Russell Blake - Revenge of the Assassin

Cruz launched into a ten minute briefing of their efforts to date, describing the steps that had been taken, and finished with a glance at Briones.

Solomon was the first to speak. “You have no leads?”

“No. Nobody has heard or seen anything, and even with extra staff on the streets, we’re coming up empty. El Rey works alone, so it’s not surprising. We’ve always believed that the best chance we have is another information leak from your side. We simply don’t have any way of mounting this sort of a manhunt with any hope of success, given the lack of any new info,” Cruz admitted.

“None of the photos or the arrests over the last week have resulted in anything?”

“No. I wish they had. Then we’d have something more material to discuss. As I told you at our last meeting, we could really use any help you can offer.”

“I’m afraid nothing has surfaced on our end, either, Capitan Cruz. As always, we’ll keep you informed, but this isn’t an exact science,” Dario said with a trace of condescension.

“Why is it that whenever we get together, we do all the reporting and you tell us zip? I mean, what good is our cooperation with CISEN doing us? So far we’ve gotten nothing but the initial warning, which has done us exactly zero good,” Briones pointed out, echoing his earlier discussion with Cruz.

Solomon regarded Briones as though he had just wiped him off his shoe.

“Well, probably because we have nothing else to report. I mean, that would be the logical explanation, no ?” he said.

Cruz decided to defuse the situation before it escalated. He rose from his seat, signaling that the discussion was at an end.

“Gentlemen, it’s always a pleasure. Please let us know if you hear anything at all that might be of interest, or if you have any suggestions on how we can be more effective in tracking El Rey down. You have considerably greater resources than we do, and no doubt more expertise in sensitive areas.” Cruz stood. “Thanks for coming in.”

Once the two CISEN men had left, Cruz fixed Briones with a neutral gaze. “I’d say that went well…”

“This is bullshit, sir. They’re just here to get a status report and take it back to their bosses and are giving us nothing in return. How is having them in our hair helping us? It isn’t,” Briones griped.

“All true, but it won’t do us any good to get into a fight with CISEN right now. They gave us the lead, probably to set us up to fail, so just accept it. I’ll work with the president’s staff to ensure he stays safe. If we can’t track El Rey , then the least we can do is push the president to do the right thing. Even if he is as stubborn as a burro.”

They finished up their routine reports and Briones departed, obviously unhappy with the situation, still.

Cruz studied his watch and rubbed his burning eyes. He was tired and wanted to leave. He didn’t have the patience for these pointless sessions, or for his subordinate’s emotional storms. Dinah had recovered and had been discharged from the hospital, and he’d committed to himself to spend more time with her — making them a priority. He’d been a workaholic for too long, and he knew it wouldn’t fly, especially once he was married. He had to create boundaries, and one he’d decided on was to be out of the office by six every evening, unless it was an emergency. A real emergency — not one of the routine emergencies that seemed to happen daily.

He finished his paperwork and hurried out of the office, anxious to see her. She’d taken a few days off on her doctor’s advice and was waiting at home. Dinah had seemed different after the incident, and Cruz attributed it to shock. Part of being a decent partner was to be there for her when she needed him, not at work till all hours.

His car took him into the underground parking garage at the condo, and he deliberately made more noise than necessary when he entered, so she’d know he was home. Dinah came out of the bedroom, looking ravishing in a red silk robe. Cruz registered with mild concern that she hadn’t gotten dressed all day. That couldn’t be good.

“ Hola, mi Corazon . How’s my heroic crime-fighter tonight? Did you conquer the world?” she asked playfully.

“No more than any other day. How are you doing?”

“Oh, you know. Just being lazy, taking it easy. Might as well relax on my days off.”

“Why not? Hey, do you want to go out, or eat in? Or I can call for some food…” Cruz asked.

“Let’s eat here. I can make something,” she replied. Her tone and mannerisms were the old Dinah, but something was different. She seemed preoccupied, her mind elsewhere.

Over dinner, they made small talk, about how Cruz’s day went, and the topic of what he was working on came up.

“Same as always, mi amor . Struggling to keep the world safe from the cartels,” he said.

“Anything really interesting? You had mentioned El Rey a while ago. Is there anything happening with that?”

He told her about his progress, and she seemed to finally perk up, engaged and interested. That encouraged him, and he regaled her with the minutiae of the case, taking care to leave out anything classified.

When they finally got ready for bed, he was upbeat. Dinah had bounced back during their interactions during dinner, and now seemed as vital and immediate as ever. Perhaps she was just depressed or frazzled from the attack and felt left out of his life . It had to be hard being with a man who was married to the job. He vowed to include her in more of his daily affairs and make her feel more connected to him.

As they drifted off to sleep after making tender love, a solitary tear rolled down Dinah’s cheek, unnoticed by Cruz as it absorbed into her pillow.

As the morning wore on, CISEN headquarters in Mexico City was buzzing with activity. Solomon approached Rodriguez’s office, tapped discreetly on the door and waited in the harshly illuminated hallway, holding a report. After an appropriate delay, he heard his boss call for him, and he entered, taking care to close the door softly behind him.

The office was large, furnished in a Mexican contemporary style, all angles and lines, fashioned from Danish birch and glass. A collection of modern oil paintings were featured on the main wall, abstract renderings with swatches of color on a dark gray background. Rodriguez sat behind his desk, his suit jacket hung on a hook on the back of the door, shirtsleeves rolled up as he typed busily on his computer.

He glanced at the new arrival and indicated with a nod of his head that he should take a seat. Solomon complied, saying nothing.

“Yes, Solomon. What have you got for me?”

“A delicate development on the El Rey front, sir. Our asset is scheduled to deliver a package of material to the assassin tomorrow, here in Mexico City.”

Rodriguez stopped typing and pushed back from the keyboard.

“That creates a problem for us, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

“If we pass the information on to Cruz, the positive is that he may be able to apprehend the assassin. The negative is that the information couldn’t have come from too many places, so it potentially jeopardizes our source — who is crucial to our ongoing operation, as you know,” Rodriguez explained.

Solomon shook his head, but chose his words with care. “I don’t see it quite that way, sir. I see it as us having information that could prevent a successful attack on the president by an assassin with a miraculous track record of spectacular hits. Which, if we didn’t pass the info on, would have us looking like traitors — especially if the execution attempt was successful.” He hesitated before continuing. “I see it as life in prison, versus doing what we have to.” He slid the report across the glass desktop.