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.”
Chapter 13
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?”
“I haven’t had a break in two years.”
“Then it’s your big chance. I’ll arrange another meet so you can get paid.” He turned to go.
“No hard feelings?” the younger man asked, the hint of concern in his voice betraying his anxiety.
“It’s just business. Don’t sweat it.”
He watched as the older man strode to the door and swung it open, then stepped out into the waning light and was gone.
Chapter 14
The sedan pulled up to the security gate and, after the driver showed his credentials, was waved through. It rolled to a stop at the building entrance, the rear door opened, and Cruz stepped out into the dusk and marched up the stairs into CISEN’s headquarters. Once inside, an armed guard escorted him to one of the meeting rooms, and he sat cooling his heels for a few minutes before footsteps approached from down the long hall.
Rodriguez entered, followed by three other men. He recognized the last man; his hair was longer, but the studied blank expression was as familiar as his dead black eyes.
El Rey. The assassin, whom he’d last seen at the arraignment.
The newcomers took seats around the large conference room table and Rodriguez nodded to Cruz.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Capitan Cruz. These men are my associates, working the Iron Eagle case. And I believe you’ve already met...Carlos.” Rodriguez motioned to El Rey.
“Carlos? Is that what you’re calling him?” Cruz spat, struggling to maintain his composure now that the assassin was seated across from him. This, the man who had been responsible for so much misery, who had killed his men with abject ruthlessness, and almost killed the president. For a second his vision blurred and he literally saw red, a crimson haze from his blood pressure spiking before he fought his emotions back under control.
“Romero was taken,” El Rey said with a shrug, goading Cruz by using his first name.
Cruz resisted the urge to jump across the table and strangle the killer. Instead, he forced a humorless smile. “That would have been confusing,” he acceded.
El Rey turned to face Rodriguez. “For the record, I don’t think this is going to work. It’s a spectacularly bad idea, actually.”
Cruz nodded. “On this, we agree.”
Rodriguez looked at his men and then returned El Rey’s glare. “Everyone’s familiar with your objections. But we don’t have any choice, so we have to make the best of a difficult situation,” he said.
“Why is that, again? Perhaps I’m just slow today, but explain to me again why a lowlife serial killer is a necessary part of this operation. I know he got a pardon, but why am I being saddled with him? Did I miss where he’s got any background in investigations?” Cruz said.
“That’s not your point, it’s mine. My, er, skills, aren’t tracking and finding assassins, gentlemen. As I’ve said before,” El Rey said.
Rodriguez shook his head in frustration. “Can we please stop this? We’re wasting time we don’t have. I understand neither of you wants to be in the same room as the other – you’ve both made that abundantly clear. And I’ve made it clear to you that you have no choice in the matter, so rather than wasting your energy protesting the unchangeable, I suggest you start focusing on catching the German before he can carry out this assassination.”
Cruz started to speak again, but Rodriguez cut him off.
“With all due respect, Capitan, get over your righteous indignation. I’m not asking you two to go shoe shopping together. Your assignment is to work with each other to find the German. The clock is ticking. ‘Carlos’ here is part of the team, representing CISEN, and that’s the end of the matter. I’m familiar with your sentiments, and they’ve been recorded for posterity. But now we have a job to do, and I’d suggest you get with the program. Am I making myself clear?”
Cruz scowled. “Perfectly. That’s why I’m here,” he said.
“Very well. The first order of business is to get you a home base from which you can run the operation. You can’t do so easily from Federales headquarters, so I’d like to propose that you do so from here. I can make a suite of offices available to you...”
“Absolutely not. CISEN is too high-profile. I see nothing wrong with headquarters, except for our friend El...Carlos. And that’s just too bad. Headquarters is where I work,” Cruz said forcefully.
“If you think I’m going to start commuting to Federales headquarters, you’re out of your mind,” El Rey agreed.
One of the men leaned towards Rodriguez and whispered a few words. A murmured conversation ensued while Cruz and El Rey stared death at each other. Rodriguez straightened and resumed speaking.
“May I suggest a compromise? We have certain facilities at our disposal. Offsite locations where
you can work without issue. One is a block of offices downtown. I can arrange to have as many as you need ready by tomorrow.”
Cruz eyed him distrustfully. “There will be a lot of specialized equipment. And security concerns.”
“Make a list of what you need and I’ll arrange for it. I’ll also have a team in place to guard it twenty-four hours a day. It will be accessible round the clock. At your exclusive disposal,” Rodriguez assured him.
“Figure on enough room for two dozen men, minimum, with at least three or four private offices and a large common area for analysts,” Cruz said.
“And state-of-the-art computers and communications gear, I would presume,” Rodriguez said.
“Yes. Do you have some note paper? I can give you preliminary requirements right now.”
Rodriguez snapped his fingers and the man nearest the door wordlessly rose, returning after a few moments with a stack of legal pads and pens. He placed them in the center of the table and Cruz took one, then began making precise bullet points of his necessities. El Rey watched him without comment, and then took a pull on the water bottle he’d brought.
“So what’s your first move? Other than making a shopping list?” he asked in his soft voice. Cruz glanced up at him and continued writing.
Rodriguez cleared his throat. “In addition to Carlos, we’re also assigning a liaison. Claudio Ibarra, here, will work with you closely. You may rely on him for anything you need.”
Claudio, a paunchy middle-aged man wearing a rumpled brown suit, a film of sweat clinging to his forehead, nodded at Cruz and El Rey. “Pleased to meet you,” he said without enthusiasm.
“All the latest information we’ve been able to glean is in these. The data is current as of one hour ago.” Rodriguez slid folders to El Rey, Cruz, and Claudio. The only one who opened it and studied the contents was Claudio. El Rey peered at the folder without interest.
“Do we know if he’s made it into Mexico yet?” El Rey asked.
“Regrettably, we don’t. That will be part of what your team will handle – watch for anything suspicious at the borders. You’ll have complete authority over immigration, local and federal police, any interfacing with Interpol...whatever you need,” Rodriguez assured him.
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