Free Rage Of The Assassin by Russell Blake

to be foolproof.
    Aranas snuck a look at El Maquino’s face as he went on with his monologue, his voice that odd, inflectionless tone he’d had since a child. The young boy had become a man, but clearly his inner dialogue and self-awareness was stuck somewhere in a past Aranas would never fully appreciate – a world only El Maquino could navigate.
    When he was done, Aranas began asking pointed questions about operating the devices, which were amazingly simple, it turned out. Half an hour later he was satisfied that his charge would not only deliver what he needed on time, but that there was no way he could see for anyone to undo his work – which was critical to Aranas’s plan.
    “You have made me proud, my boy,” Aranas said, and for an instant thought he saw a flicker of something in the man’s eyes. He knew he might have been projecting the glimmer of emotion he so wanted to see, but he didn’t care. At his age, he’d take it, even if it was crafted from futile hope.
    El Maquino walked him through the minutiae of arming and disarming the systems, and then seemed to run out of words, like a clock winding down. He stood staring at the boxes like a statue until Aranas nodded in approval. “This is wonderful work. I knew I was right to put my faith in you. But now, I must go. Do you need anything? Want for anything? Say the word and I’ll make it appear for you. You have but to ask.”
    The big man slowly shook his head at the idea. He had everything.
    Aranas was surprised when El Maquino seemed to brighten.
    “Want to see my birds?” he asked, his voice suddenly shy as he looked at a doorway on the far side of the room.
    “I’d love to,” Aranas responded with a surreptitious glance at his watch.
    El Maquino led him to the doorway and flipped on the lights. The room was filled with drones of all sizes plugged into wall chargers, some of the aircraft only a few feet wide, others the size of a small bed. El Maquino moved into the space and pointed to the smaller ones. “These are armed with enough C-4 to knock out a tank.” He gestured to several with elaborate apparatuses affixed to them. “Those have stabilized gun platforms I plan to mount small submachine guns on, because of the weight. That one and that one have cameras – video, infrared, thermal. And this last one will support a man – it’s a hovercraft.”
    “Really? They’ll carry that much weight?”
    “Oh, yes. They’re amazing. The only problem is battery life. But I could see where we could use them either offensively or defensively, like the American army. Or to carry merchandise, or cash, over borders.”
    Aranas nodded thoughtfully, trying to be polite. He was glad the odd boy had grown up and found something with which to occupy his time, but the drug lord had little interest in flying toys, even if they were lethal. The amount of product he transported across the border each week was measured in tons, not kilos, so they’d be of no use to him. None of which he told El Maquino, for fear of bruising his feelings.
    They discussed the possibilities of remote flight for another couple of minutes and then Aranas excused himself – he had other matters that required his time.
    The locking and unlocking and escorting Aranas back to the lobby door took five minutes, and then, after allowing a small hug he clearly felt uncomfortable receiving, El Maquino sealed himself back into his dwelling, exhausted from the energy the visit had required from him. He never had guests of any kind, and even if it was Aranas, the atmosphere of his loft felt like it was charged, disrupted at some fundamental level that might take a long time to dissipate. He shambled over to the light switch in the kitchen and tried to resist the impulse that came over him, an almost physical need to restore order and balance to his space. He considered going to brush his teeth, but even as he had the thought, his beefy fingers reached for the switch.
    “On. Off. On.