Blood of the Assassin (Assassin Series 5) (10 page)

“Now, what’s for lunch? Deisy said she was going to prepare a surprise.” Deisy, the head of the kitchen staff, was a short woman of Mayan ancestry and a culinary wizard. “Come, all of you. Join me. There will be time enough to discuss the rest of our business over a decent meal.” Alvadez took a final appreciative look at his ponies, then turned and moved to the front porch, trailed by his subordinates, who exchanged dour looks.

Nobody had reacted to the executions – that was par for the course, and didn’t warrant comment – but the directive to go after Cruz was a different issue. Taking on the
Federales
in a frontal manner was tantamount to declaring open warfare on the Mexican government, and none of them was so foolish as to believe that there wouldn’t be a terrible price to pay for that. But nobody wanted to cross Alvadez, either, so they were resigned to what they would have to do – prepare for yet another long, bloody campaign once Cruz was dead. It was inevitable, but Alvadez was the boss, and questioning his wisdom was a recipe for an early grave.

The men trudged towards the house, the sound of clomping pony hooves following them, each lost in his thoughts, wondering how they were going to get the information their leader wanted; and then how they would reach a man who was as untouchable as any in Mexico.

Cruz started awake with a jolt, momentarily disoriented, then remembered where he was, and why. Home, in bed, a long
siesta
having purged most of the effects of the tequila. He glanced at his watch and groaned. Almost four o’clock. He rolled over and tried to think of a reason to put off calling Godoy, and couldn’t think of one.

Cruz waited another few minutes, then swung his legs from beneath the sheets and set his feet on the cool travertine floor. After a brief trip to the bathroom, he punched his cell phone to life and selected Godoy’s number. The receptionist connected him almost immediately, and then, after answering, Godoy told him to hang on, and put him on hold. For five minutes.

Typical.

When he came back on the line, Cruz told him that he would agree to head up the Iron Eagle task force, and he could almost hear the smirk of triumph in Godoy’s voice.

“I need you to jump right into this,
Capitan
. It’s the highest priority, as I indicated. I’ll make a call and see if I can get CISEN to have you meet with their people today.”

“It’s too late today. I’ll need time to assemble a team on my end and brief them before I’m ready for that,” Cruz protested.

“Much as I appreciate your logistical concerns, I’m afraid I need to insist. I’ll call you back as soon as I have confirmation. The clock is ticking,
Capitan
. No time for dallying,” Godoy said, and Cruz wondered whether he was just trying to get even with him for making him wait most of the day for an answer. The line clicked and went dead, and Cruz was left staring at his phone. Godoy had hung up on him.

Ten minutes later the receptionist was on the line, instructing him that he needed to be at CISEN headquarters by six p.m. With rush hour traffic being what it was, he would be lucky to make it. He called his office and told them to have his car and driver ready in five minutes, and then pulled a uniform out of the closet and hurriedly dressed. Cruz was buttoning his shirt when he heard the front door open.

Dinah appeared in the doorway a moment later, surprised. “You’re home! What, did they legalize drug running and money laundering today? Are you out of work?” she teased.

“I wish. No, I needed to change into uniform before I go to a big meeting this evening. I’m sorry,
mi amor
, but I expect it to last a while. I’m not sure what time I’ll be home,” he apologized as he belted his holstered Glock in place. “I’ve got to run. I’m already behind, and it’s not the kind of meeting I can be late for...”

“So...I’m on my own tonight for dinner?” Dinah asked, stepping aside.

“I’ll call you as soon as it’s over. I’m hoping maybe I can get back by nine.”

She kissed him on the cheek as he brushed past. “No problem. Go keep the world safe. I suppose having a husband who’s overworked is better than having to worry about him running off with his secretary.”

“Right. Who’s got the time?” he agreed, and then was moving towards the foyer. “Like I said, I’ll call. I’m sorry...,” he called out.

“Go on. Get out of here. Shoo.”

