Blood of the Assassin

CHAPTER 8





Cruz pushed his way through the entry of the latest condo the Federales had leased for him and sniffed at the air. A seductive smell drifted from the small kitchen, and as the door swung shut behind him he heard the sound of pans clanking against the stovetop – Dinah’s presence announcing itself in the muted clamoring of the dinnerware.

“Sweetheart? I’m home,” he announced over the culinary din, setting his briefcase down.

“Mmmm. Good. I need another pair of hands in here to help,” Dinah called, sounding her usual cheerful self. How she managed to remain upbeat after working all day in the school was beyond him – but he was always glad she did.

“My hands have been itching to help you all day, my love,” he assured her. “Let me slip into something more comfortable and I’ll be right there.”

Dinah glanced over her shoulder as he passed the kitchen and threw him a harried smile. Cruz made a mental note not to dally in the bedroom changing out of his uniform. He knew that look, and it meant he could earn some points by being a good domestic partner.

Three minutes later he was back, wearing jeans and a rugby shirt, and approached her as she stood at the stove.

“Mmm. You smell good. How did I get so lucky?” he cooed in her ear.

“Somebody upstairs must like you. Now, can you help me with the onions? I need them chopped while I whip this into shape,” she responded, twisting to kiss him on the mouth.

“Absolutely. Chopping, whipping...I’m all over it,” he assured her, and reached to the butcher block for one of the knives. “How was your day?”

“The usual chaos. Misbehaving kids, too many reports to complete in too little time, backstabbing colleagues...nothing ever seems to change,” Dinah said.

“Sounds like my job.”

“Yours is probably less dangerous. And they let you wear that handsome uniform, and give you a nametag. I get none of that,” Dinah pouted as she stirred spices into the pan with the chicken she was sautéing.

Cruz’s cell phone rang just as he was about to begin slicing. He cursed and put down the knife, then fished the phone out of his pants pocket.

“Yes?” he answered.

“Capitan Cruz. Sorry to call you after hours. This is Eduardo Godoy,” a smooth voice crooned.

“What can I do for you?” Cruz asked warily. Godoy was his superior – an entirely useless political appointee who was nonetheless as dangerous as a snake.

“I need you to come to my office tomorrow morning, first thing. Let’s say...nine o’clock?” Godoy said.

Cruz paused. “Fine. What will be the topic of discussion, if you don’t mind?” he asked, wary of being blindsided. Whenever Godoy wanted to see him, it was usually bad, and involved Cruz getting the pork put to him in one way or another.

“We have a delicate situation I need you to handle. I’m not comfortable speaking about it over the phone. Just be here at nine, please,” Godoy snapped.

“Yes. Of course. It’s just that if I knew what this was about, I could come prepared...”

“All I need is you – nothing else. I’ll see you in the morning,” Godoy said, and then the line went dead.

He stared at the phone. Now what? As far as he knew he hadn’t crossed any lines, and he had been spectacularly successful with a number of delicate anti-cartel operations over the last few months. Godoy had no reason to reprimand him that he could think of. Which didn’t mean anything. In the real world, many of the top brass were nothing more than mouthpieces for special interests – and the cartels were some of the richest and most powerful special interests in Mexico. Being a multi-billion dollar criminal syndicate apparently bought a lot of political clout, even as public rhetoric condemned them.

“Honey? Who was that?” Dinah asked.

“Oh. Nothing. Just somebody from work.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Fine. They were just setting up a meeting. Nothing more.” He tried a smile, but Cruz’s tone betrayed his uneasiness.

“They’re calling you at home, at dinner time?” Dinah wasn’t buying it.

“It’s my boss. Godoy. He’s not really good with things like common courtesy.”

“I got that. Are you going to chop those onions, or do I have to?” she asked, dropping the subject.

