishes had escalated over the past two years – the guards had been in some blistering firefights with rival groups and seen more than their share of blood. These were men for whom killing was routine, and they drew their pay with the understanding that any day might be their last.

A radio crackled as the group checked in with one another, each member confirming that all was calm. The routine was to monitor everyone’s status every fifteen minutes throughout the night. If danger came, it often did so in the wee hours, and the group’s leader was keenly sensitive to possible fatigue or boredom – a luxury that could prove fatal on that detail.

Peals of shrill female laughter pierced the night as the salon sliding door opened to allow three scantily clad young Mexican women onto the rear deck, to where the ashtrays were located near a well-stocked bar and a sumptuous oversized hot tub. The girls were regular company for the owner of the boat, Sylvio Contreras, the number one warlord in Sonora and the head of the Zapata cartel. Not one was older than nineteen, the youngest seventeen – ‘Papi’ Contreras liked his meat fresh and tender, the more so since he’d had his fiftieth birthday the prior week. He could certainly afford the