Blood of the Assassin

CHAPTER 10





The exterior of El Cordon didn’t offer a warm welcome to lure in reluctant customers – slightly peeling orange paint slapped over a façade that had seen better days in a district on the edge of downtown that was sliding inexorably into squalor. Cruz pushed through the saloon-style doors into the darkened wooden interior and approached the bar. At ten in the morning there was nobody else in the establishment other than an aging man behind the counter with a pock-marked, mustachioed face that time hadn’t been kind to. Cruz glanced around, as if not trusting his initial take, and then took a seat. A crooning voice lamented love’s folly over a strident melody pulsing from the overhead speakers, the song a favorite with the honest working men who frequented watering holes like it. Usually the clientele arrived in the late afternoon or evening, but the bartender wasn’t there to judge, and studied Cruz with a neutral expression.

“What’ll it be, Jefe?” he rasped at Cruz with a sandpaper baritone.

“Tequila. El Jimador. And a Modelo to wash it down.”

The man nodded as though Cruz had just offered him the winning lottery numbers for that evening’s jackpot and turned to retrieve a tall bottle filled with smoky fluid. He expertly palmed a shot glass and set it down in front of Cruz – a double tall one for seriously committed drinking. Seconds later the glass was filled and an icy cold can of beer appeared next to it, and the bartender retired back to the far end of the bar, the tequila bottle returned to its place in front of a smudged mirror with its brethren.

The burn of the tequila made Cruz’s eyes water as it seared its way down his throat, the beer affording cooling relief after the liquid fire. The glow of warmth radiated from his stomach outward to his limbs, and his fury at Godoy’s ultimatum slowly abated. He took another long pull on his beer and then nodded at the bartender, who obligingly returned and topped off the empty shot glass again without comment.

The second slug of tequila went down easier than the first, and Cruz closed his eyes after another swallow of beer. After over twenty years of loyal service to the Federales, of sacrificing everything, of giving them his very life, to be treated so shabbily was like a physical blow. And to demand, no, to order him to work with a sociopath, a serial killer who had been responsible for countless deaths, including his own men – men he’d had to bury while their grieving mates and children cried in anguish only feet from him – that insult couldn’t stand. He wouldn’t do it. It was impossible. Godoy and the whole power structure could go screw themselves. To try to blackmail him out of his pension was just the lowest betrayal he could imagine, although it didn’t surprise him that the ruthless bastard had gone there without hesitation. Godoy was a shit, to whom nothing was sacred. Of course, he would be crying the loudest if he were ever forced to confront the sort of danger Cruz did on a daily basis, but that gave him slim comfort. Like it or not, Godoy held Cruz’s financial future in his hands, and could destroy it with a few phone calls.

The anger bubbled to the surface again, battling for supremacy, and he considered his options. Unlike in some countries, he couldn’t go to the media and tell the story of his pension being stolen – it would be censored with a single call from Godoy. Nobody would touch it; and frankly, it wasn’t really news. People were forced to do ugly things every day by uncaring, malevolent superiors – they worked in dangerous conditions, breathed toxic dust on construction sites, toiled for pennies, sold their bodies and souls for a few tortillas and a scrap of bread. That was reality.

He could contact the companies that had expressed interest in hiring him for security consulting work, but he knew that if the government was vindictive it could exert enough pressure to nip that in the bud. And if Cruz walked now, when the nation was facing a crisis...the administration would be vindictive, he could be sure.

Perhaps even of graver concern was the issue of personal safety. Cruz had made many enemies over his career, and some of the most dangerous and violent psychopaths in Mexico wanted him dead. The list of cartels that would cheerfully cut his heart out and stick his head on a pike was too long to contemplate. There was a reason that he had to move every five or six weeks. If he quit, that would be over, effective immediately, and he would be on his own. Which would mean going into hiding without the resources of the Federales to protect him.

