Blood of the Assassin

by Russell Blake

  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.

  Chapter 24

  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.”

  “What? What do you mean, she’s not in? Did something happen?” Cruz asked, now agitated, his heart rate climbing as butterflies danced a tarantella in his stomach.

  “Not that I know of. Says here that she requested and received two sick days. There’s a temp instructing her class. Perhaps you should try her at home? I presume you have the number...”

  “When did she do this?” Cruz snapped, then reined in the worry in his voice. No point in alarming the man.

  “Yesterday, early. We haven’t heard from her, but expect her to be back tomorrow.”

  “I see. Thank you for your efforts. We have her home number.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything else you require, Capitan Cruz.”

  “Of course.”

  Cruz couldn’t disconnect fast enough. Damn Dinah for her stubborn streak. He should have anticipated that she wouldn’t go in, but still, it had caught him off guard. He needed to start thinking more clearly. If this was any indication of how he was processing, both he and the Chinese leader were as good as dead. He’d gotten extremely lucky this morning with the Los Zetas hit team, but he couldn’t rely on good fortune indefinitely. He needed to be smarter and faster, not just luckier. And he hadn’t seen Dinah’s move coming, although in hindsight it made sense.

  Shit.

  The hotel search.

  He’d been so involved with the shooting and the ensuing pandemonium he had completely forgotten to get back to his assistant with the written authorization. He quickly jotted out a note on his computer and e-mailed it to her on the secure server, then fumed at his carelessness. He’d lost another three hours – time that could have been used to find Dinah.

  Annoyed at himself, he called Dinah’s cell phone one more time and left a message. Maybe she was still not taking his calls, but she would listen to her voicemail. He knew her that well.

  “Sweetheart. It’s me. You need to call me as soon as you get this message. There was an attempt on me this morning. Three gunmen. I’m okay, but I need to talk to you immediately. This isn’t some ruse to get you to contact me. I’m serious. Call me the second you get this message. I...I love you, and I’m sorry about the other night. Please, amor. Call.”

  He disconnected with a sense of futility. He needed to talk to her now, not whenever she got around to checking her messages. The attack had changed everything. She would have to be in protective custody at all times until he could deal with the threat. Her decision to go off on her own had probably made perfect sense to her at the time, but it could wind up being disastrous.

  A chime sounded and he looked up, an expression of abject hopelessness flashing across his face before he got his emotions back under rigid control.

  The coffee was ready.

  Chapter 25

  Just after lunchtime, the hotel search came back with a hit. Dinah had checked into a large hotel in Mexico City, only fifteen minutes from his new offices. Gazing at the computer screen, he punched in the number and spoke with the reception desk, but when they put him through to Dinah’s room there was no answer. He tried again, but got the same response. Frustrated, he made a decision and stabbed in a two-digit extension and waited. Briones picked up on the fourth ring.

  “I need to you take a ride with me.”

  “Yes, sir. When? I’m kind of in the middle of–”

  “Now. You’re driving.” Cruz’s tone left no room for question. Briones was in his office within three minutes, having sidelined his tasks.

  “Where are we going, sir?”

  “Camino Real Polanco hotel.”

  Once in the car, Cruz sat stone-faced for a few blocks, then turned to Briones. “Dinah...we had an argument the other night when I told her about this new assignment. She didn’t respond...positively...to the idea that I’d be working with the man who killed her father. We...it didn’t end well. She decided that she needed to get some distance on it. Some perspective. For a few days.”

  Briones nodded, sagacious, preferring not to comment. Both men knew what Cruz was trying to say, while saving at least a modicum of face.

  “But she doesn’t understand the risks to herself.” Cruz seemed to deflate with the last words. “And now, with the attack...”

  “Who else knows where she’s staying?” Briones finally asked, twisting the steering wheel and cutting off a taxi, who pounded impotently on his horn.

  “Nobody.”

  “Then there’s no problem. You can’t have a leak if nobody knows anything,” Briones said simply.

  “True, but we have to assume that there was surveillance on the building. And we have no idea for how long. If they were watching it when she stormed...when she left, she could have been followed.”

  “Agreed.” There was nothing more productive to say. Cruz was right. Neither man wanted to consider the possib
ilities too closely. No point in speculating – they would be at the hotel soon enough.

  When they pulled into the drive of the iconic Ricardo Legorreta-designed landmark, gaudy pink and purple and yellow hues coloring the stunning architectural elements with a boldness that was timeless even five decades after it was built, they entered a different world from the crowded, bustling one out on the street. A valet hustled to open Briones’ door as a bellman swung Cruz’s wide, and within moments they were both striding purposefully across the massive, opulent lobby to the expansive reception area, easily fifty feet wide and crafted from contemporary exotic wood.

  “Yes, sir. May I help you?” a young man in a uniform far more elaborate than Cruz’s asked, a trace of disapproval on his face. The Camino Real wasn’t accustomed to armed Federales in the lobby. It was an edifice that reeked of wealth and gentrified exclusivity, and the intrusion by law enforcement wasn’t appreciated.

  “Room 321. Call. Now.”

  Something in Cruz’s tone sobered the receptionist, and he mutely lifted a telephone handset to his ear and keyed in the room number. He stood, waiting, then hung up.

  “I’m sorry, sir. There’s no answer. Would you like to leave a message for the guest?” he asked in his smarmiest tone.

  “Get someone who can open the room. We’re going up,” Cruz ordered, a look of glacial indifference to the receptionist’s attitude the only warning he was going to offer.