Cruz closed the front door softly behind him, the beginnings of a smile warming his usually-serious expression. Dinah was one in a million, and he was always amazed that, with a life like his, visited with more hardship and heartbreak than most would ever dream of, something as wonderful as their relationship had landed in his lap at the most unexpected time.

He would have to tread carefully with his current predicament, though.
El Rey
had butchered her father, and no matter what duty Cruz had been forced into honoring, she would never forgive the assassin. That would make Cruz’s working with him, even at gunpoint, a slap in the face for her.

As he walked down the hall, he turned over in his mind how he would explain the operation to Dinah in a way that would be palatable. It occurred to him to just not tell her about
El Rey
’s involvement, but he discarded the idea. Whenever he tried to be stealthy, it wound up blowing up on him. Dinah seemed to be able to tell without effort when he was only sharing partial truths, and he knew himself well enough to know he’d never be able to keep something that big from her.

He waited for the elevator and adjusted his pistol, reassured by its comforting bulk. The next few hours were going to be as ugly as any he’d ever spent, but he would get through them somehow, no matter how unpleasant the task. Cruz was pragmatic, and he’d gotten his marching orders – and whatever his feelings, he was a creature of the law, and had to respect the very same law he was sworn to uphold.
El Rey
was now forgiven for any wrongdoing by the system, the sins of the past pardoned by the highest authority in the land. Cruz might not like it, but it was official, and he needed to remember that even if he didn’t agree with it.

The elevator arrived, and he entered and jabbed the button for the parking garage level beneath the lobby.

It was a lousy situation all around. Nobody was going to be happy about it – he could just imagine how his staff would react to the news that they were going to have to work with the most notorious assassin in the country’s history. Yet another reason to keep the circle of those who knew about it as small as possible. If the press got any wind of what was afoot with the Chinese it would be disastrous, but if somehow it leaked out that the
Federales
were working with
El Rey
...

There could be no way of explaining that, no rationalization that would make sense. It would destroy the nation’s credibility, as well as that of his office. The outrage would be almost as devastating as if the assassination attempt was successful.

For a fleeting second he wished he’d kept drinking instead of sleeping it off.

Then the doors opened and Cruz strode to his waiting car – another perk of being Mexico’s most visible cop. Whatever his misgivings, he now had a job to do, and he would have to lead his team with assurance. But there was no part of him that was looking forward to the coming meeting, and as he slipped into the back seat of the sedan, he had a sinking feeling in his gut.

He’d been saddled with yet another impossible assignment, where the odds of success were slim, and blame for failure would fall squarely on him. He glanced at the back of his driver’s head and groaned, then caught himself and choked it off.

“Where to,
Capitan
?” the driver asked, eyeing him in the mirror.

He hesitated for a moment, and then cleared his throat.

“CISEN. And use the siren.”

El Perro Bravo was quiet at just after five, the evening drinking crowd having not yet trickled in. From the outside, the bar looked like a trendy watering hole, all black leather and chrome and mirrors. The bartender was a small man in a highly starched white shirt and black vinyl apron, thinning hair trimmed close to his head, like his carefully groomed goatee. Lips permanently pursed in judgment, he was busily polishing the gleaming bar top with a rag as muted lounge music drifted from hidden speakers. In three hours the place would be standing room only, filled with young professionals with money to spend and time to kill, looking for that one special connection that would satisfy their desires for the night; but now, during rush hour, it was dead.

The stylish doors pushed open and a medium-sized man in his thirties with conservatively cut black hair and a mustache entered and looked around the dimly lit interior. The bartender eyed his understated rugby shirt and tan slacks without interest and returned to his chore, leaving the newcomer to find a place to sit and order something whenever he was ready.

He chose a booth in a far corner, facing the door, checking his watch as he sat down, and after tossing the jacket he’d been carrying on the seat next to him, pulled a smartphone from his pocket and checked his e-mail messages, peering at the tiny screen intently, seemingly unaware of the bartender. After a few minutes, another man entered – this one older, tall and thin, his movements measured, wearing a black leather jacket and jeans, the dome of his shaved head shining from the beams of the overhead can lights, the shadows accenting his cadaverous features.