He could manage it, but Dinah...the risk to her would be too great. She would need to quit working with children – something she loved – and they would need to disappear, for years. The money wouldn’t be a problem, but the disruption to their lives...

The bartender glanced at him with an eyebrow cocked as he busied himself cleaning some glasses, and Cruz held up a finger and then pointed at his beer. When the bartender delivered another Modelo, he reached for the tequila glass and then hesitated, eyeing Cruz.

“Uno mas?” he asked. One more?

Cruz shook his head and gave the glass a baleful look.

“No, muchas gracias. Listo...,” he replied, requesting the check. He was done. If he had another double shot of tequila, it would turn into the whole bottle, and he couldn’t afford to be incapacitated. He needed to think – to think through his next moves.

He sat, listening to a seemingly endless procession of singers bemoaning the unfairness of fickle love, and over time, hit a plateau where he no longer felt angry, but rather resigned and very, very old – far beyond his forty-something years. He took his time with the beer, nursing it, and when two men entered, laughing noisily, it served as his cue to leave. He dropped a few peso notes onto the scarred wooden surface of the bar and pushed back, finished with his internal debate. It could have gone either way, but ultimately the thought of Dinah dictated his actions. He couldn’t just fall into a bottle and shut out the rest of the world. He would need to join his fellow struggling humans and suck up the ugliness, and choke down his pride and morality in favor of cynical pragmatism.

There was really no other choice. Godoy had painted him into a corner where no matter what he did, he was screwed. As unpleasant as it was, the option of working with the assassin was the lesser of the evils he’d been presented with.

But he wouldn’t give Godoy the pleasure of knowing it until the end of the day.

Sunlight hit him full in the face when he stepped out onto the sidewalk, and he squinted, his eyes adjusting from the comfortable gloom inside the cantina. He would go home and take a nap, sleep off the residual effects of the alcohol, and then call Godoy just before business hours were over. It was childish, he knew, but that was fine. He would take even the smallest vestige of autonomy and self-respect at this point.

He flipped out his cell phone as he fished for his sunglasses and dialed his administrative assistant.

“Capitan Cruz’s office.”

“Celia, this is Cruz.”

“Oh, good. I have about fifteen messages for you. When will you be back in?”

He thought about it. “I’m going to be out of touch the rest of the day. Reschedule any meetings, and tell any callers that you haven’t heard from me.”

“Yes, sir...” The young woman sounded unsure.

“I have a few errands I need to attend to, and I don’t want to be disturbed. The world can wait a day,” Cruz said, and then wondered if he was slurring. He decided he didn’t much care.

“Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“No. But remember: You haven’t talked to me.”

“I understand. One thing, though. We just got word that El Gato is going to be transferred this afternoon. Some judge ordered it.”

“Damn. Have you seen the paperwork?”

“Yes. It’s all there.”

Cruz sighed. “Fine. Then it’s out of my hands. We’ve done what we can. Now it’s up to the system to deal with him.”

An uncomfortable silence hung on the line. No point in unloading on Celia. It was time to get off the call.

“I’ll be in early mañana. Hold down the fort today,” he said, then disconnected.

He watched pedestrians move along the sidewalk as he got his bearings, then squared his shoulders and turned, moving away from the bar towards a row of taxis waiting for the early lunch rush to begin. He flagged one down, and a man separated himself from a group loitering by a tree and approached unhurriedly, dropping his cigarette butt into the gutter as he gestured to the first car.

Cruz gave him the address of his apartment and sank into the back seat, hating himself for what he knew he was going to do. He shut his eyes and tried not to think, but it was pointless, and as the cab darted through traffic, horn honking periodically in belligerent complaint, he cursed Godoy and the entire power structure of unthinking bureaucrats and petty tyrants that had placed him in this impossible position.

He wanted to decline the assignment about as badly as he’d ever wanted anything in his life, but he knew there was only one possible response.

Because, like it or not, his country needed him.

And as always, he couldn’t refuse the call.