Cruz nodded and returned to his duties, his eyes beginning to water within seconds of the first few slices. Dinah glanced at him, and in spite of herself, giggled at the sight of her husband, tears welling in his eyes like someone had wrecked his new car. Cruz’s easy laugh reflected that he thought he was the luckiest man in the world to have wound up with Dinah. Attractive, funny, smart, and in love with him. And willing to put up with a life that would have been a deal-killer for most – moving every few weeks, no sense of permanence, the constant danger that went with his career an unspoken irritant, like a glass sliver just under the skin.

“Are we drinking wine or beer tonight?” he asked, wiping his face with the back of his arm.

“Whatever you want, mi amor. We’ve got both in the refrigerator.” She reached across him and lifted the white plastic cutting board and then scraped the chopped onions into the sizzling pan, along with tomatoes and peppers.

“Do you have a preference?”

“I’m going to stick to mineral water. I’ve got a big day tomorrow.” She lifted the pan off the gas flame and adjusted the height, then set it back down. “Go on into the dining room. I hate to see a grown man cry.”

“Thanks. How long until it’s ready?”

“Maybe ten minutes.”

He swung the refrigerator open and peered into the interior, then retrieved a Negra Modelo. But even as he moved to the counter to open it, his mind was already on other matters. Like why his boss, who typically avoided him, wanted to see him first thing.

To say that it was irregular was an understatement.

He padded into the small living room and sat on the couch, then groped around behind him and retrieved the television remote. The flat panel flickered to life and the day’s news rolled across the screen, mostly bad – a litany of corruption, senseless violence, tragedy, and heartbreak, punctuated by soccer scores and earnest politicians insisting that they were working hard to bring change.

The same story as last night. And the night before.

With one notable exception: The slaughter at the cartel house was the lead story and was reprised at the end, with an update that unconfirmed sources had leaked – El Gato had been apprehended and was in custody. Cruz swore under his breath, but he wasn’t surprised. The news was bound to get out eventually. He’d hoped for another day or two of breathing room before having to deal with the inevitable press circus that a high profile arrest would bring, but the toothpaste was out of the tube now.

“All right, honey, dinner is served,” Dinah called from the kitchen, and then swept into the dining room and placed two plates on the table with a flourish. Cruz gazed at her with adoration and turned off the TV, taking a final pull on his beer before standing.

Whatever was going on with Godoy, he wasn’t going to let it bother him any more tonight. He’d know what it was all about tomorrow. No point in speculating.

“It smells wonderful. Let me grab another beer and I’ll be right in.”

Dinah watched as he strode past the dining room into the kitchen, and felt a warmth course through her. This was the man she loved, whom she had married, and he had proven himself to be a good and honorable mate. She felt fortunate that circumstances had conspired to thrust them together, and as she sat down and dropped her napkin into her lap, she felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. Two souls had found each other, and persevered through some difficult times. That was more than many got during their lives, she knew, and her mind flitted to the thoughts she’d been having increasingly of late – thoughts of a dog, a house, and a family, of a normal life where they could stay in one place and not have to worry about being safe. Right now, a dream, she knew; but hopefully not forever.

“Do you ever get tired of this, Romero? Moving constantly, the job, the pressure...the danger?” she asked, waiting for him to sit before taking a taste of her meal.

“Of course. I’m hoping that this will only last a few more years, and then maybe I can get a job as a security consultant with one of the big firms here, or in Monterrey or Guadalajara...”

They’d had this discussion increasingly of late, Dinah subtly lobbying for him to think about a future. A future without the job in it. A safe future together. Some days it seemed attainable. And then others, like this, when he was getting calls at night, it was a million years away.

Both sat, making appreciative noises, lost in their thoughts: Cruz dwelling on the next day’s meeting in spite of his best intentions, Dinah on how to get her husband to pursue a safer line of work. When they were done with dinner, she curled up in his arms on the couch as they watched one of the inevitable talent shows that seemed to dominate the airwaves. She snuggled against him and the tension fell away, and they were finally both able to relax, secure in the moment, their troubles fleeting as long as they had each other.