Blood of the Assassin (Assassin Series 5) (19 page)

Z.

The universal symbol for the most violent and deadly criminal syndicate in Mexico.

Los Zetas.

Dinah spit toothpaste into the shower drain and then set the toothbrush on the ledge as she rinsed the shampoo from her hair, the warm surge of water making her scalp tingle from its needle-like pressure. She closed her eyes and luxuriated as the stream washed away her worries along with the apricot-scented body rinse that the hotel provided its guests. Steam filled the glass-enclosed marble stall as Dinah fiddled with the shower handle, then twisted it off with a resigned sigh. First day on her own, and she had a lot to do, a lot to think about – she couldn’t hide in the bathroom forever, much as the idea appealed to her.

She stepped onto the cushy bath mat and toweled herself dry, serenaded by the whirring hum of a tiny exhaust fan sucking the moist air out into the city sky, then moved to the sink to begin her morning ritual. Fortunately, it was quick – Dinah had never been a big makeup fan, and was as low-maintenance as anyone she knew. She pulled a brush through her thick black hair and inspected herself, then nodded with satisfaction. She didn’t look nearly as lost and confused as she felt – the reflection staring back at her was of a confident woman in her prime, not the insecure schoolgirl she felt like today.

Her first errand would be to find a less expensive hotel than the one she’d chosen on a whim. While it was one of the nicer in Mexico City, that luxury came at a steep price, and it was unsustainable for more than a couple of nights. She’d been so anxious to get out of the condo while Cruz was still at work that she hadn’t really thought through what she would do from there, but she’d kicked the can down the road long enough, and today was the first day of her newfound freedom – a thought that terrified her more than anything. She loved her husband, and even with all the complications of his job, their life together was one she treasured and which fulfilled her.

So why had she reacted so dramatically to his announcement
? It had been visceral, and no matter how hard she had tried to talk herself down, every time she thought about Cruz working with that...that evil scum, she went a little crazy. Even though she’d thought enough time had passed that she could react logically and dispassionately, the truth was that her thoughts were flooded with the bloody images of her father, bisected with the Japanese sword in his apartment, and then of the assassin forcing her to spy on Cruz and betray him. She still remembered the hurt in his eyes when he’d confronted her with her deeds, and between the savage killing of her dad and the assassin’s cold-blooded manipulation of her...

Enough
, she chided herself, and then exited the bathroom to dress. At least she didn’t have to worry about work today – she’d taken a few days off, so if Cruz was tempted to not honor her request to leave her in peace, he wouldn’t find her at the school where she taught second grade. She wanted – no, she needed – the time to herself so she could get clear on how to proceed. She was old enough to know that offering ultimatums that left no wiggle room for the other party was a recipe for disappointment. Everything in life was about compromise, and in her more lucid moments, she realized that she hadn’t left Cruz anywhere to go. She’d boxed him in and ignored his reasons for taking the assignment, which had felt good at the time, but now seemed rash and counter-productive.

Her father had always been so good at counseling her, listening patiently to her concerns and objections, and then always reminding her that she needed to get clear on what she wanted out of any situation. “What’s your objective?” was his favorite question when she was conflicted, and it had always forced her to focus on the end-result rather than her feelings as she went through the process.

So what’s your objective with this stunt, Dinah?
Her inner voice would have to stand in for her father now that
El Rey
had ended his life in a flash of brutality. The thought flooded her with rage, and she felt herself losing her grip on the reasonable, calm perspective she’d been coaxing into bloom that morning.

Just shut up. Not everything has to be deconstructed
. Sometimes your gut was right.

Perhaps
, she argued with herself. And sometimes your gut was just rationalizing your bad decisions, or anticipating them.

She slipped her jeans on and pulled a light sweater over her head – the weather was cool, typical for spring in the city. At least it wasn’t raining. Dinah glanced at the room service tray with the half-eaten toast, the remnants of her
huevos rancheros
, and a pot of excellent coffee, and felt the urge to procrastinate return.

