Assassin: Roberto Duran, #2

By Inklings Publishing and Ramon Del Villar

Roberto's life is in danger. His role in the acquittal of Manolo has earned him the wrath of the mysterious Cesar. As the intrepid attorney goes about his mundane life, helping his clients and reconnecting with old friends, he must guard against attack. Will Roberto survive this cold blooded killer's vendetta? Join Roberto in this second installment of the Roberto Duran series. Discover his earlier exploits in Payback.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inklings Publishing
• Release date: Jan 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781944428273

Inklings Publishing

Inklings Publishing is a small press organized under a traditional publisher model.  Our goal is to create opportunities for authors to publish work, attend writing workshops and retreats at minimal expense to them, and build dynamic writing careers. We publish the books we would love to read!

Book preview

Prologue

Tijuana, Mexico, 1994

Pedro Perez, Televisa’s camera-three operator, stared at the small monitor in front of him, bored to death. This was his third presidential campaign, and it was all the same stuff happening over and over again: the multitudes that followed the candidate, the interminable speeches, and the enthusiastic applause.

The workers, the peasants, the entrepreneurs, the students, and even the housewives, all flocking to speak with the man they knew would be the next president of Mexico. The living forces of the country, as some silly politician had named them, came hoping without hope for real changes that might alleviate the burdens of their mundane lives. The Institutional Revolutionary Party, known to everybody by its initials, PRI, had not lost an election in over seventy years. It didn’t seem likely to lose any time soon.

It amused Pedro to see everybody getting situated so as to attract the attention of the future president, hoping perhaps to get some privileges in the next administration. The same spectacle every six years. Only the towns changed.

It was this wretched border town today. Well, at least he could cross over to the US side and do some shopping, he thought. A small consolation for enduring the hot Tijuana climate. It was barely early March, yet the constant drops of sweat sliding down the sides of his chest made his company shirt stick to his skin.

Just then, Pedro’s headphones buzzed. Camera three, get ready. Twenty seconds.

He panned to the left, focusing on the head of the candidate, and caught a glimpse of another camera doing the same from off to the right. Strange, he mused. We wouldn’t place a camera there. Well, it could be a border affiliate of one of the US networks. They often sent their reporters to cover these presidential campaigns when they came close to their towns.

He stopped the camera for an instant, and with his telescopic lens, he zoomed in. Sure enough, the other camera operator was standing atop a suburban with California plates that had English words painted on its sides.

He focused back on the soon-to-be president the very moment his red light went on. He was on the air. It was almost impossible to distinguish the features of the candidate amidst all the people surrounding him. He followed the slow progress the politician made, shaking hands and waving to onlookers.

No puede ser! Pedro thought, pressing his eye tightly onto the lens. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

To the right, just above the candidate’s head, clearly visible, Pedro spied the contours of a handgun. He zoomed in on the person holding the weapon aimed at the future president’s head.

Bang!

Smoke emanated from the barrel as the bullet rushed. Re-focusing on the never-to-be president, Pedro’s camera witnessed the almost-slow-motion fall to the ground, the people rushing in all directions, as life left the body.

In the corner of his eye, Pedro caught a glimpse of the foreign camera operator dismounting the equipment and getting off the roof of the suburban. This guy must be crazy, Pedro thought. In the middle of an assassination attempt on the future president of Mexico was not the time to turn off the cameras. Pedro returned his attention to his job.

The crowd, which before had pressed in as close as possible, now pushed and shoved, putting as much distance between themselves and the dead man. With his camera, Pedro kept the focus on those surrounding the fallen candidate. He could hear them yelling, asking for a stretcher and an ambulance. One of the bodyguards picked up the limp body of the man who was to be the next president of Mexico and began carrying him. The others had caught the man with the gun and were giving him a savage beating.

It was mind numbing. Everything had happened in seconds. Less than a minute before, Pedro had been bored to the maximum. Just an instant later, the place had turned into pandemonium. He could feel his heart beating wildly, adrenaline flowing through his veins.

He did not want to miss anything. The people who carried the candidate’s body were now to the left of where he was, and he could focus better on the head of the fallen man. In his ears, the director yelled orders at everybody to keep taping, so Pedro adjusted his telephoto lens for maximum close-up.

The politician’s head now occupied virtually all the screen of his monitor. The gaping hole on his temple, from whence blood gushed out, along with the eyes, glassy and open, were front and center.

The man was dead.

