Blood of the Assassin

by Russell Blake

  “Why is it that I always get it in the face?” Briones griped good-naturedly.

  “The universe trying to tell you something? Maybe about keeping your nose out of other people’s business?” Cruz opined. “This time around you got off light. No bullet wounds. Just a nosebleed from your reckless driving. The insurance company is going to get it worse than you.”

  The nurse finished her ministrations and offered a perfunctory smile to both men, and then she and the doctor left, leaving them alone.

  “I think she liked you best,” Cruz offered.

  “But she was tending to you, sir.”

  “That’s probably why she liked you best.”

  Briones rolled his eyes, then held his hand to his head. “Ow. Damn. I think I just hurt myself.”

  “That’s what cynicism will do to you. It eats at your well-being like a cancer,” Cruz intoned.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve heard that.”

  Cruz’s demeanor grew serious. “And how about everybody’s favorite assassin? How did he pull through?”

  “Concussion. But he’s gone. Disappeared. They did a CT scan, and once he saw the results, he vanished while they were preparing to do a more thorough workup. Typical. Always about the drama. But he did leave this for you,” Briones said, and then offered Cruz a sealed hospital envelope with his name neatly printed on the front.

  Cruz took it from him, and after glancing at it, stuffed it into the breast pocket of his shirt. “How’s the sniper who got shot on the roof?”

  “He’ll be okay. Vest saved him.”

  “He’s very lucky. He could have gotten it in the head.”

  “I heard on the radio that the signing ceremony took place, and the Chinese leader is now back in the air,” Briones said.

  “So at least in that respect, this was a success.”

  “Sure doesn’t feel like one, does it, sir?”

  “No. It doesn’t.”

  Both men sat contemplating their circumstances, and then Cruz’s phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  Godoy’s voice boomed with effusive good cheer. “Congratulations, Capitan! He made it without getting killed! Good for you. I heard that you stopped the attempt!”

  Cruz debated correcting the moron, then decided that it didn’t warrant his effort. “All’s well that ends well, right?” he said noncommittally.

  “Yes, well, that’s right. When can you be in my office?” Godoy asked, cutting to the chase.

  “Some point this afternoon. I’m still at the hospital.”

  Godoy didn’t ask whether he was okay, Cruz noticed.

  “Fine. I’ll leave instructions with my girl to put you through when you arrive.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  Godoy’s tone changed back to one that Cruz was sure he imagined to be camaraderie. “Nonsense. You’re practically a hero. Although I don’t have to remind you that this is all hush hush.”

  Cruz considered whether it would have been so secret if the Chinese leader had been executed on his watch. He was willing to bet money that his name would have been plastered all over the evening papers as the man who failed Mexico.

  “You made that abundantly clear.”

  “Well, then, there it is.” Godoy had run out of things to say, and like a car on an empty tank, had sputtered to a stop. Cruz considered softening the awkward moment, and then chose to let the egomaniac hang. Not that his superior would care whether anyone thought that he was a dolt. Godoy seemed singularly immune to self-awareness or introspection.

  Instead, he simply hung up.

  “Godoy?” Briones asked, brows raised.

  “Yes. He was very concerned about you and the downed officer.”

  “I picked that up on the call.”

  “I’m reading between the lines.”

  “He probably figured that you would have told him if anything was seriously wrong.”

  “Right. No point in asking. Inefficient.”

  Cruz rose from the table and studied Briones. “You can put in a requisition for a new shirt. I doubt you’ll get the blood out. You should be more careful.”

  “I intend to. I also bought some coffee while on assignment, as I recall.”

  “Have an expense report on my desk this afternoon. I’ll sign it.”

  “Are you going back in today, sir?”

  “I want to move some of my files back to headquarters. I have to see Godoy anyway. Might as well make that a useful trip.”

  “I’m going to take a few days off, at least until the swelling goes down.”

  “Not a bad idea. Do you want me to notify the shrink? Are you traumatized by your experience?”

  “I’m hungry. Could that be a sign of post-traumatic stress?”

  “I think so. I prescribe tequila. Three times a day for four days.”

  Briones saluted smartly. “Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir!”

  Cruz’s face cracked as a smile forced its way to the surface. “It’s about time I got some respect. Carry on, then. You up for lunch? I’m buying.”

  Briones thought about it, evaluating how he felt, considering his blood-soaked shirt and the cotton stuffed up his nose. “Lead the way. I could eat a horse, sir.”

  “Which is probably what it will be, if they’re out of dog.”

  The pair trundled out of the room, Cruz weary and limping a little from where his knee had collided with the dashboard, Briones taking it slow because his head hurt with every step, as sad-looking a pair as had ever worn a uniform.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Ah, Capitan. Good to see you. Again, congratulations!” Godoy rose from behind his desk and actually came around it to shake his hand. Cruz couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever exhibited the slightest interest in civility, or treated him as anything more than a servant. “Please, sit. May I offer you a refreshment? Water? Soda? Something with a little more kick?”

  Did Godoy just wink at him as he returned to his plush executive chair? Cruz hoped it was the onset of some sort of devastating nervous disorder. Preferably painful. And embarrassing.