Another cup before she got going wouldn’t hurt, and it would help get her fully awake. There was no harm. And she’d certainly paid enough for it. A liter of coffee at the hotel was eight times the price of a liter of gasoline, and all they had to do was run boiling water through some grounds.

A knock at the door startled her out of her funk, and she considered ignoring it before thinking better of it. She moved to the door and leaned into it.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Housekeeping,” answered a female voice, muffled by the door.

Dinah squinted, peering through the peephole, and saw a short, middle-aged woman with her hair pulled back in a severe bun, wearing a dark blue apron over her uniform. The woman looked bored out of her mind, and had the air of defeat that a life of harsh blows cultivated. Dinah felt a stab of guilt – here she was, feeling sorry for herself, dining like royalty and preening like a movie star at a private spa, when the less fortunate were having to clean up after her, day after mind-numbing day, with nothing on the horizon but an endless future of the same.

“I’m not...oh, never mind. Just a second. I’m just leaving,” Dinah called, then edged to the bed and sat down before fumbling to put on her running shoes. She cinched the laces tight, taking care to double-tie each knot, then stood and collected her things – her purse, the light jacket she had worn out of the condo, her cell phone. Her wad of emergency cash was still in the room safe, and she momentarily considered pulling it out, then discarded the idea. It was safer in there than on the streets of Mexico City – one of the most dangerous cities in the northern hemisphere. She checked the time and calculated that she had three more hours before she had to check out or pay for another night, so she didn’t have to rush herself with finding something more affordable – assuming that she didn’t decide to return to the condo and compromise.

After scanning the room one last time, she picked up the tray with her meal on it and approached the door, then set it on the chest of drawers by the entry.

When she unlocked the deadbolt, she was surprised to see that there was a man in a suit standing just behind the maid, and then everything happened fast and became a pain-hazed blur. Her legs lost their ability to support her and every nerve ending simultaneously exploded with agony as the demure service woman pressed a stun gun against her throat and zapped her. Synapses misfired as the jolt knocked her off balance, and she collapsed backwards towards the bed as the maid and the man moved into the room before closing the door softly behind them.

A band of pain tightened around her chest like a vise as wave after wave of electric shock pummeled her. The tray with her breakfast on it crashed to the floor as the pair struggled with her, and then the last thing she registered before everything went black was the man, a leer twisting his features, leaning over her with a syringe in his hand while the woman looked on, expressionless.

The office was filled with activity when Cruz and Briones finally made it in, and after catching the sidelong glances from the gathered officers both men knew that word had already circulated about the botched attempt on Cruz’s life. That wasn’t surprising – the
Federales
, like all law enforcement agencies, were a tight-knit group, and when something as shocking as an execution attempt against the ranking member of the elite anti-cartel task force took place, the news would spread like wildfire.

Cruz was in no mood for lengthy explanations, but he needed to get everyone’s minds back on the job, so he stood near his office door and called for everyone’s attention. The common area grew still, all eyes on him, and when one of the phones rang, an officer snatched it up, and after listening for a few seconds, told the caller in a hushed voice that he would get back to him.

“By now it’s obvious that everyone’s heard about the morning’s events. Let’s address it so we can move on. Three cartel members tried to ambush me outside my building today. Two are dead for their efforts, and the third probably won’t make it – and if by some miracle he does, he’ll be walking on sticks for the rest of his life. I’ve called for additional security for these offices, which is now in place, so there’s nothing to worry about. But it seems that I angered someone important, and they wanted to express their displeasure in an unmistakable way. I don’t want to overdramatize this or have it divert attention from our work, so that’s all I’m going to say about it. An investigation is ongoing,” Cruz said, hoping that would end the matter.

One of the men in the back raised his hand and spoke. “Any idea which cartel?”

