Revenge of the Assassin (Assassin Series 2) Read Online Free PDF Page B

out of the parking lot, so it could now be the fourth,” the voice reported, sounding harried.
    “What? How the hell is that supposed to help me? It’s one or the other. Think, man. Which is it? Second or fourth?” Juan Ramon seethed into the phone.
    “I don’t know. Like I said, they did some shuffling in the staging area, and I couldn’t see from so far away. Too much of a crowd, and the security looked like it was on unusually high alert.”
    “You know what happens if we screw this up.”
    “I know. I’d say go with the fourth truck. That’s my best guess. They left exactly ninety seconds ago. Should be within range in three minutes,” the voice advised.
    “Your best guess ? Fine. It’s your funeral if your guess is wrong,” Juan Ramon warned, then hung up. He checked his watch, then slid the small, black plastic radio transmitter nearer to the window sill. He raised a pair of camouflage binoculars to his eyes and watched for the first motorcycles. The timing would be easy, but the ambiguity over the target’s position within the convoy was a problem.
     
    ~
     
    Cena’s buzz of agitation hadn’t diminished since they’d left the hospital. If anything, it had grown worse. There had been warning indicators that the cartels were unhappy with the president’s aggressive offensive against them since taking office, and this was one of the first expeditions from the capital since he’d been inaugurated. Perhaps it was professional paranoia, but Cena had the sense that something was brewing, and he felt out of control, even though nothing had occurred.
    So far.
    They rounded a curve onto the primary thoroughfare through town, and Cena studied the myriad buildings along the route. The Suburbans had bulletproof glass and armor plating, so any danger from a sniper was moot. The president was in far more danger when he’d been standing in the open than in the SUV. At least that part of the ordeal had gone off without incident.
    The blast as the storefront exploded tore through the line of vehicles – the third and fourth Chevrolets flipped over from the force, their armor providing slim protection against six mounds of Semtex coated in three-quarter inch steel ball-bearings – the claymore mine-like bombs favored by the cartels. Once the orange eruption had done its work and the trucks were immobilized, an anti-tank rocket streaked from an apartment window four hundred yards away, the laser guidance system directing it unerringly to its target. The Suburban exploded in a fireball, and it was several seconds before the surviving detail opened fire on the apartment, directing a barrage of bullets at the already vacated window.
    Smoke and fire belched from the devastated truck, and sirens wailed through the downtown as emergency vehicles raced to contend with the effects of the attack.
    Juan Ramon was two miles away by the time the special forces commandos stormed his building, motoring towards the edge of town on his motorcycle, the pizza delivery box on the back rendering him anonymous as the army clamped down on the area in a vain attempt at containment.
    The evening news reported that thirty-seven lives had been lost in the savage attack, including six reporters, a host of soldiers and police, and four of the president’s elite personal guard. Fortunately, the president had escaped unharmed, the explosion having narrowly missed his vehicle at the front of the motorcade.
    All public appearances were cancelled until further notice, pending a full investigation. Cena was out of the hospital within a week, the damage to his left arm and part of his face requiring two additional surgeries over the next three months, but the prognosis for a full recovery good.
    Juan Ramon disappeared shortly thereafter, never to be heard from again.
     
     
     

Chapter 3
     
     
    Spring in Argentina was mild, the days warm and the nights only somewhat chilly, at least in Mendoza. Sometimes the wind would blow from the towering