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  “Well, then. Thank you for coming in. I just wanted to tell you how pleased I am that this was resolved without becoming an international crisis. The German is dead, the accord is signed, and the Chinese are none the wiser. I was told to express the president’s gratitude, as well,” Godoy gushed.

  Ah. So that was it. The president had congratulated Godoy, and told him to pass it down.

  “How?” Cruz asked.

  Godoy’s mullet-stare drifted to the cut on Cruz’s head, as though noticing it for the first time, and then back to his eyes. “I...I’m sorry, Capitan. Come again?”

  “I asked how? How is the president going to express his gratitude?”

  “Why...I should think that his thanks for a job well done would be good enough,” Godoy stammered. The conversation was taking an unexpected turn.

  “Well, it isn’t.”

  Both men stared at each other for a few slow moments.

  “Capitan, I’m not sure where you’re going with this, but I don’t like your tone...”

  “I don’t really care what you like.”

  The words had the effect of a slap.

  “Now see here–”

  Cruz cut him off, the rage that had been building coming out in a glacial, tightly-controlled tone.

  “No, you see here. You blackmailed me into taking a job that I didn’t want. You forced me to work with the man who killed my wife’s father, as well as my men. You threatened to withhold the pension I earned with my blood and my loyalty. You’re a despicable fecal stain and a disgrace to Mexico, and those are your positive qualities. And I feel ill just being in the same room with you. So listen carefully. I want my pension. All of it. No strings. And I want a security team assigned to me, under my direction, for the next five years. I’ll keep my gun, and you’ll issue a permit for a concealed carry for both myself and my wife. The department wil
l continue to pay for my accommodations for that period, as well. I’m in constant danger, due to the service I rendered for my country, and I will be treated fairly.”

  Godoy sat, speechless, his mouth hanging open like a bass. Cruz had a momentary vision of him reaching over and stuffing a dirty sock into it, or maybe his underwear, and then shrugged it off.

  “Now for the part you’ll probably be most interested in: If you don’t do as I say, I’ll break the true story of what happened to every media outlet in the world, starting with the Chinese. Mexico, lying, cheating and stealing, endangering a world leader, acting like a third world backwater, withholding information any other country would have immediately divulged. And I’ll further highlight the role that El Rey, the world-famous cartel assassin, played in it – you know, the valued asset of the Mexican government.”

  Cruz stood, the blood rushing to his face as his anger simmered, and then he removed his badge and flipped it onto Godoy’s desk.

  “I quit. Effective immediately. So now you run the cartel task force. You become the most endangered, underappreciated police official in Mexico. You have your wife kidnapped, your life threatened, and finally, your financial future threatened by your own people. I’m done. And if I hear even a hint of anything but glowing recommendations from your office when asked about me, I will make your life miserable and break the story of your treacherous blackmail. I’m sure the Mexican people will enjoy knowing what kind of government they have. I’ll ruin you, and the president, and the next time his party has a chance of winning an election for anything more than town drunk will be in another century. Now, I know you’re not very smart, so I’ll send you an e-mail so that you have my conditions in writing. Someone can explain them to you. But the takeaway from this meeting is that I quit, you can bite me, and you’d better do exactly as I say or you’ll regret the day you ever heard my name.”

  Cruz turned and walked to the door, and then turned to the speechless bureaucrat as he reached for the knob. “You’re an empty suit, an arrogant little man in a big office. If you don’t think that I can crush you like a bug, just try me. You do not want to test me, because you’ll be the very first on my list. I trust that’s clear enough so even you can grasp it.”

  The sound of the door slamming was so loud it reverberated down the marble corridor. Cruz smiled to himself as he stalked from the offices, the image of Godoy fresh in his mind – mouth frozen in rictus, eyes betraying fear for the first time since he’d met the man. He wished he’d taken a photo, but knew that for the rest of his life he would be able to recall the memory in full living color.

  For the first time in a long while, he felt truly good, like he could run a marathon or climb a peak.

  Maybe it would finish up a pretty good day after all.

  ~ ~ ~

  Cruz stepped into the condo foyer, set his briefcase down next to the wall, and moved quietly down the hall to the bedroom. Dinah was in bed, sitting up, reading a magazine. She started when he opened the door, fear crossing her face for an instant, and then relief flooded her and she put down her tabloid.

  “Amor. You’re home early! Oh my God...what happened to your face? Are you all right?” she asked, her voice rising in pitch as she spoke.

  “Everything’s fine, my love. It’s just a scratch. Really. It’s nothing. How are you feeling? Any better?” he asked, concerned that she had still not worked up the enthusiasm to get out of bed for any length of time. The bruising had largely faded, but not the psychological damage. That would take considerably longer, he knew. Sometimes people experienced more than they could safely handle, and their psyches couldn’t process it. Dinah was one of those. She had seen too much.

  The memory of the three words on the note in El Rey’s envelope tugged at him as his eyes caressed her face, but he pushed them aside. Remember your promise. There would be time enough to consider the implications later. All the time in the world. But not now. This moment belonged to them.