Luis Donaldo Colosio, the president-to-be of Mexico, had been shot by an assassin right in front of his eyes and the eyes of a whole nation that either were watching the events transpiring or would very shortly be glued to television sets all over the Republic of Mexico. The video footage that he and his fellow camera operators were recording would be played over and over, ad nauseam, for the public.

The thought of other camera operators reminded him of his foreign colleague. Pedro turned his head around, looking for him in the chaos, but could not see him. How strange—the most important news of the moment and he was not around. The guy must be trying to get closer or something, he thought.

What would the Americans think about this? Mexico had been a model of stability for longer than most could remember. Then, just a few months before, the peasants rising against the government down in Chiapas and now this. There had not been any overt political violence in Mexico since before World War II. Now, in the short lapse of a few months for this to happen! It’s terrible, Pedro thought and shook his head disgustedly.

A black Ford Crown Victoria stopped next to where the bodyguard held the candidate, the doors opened, and the limp body was slid onto the backseat. The car then departed amidst honking and yelling.

As is typical in Mexico, everybody wanted to see, but at the same time everybody wanted to help. People would shout at each other, giving orders to make room for the car to move. The sedan, with so many antennas on its roof and trunk that it resembled a lobster, finally disappeared from sight.

He turned his camera toward the man who had presumably shot the candidate. The beating had stopped. The culprit was now being dragged off somewhere, surrounded by armed bodyguards. Pedro felt sorry for the poor devil.

Pedro had liked Colosio very much. The candidate seemed to be an honest man. A seeming contradiction in terms—an honest politician. Yet, Pedro had been impressed with the sincerity that could be felt in the speeches of the aspiring-to-be president, especially when the man had spoken about ending the violence and curtailing the excessive privileges of the ultra-rich.

Nevertheless, Pedro felt sorry for the assassin. He would now probably be tortured.

1

Houston, Texas

Roberto Duran sat in his favorite wicker chair. The sweet aroma of the fragrant flowers mingled with the delicious scent of his 965 Torpedo Puerto Rican cigar. The atrium of his house in Houston, Texas, was Roberto’s favorite spot for drinking his coffee and reading the newspapers.

The house itself had been designed and built originally by an architect for his own use. It was a marvelous concept with just a few slit-style windows to the outside and a 1,500 square-foot atrium in the center. The living areas formed a U-shape around the wood-decked inner sanctum, with floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding doors letting in the light and providing access to every room.

It was a Sunday, and as such, the only day Roberto did not work either in his downtown office or in his studio, located on a small mezzanine that looked out over the three-story inner gardens of his home. Roberto loved this house, which his wife, Lulu, and he had bought at a bargain price once his law practice started taking off. He was convinced that he would live out the rest of his days and die here.

His studio was equipped with his priceless Lopez Morton office furniture that Lulu had given him in Mexico. It had taken the combined effort of fifteen men, and a series of pulleys, to get the heavy desk plus the two matching credenzas up there. When some of his friends suggested that he should move to the more fashionable West University or River Oaks districts, Roberto would respond that, if for no other reason, he had to keep this house because there was no way he could bring his office down from the mezzanine.

The house was in the Meyerland district in the southwest part of the city. The area had been traditionally populated by Jewish families, and while many of Roberto’s neighbors were Jewish, Houston’s diversity had brought a variety of ethnic restaurants and supermarkets to the neighborhood.

Puffing his cigar, Roberto saw Lulu waking up. He motioned for her to come join him in the atrium. He got up and headed to the kitchen to make her coffee. Returning, he handed her the cup and sat down once more.

Roberto noticed that there was something not right in the way she averted his eyes and sat rigidly in her chair.

Roberto, I want us to separate.

Roberto sat there, dumbfounded. Their relationship had always been stormy, particularly in the early years. But it had gradually improved, and in the last few years, they had been at peace—at least from Roberto’s perspective.

Roberto looked out over the skyline of Houston’s downtown. His suite of offices on the twentieth floor of the gothic-style Bank of America building overlooked Tranquility Park and the Federal Court Building. But while the view would normally ease his mind and bring him peace in the midst of the chaotic world of litigation, today it was completely lost on him. All he could think of was the sense of loss that had settled on him at Lulu’s words.

She was even now looking for a condo or townhome for him to move into for their separation. They had agreed to be nice and civil, but Roberto felt more and more like beating the heck out of something. Maybe he should go to his dojo and work out these emotions tonight, Roberto mused, his concentration so intense he almost missed the ring of the intercom.

Boss, I have Jim Randall on line three for you. Do you want to take the call? Ginny, his receptionist, informed him.

Absolutely!

Jim Randall, a probate attorney, had been Roberto’s