The new arrival’s eyes scanned the bar and then settled on the only other patron, still fiddling with his phone. He took long, fluid strides across the black and white checkered floor and took a seat across from the younger man before glancing at the bartender, who stopped what he was doing and came around the long bar to their table.

“What’ll it be, gentlemen?”

The older man looked at the bottles standing sentry in back of the bar. “Chivas. Neat.”

The younger man put his phone on the table top and regarded the bartender. “Do you have Bohemia?” he asked.

“Yes. Regular or dark?”

“Regular, please.”

The two men didn’t speak until the drinks had been brought and paid for, and the bartender had moved out of earshot.

“What do you have for us?” the older man began in a surprisingly soft voice.

The younger man took a pull on his beer. “I put out the word to everyone I know, and I think I got a bite on the location you were asking about.”

The older man nodded, then took an appreciative sip of his drink. “Good. Were you able to get any details other than a location?”

“Only after a long night buying my source tequila shots and staying out till three in the morning.”

“Sounds like rough duty.”

“You don’t know the half of it. I feel like I was dragged behind a garbage truck for a few miles.”

“I’m sure it was terrible. Now what about the information?”

“It was harder to get than I imagined. Nobody else even had a hint of anything helpful. That’s almost unheard of. It should be worth more. A lot more.”

The older man sighed, weary of the game. “How much more?” He bit off each syllable.

The younger man reclined and took another drink of beer. It was promising that the older man hadn’t just gotten up and left, confirming his instinct that the information was valuable.

“I was thinking double.”

The older man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “In every relationship, there comes a point where one of the two parties involved realizes that he’s not getting adequate value from the other to continue.”

“Which wouldn’t be the case here, as this is the most hotly sought info I can recall, and a bargain at four times the price. Besides which, if anything happens once I give it to you, I’ll be under substantial scrutiny, as will everyone else who had access. That additional risk needs to be compensated for. It’s not unfair.”

The older man sat back and contemplated killing the younger one, right there, and then calmly walking out of the bar. He could do it. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The younger man seemed to understand the internal struggle. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have a pistol pointed at you under the table,” he announced in a flat voice.

The older man offered up a wan smile that never reached his eyes. “That’s not really in the spirit of friendship, is it?”

“No. But I don’t want to wind up another Los Zetas casualty. Just in case you were so offended by my explanation that you were considering terminating our relationship. Not that I think you would. Purely precautionary.”

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” the older man replied easily. “You can put your gun away. It’s unnecessary.”

The younger man nodded and eased his weapon back under the jacket next to him. “So where do we go from here? Are you prepared to meet my price, or do we enjoy our drinks and agree that this isn’t a good exchange?” he asked.

The older man removed a bulging yellow envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table, watching the bartender to ensure he wasn’t paying any attention.

“This is the amount we agreed to. I don’t have any more with me. If the information vets, I’ll get you another envelope with the balance within twenty-four hours. But I won’t wait. You know I’m good for it. Now it’s your turn.”

The younger man hefted the envelope and then pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and passed it to the older one, who unfolded it and read the few details with interest.

“What about security precautions?”

“Two men in the lobby at all times. Armed.”

“That’s it?”

“A driver. But from what I understand, they vary the pick-up times, so there are no set patterns. All very clandestine and hush-hush.”

“Any chance of turning the driver?”

“Zero. His daughter was killed in a cartel gun battle. Collateral damage at a plaza in Michoacán. It’s personal for him.”

“Ah. Well, then, no point in dreaming about what might have been.” The older man finished his Chivas and slid out of the booth. “I’ll be in touch with the rest of the money. I think if I were you, I’d consider a long vacation at the beach. Soon. You probably don’t want to be around. You have any time due?”