Cruz had expected it, and had decided to hedge after swearing Briones to secrecy. “We’re not sure, but it has all the earmarks of Los Zetas. Specialized automatic weapons, ex-military personnel, the works. They were good. Just not good enough. That’s confidential, by the way, for your ears only. I don’t want any discussion outside of this room. Are there any other questions?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, of course. It takes more than a few punks with pea shooters to take me down.”

Cruz studied the assembled men with an expression that didn’t invite further inquiry, and after a few moments of silence, he wrapped it up.

“That’s it for the drama. Everyone get back to work. We’re running out of time.”

The men broke into murmured conversation as they returned to their tasks, and Cruz spun and moved towards his office, then looked over his shoulder at Briones.

“Come in, sit down, and close the door,” he ordered, then strode to his desk and sat behind it. He slid open a drawer as Briones took a seat and withdrew a box of bullets, then ejected the magazine from his Glock and reloaded it.

“I need a new condo. It’s pretty obvious that location is blown. Please arrange for it. By tonight, if possible – send the crew in and have them pack everything. There’s some cash in my nightstand and some personal papers in the desk. I’ll want a signed inventory from whoever’s in charge. If a new place can’t be arranged by tonight, I’ll need a hotel room and security,” Cruz rattled off with precise, practiced efficiency.

“I’ll get right on it,” Briones assured him.

“I also want regular reports on the condition of the shooter, and whether he’ll make it. It’s possible we can get more out of him.”

Briones nodded, nothing to add.

“Get a full listing of all suspected Los Zetas we know about in D.F., as well as any rumored associates. I want to know who directed this. We need to respond.”

“I’ll put a team on it at headquarters.”

“Launch a full investigation into the affairs of every person who knew the condo’s location. That’s a very small group of people. Maybe we’ll get lucky and there will be some trace of unusual financial activity – big cash deposits or some lavish purchases. I doubt it, but you never know.”

“Yes, sir. It had to be someone in the inner circle. Your living arrangements are as close to a state secret as we have.”

“Somebody sold me out. I hate to believe it, but that’s the only thing that makes sense. That means nobody can know about the new place, except for you, me, the person in charge of leasing it, and God. And I’m pretty sure I don’t want Him to have the exact address if it isn’t absolutely necessary.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

Cruz hesitated, and seemed to fight an internal battle before continuing. He issued instructions for another five minutes, as Briones scribbled frantic notes. When Cruz had covered everything he could think of, he again cautioned the younger man about confidentiality before he dismissed him. Briones assured him that he understood, then exited the office and went to his workstation to begin making calls.

Cruz held his right hand out and studied it. A slight tremor, almost imperceptible, the by-product of the massive adrenaline rush from the morning’s excitement. He’d had worse.

He rose and strode to the coffee machine to prepare a new pot, taking his time with the task, a sort of therapy, a ritual that calmed his nerves. Once done, he returned to his seat and placed his cell phone on the desk in front of him, and then, nodding to himself, pressed a speed dial key and lifted it to his ear. The line rang, then forwarded to voicemail. Dinah still wasn’t answering. He glanced at his watch and realized that she would be in class now, and probably had the phone off. Cruz pressed another key and waited.

When the secretary answered, Cruz was polite but firm.

“Yes, good morning. I need to speak to Dinah Lobredor. She teaches second grade. This is Captain Romero Cruz of the
Federales
. It’s an emergency.”

The woman seemed flustered, but quickly recovered. “Of course. Let me take a look at the class schedules. I’m going to have to put you on hold for a few minutes. Stay on the line, please.”

Saccharine pop music, a female singer who sounded like a cat in heat, played in his ear, and Cruz found himself growing impatient as one minute stretched into five. He was about to call back and read the woman the riot act when the music stopped and a male voice came on the line.

“
Capitan
Cruz? This is the principal, Eduardo Navarez. You’re trying to reach
Señora
Lobredor?”

“That’s correct. It’s a matter of considerable urgency.”

“I’m afraid she isn’t in today.”