  “Oh, you know. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Tell me what happened! I saw on television that the accord was signed, and the Chinese leader is still breathing,” Dinah said, waving him over.

  Cruz moved to the bed and sat down on the edge, and then took her hand, staring deep into her eyes – eyes that he could escape into forever.

  “It’s not important. None of it is. But it’s over. It’s really over. And it’s all good.”

  She looked at him uncomprehendingly, and he squeezed her hand, a mild electric current running between them, an energy that had never faded since they’d first met. She took in his cut face and his gentle, warm eyes, the unambiguous love that pulsed from him like a magnetic field strong enough to power a small city, and a single tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Everything’s fine. I promise. And it will be from now on,” Cruz said.

  Then he pulled Dinah to him and held her, the only thing of any real, lasting value in his world, and inhaled the rich scent of her skin as they rocked together, a single organism that would need time to heal. She sobbed quietly into his shirt, whether from hurt or sadness or relief, he couldn’t be sure; and then he closed his eyes and offered up silent thanks to fate for giving him one last chance, in the end, to make everything right.

  <<<<>>>>

  About JET

  Code name: Jet

  Twenty-eight-year-old Jet was once the Mossad’s most lethal operative before faking her own death and burying that identity forever. But the past doesn’t give up on its secrets easily. When her new life on a tranquil island is shattered by a brutal attack, Jet must return to a clandestine existence of savagery and deception to save herself and those she loves. A gritty, unflinching roller-coaster of high-stakes twists and shocking turns, JET features a new breed of protagonist that breaks the mold.

  Fans of Lisbeth Salander, SALT, and the Bourne trilogy will find themselves carried along at Lamborghini speed to a conclusion as jarring and surprising as the story’s heroine is unconventional.

  Excerpt from JET

  From the Author

  JET is a work of fiction, and any resemblance between the characters in it and real people or organizations is purely coincidental or for literary effect. That’s my way of saying I have no idea whether the Mossad or CIA run assassination squads in the real world. I guess for my sake, I better hope they don’t. Likewise, the Mossad, CIA and KGB are probably stand-up organizations where everyone is honest and hardworking. I have no reason to believe otherwise, but the story plays better if everyone, everywhere, is suspect, crooked, and basically up to no good. So that is the literary leap I make. There are probably numerous things that are not one hundred percent accurate and real-world in these pages. That’s okay. It’s not intended to be an in-depth, hundred percent accurate tome. Hopefully you’ll excuse any literary license.

  Likewise, I use dollars most of the time instead of the local currencies, for two reasons. First, to save everyone the trouble of looking up conversion tables, and second, because like it or not, the dollar is the world’s reserve currency, so it’s likely that any large sums or nefarious transactions are being conducted in greenbacks.

  JET uses flashbacks in the early chapters in order to convey information that is relevant later. Don’t be alarmed when it jumps around a bit – it will all make sense as you get further into the book. I promise.

  JET is the first in a series that came to me as I was writing Silver Justice. I envision four to five books in the series, but possibly as few as three or as many as six – depends on the story there is to tell. I hope you enjoy this first installment as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  JET is one of my favorite characters to date, a riddle wrapped in an enigma cloaked in a big helping of ass-kicking. As one of my author friends remarked when I described the high concept: “Tell me she wears black leather. I hope she wears black leather.” You’ll see where that idea took me.

  Prologue

  The rainy gray of the morning had grudgingly relented to a patc
hwork of blue peeking between the clouds. Moisture dripped from the dense vegetation onto the encroachment of asphalt, evaporating within seconds of contact. Humidity was a constant this far inland – the nation’s seat had been relocated to this position of relative safety following the hurricane that destroyed the seafront capital forty-something years before.

  The bus station at the main junction was a sad affair, as were most of the nearby structures, surrendering to entropy even before the paint had dried on their shabby walls. The terminal was surrounded by a group of ramshackle booths fashioned from tarps and cast-off wood, a squalid tent city that housed vendors hawking tacky artifacts and articles of second-hand clothing.

  A retired Greyhound coach creaked as it entered the muddy lot, carrying a handful of intrepid tourists and commuters from the coastal suburbs. The tired air brakes hissed their protest as it pulled to a stop and disgorged its cargo, the rusting, graffiti-covered sides shuddering in time with the idle of the engine.

  In the near distance, hulking concrete bunkers, ugly and indifferent, held back the jungle’s creep. Lethargic bureaucrats in shirtsleeves seeped steadily across the expansive open plaza, mopping their brows with hand towels as they shuffled to their offices for another long day of doing nothing.

  Three men emerged from the largest building and stood on the steps by the heavy glass entry doors, shielding their faces from the fierce shafts of sun piercing the overcast. After a few parting words, they shook hands, and two of them headed to the parking lot. The third man watched their departure, his coal-black skin glistening with sweat that already threatened to ruin his lightweight navy-blue suit. He glanced at his watch then walked towards a multi-story edifice across the common. The fountain in the middle of the square, thick calcium deposits crusting the pitted centerpiece, hosted a squabble of sparrows intent on bathing in the rainwater accumulated in its base. Drawn by their raucous chirping, he slowed to watch them enjoy their brief reprieve from the oppressive heat.