Russell Blake - Revenge of the Assassin

“How long after you capture him?”

Cruz was now very interested in whatever information the woman had. She obviously already believed the money was hers. The only impediment would be logistical. You could almost see the hunger for it on her face.

“We would have the check ready within forty-eight hours. Payable to whoever you like.”

“And how do I know you won’t go back on it once you have him?” she asked, the distrust evident in her eyes, borne from years of being screwed by authority.

“We would execute a contract. You get a copy. It would lay out the conditions clearly, and I would sign it,” Cruz said. “But again. To collect, you would need to tell us what you know. And it assumes that we catch him. The chances of which go down the longer we sit here…”

Gabriela fixed him with an intent stare and then grunted.

“Get the contract.”

Ten minutes later, Briones returned with two single-spaced pages the district attorney had prepared at their request when they’d offered the reward, which Cruz signed with a theatrical flourish in duplicate, handing both copies to her for signature. She pored over the document, obviously struggling with the reading, and then signed it with a scrawl that was almost childlike, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth from the effort of making her mark.

“You keep one copy. The other is for me,” Cruz said. “Now tell me everything you have so we can catch this bastard and make you rich.”

Both Gabriela and Cruz smiled at that, and her eyes twinkled for a brief moment.

She sat back in her chair and sipped her soda.

“I’m the caretaker — the custodian — of an apartment building near the main cathedral, seven blocks from the square. Anyway, there’s a new tenant, moved in a month ago, who’s your man. I’m sure of it. He looks different, with a beard…and the face is a little longer and thinner — but it’s him. The eyes are the same.” She took another swig and continued. “I’ve been like that ever since I was a child. I can remember anything. It’s like taking a picture with your brain. I can do it with calendars and phone numbers, but especially with faces. And your man now lives in my building.”

Cruz and Briones exchanged glances.

“In your building?” Cruz said quietly.

She nodded decisively. “Unit 6C.”

“How big is your building, Gabriela?”

“Forty-two units. Seven stories.”

“And when did you last see him there?” Briones asked, speaking for the first time.

“Yesterday morning. I see everyone that comes and goes from my office downstairs off the lobby, except at night. He goes out every morning at around ten, and then comes back in the evening around nine. The rest of the time he’s in.”

“But you didn’t see him today?” Cruz asked.

“That would be kind of hard since I’m here and had to take the bus to get here. I took the day off today to do this because it’s easier to call in sick for a full day than to leave early. But I saw him yesterday. That’s why I called. I figured it out after seeing the photo on the news. Took me a little while, but I’m sure.”

After a few more minutes of questioning, Cruz was sure, too. Fate had smiled on them. They had another shot at nailing El Rey , and this time they wouldn’t let him get away.

When Cruz returned to his office, he had three messages, all from Rodriguez at CISEN, asking him to call immediately. He really didn’t have time for this, but in the interests of maintaining the fragile political equilibrium between the agencies, he reluctantly dialed the number. His secretary answered, and after keeping him waiting for three minutes, his voice came on the line.

“I need you to get down here — now,” Rodriguez demanded.

Cruz held the handset away from his ear for a moment, staring at it in disbelief.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. We need to talk. Now.”

Cruz took a few deep breaths to calm himself before responding.

“As much as I enjoy eating half my day driving to and from your building, I’m afraid I can’t today. We’ve got a lead on our favorite killer, and it’s time sensitive,” Cruz explained.

There was hesitation on the other end.

“A lead?” Rodriguez couldn’t help himself. CISEN, like every other intelligence agency in the world, was mostly about knowing things. A drive to know things overruled most other concerns, and apparently this was no different.

“Yes. I can’t go into it, but we’re scrambling. Just tell me what is going on over the phone. I don’t have time to take away from this to meet with you face to face.”

Rodriguez paused again. “There’s been a leak on the matter of the top secret lead we gave you, and it had to come from your end,” Rodriguez accused.

Cruz barked out a humorless laugh. “Impossible. I haven’t told anyone, and nobody has access to the report. If there was a leak, it wasn’t from me. But tell me what happened. What’s going on?” Cruz demanded.

Rodriguez didn’t seem to know how to respond, but then cleared his throat.

“Our contact was murdered yesterday. By the Sinaloa cartel. That’s what we were able to glean.”

“So the arms dealer got snuffed by his criminal client. Why does that translate into me giving up top secret information? Do you honestly think I feed information to the largest, most dangerous criminal enterprise in the world? And to what end?” Cruz asked.

“We had listening devices in his office. We heard the execution. A high level enforcer from Aranas’ gang, called Angel Talvez, went into his office and made clear before he killed him that it was because of the information he provided about El Rey ,” Rodriguez said.

“Well, that may be, but I haven’t breathed a word about it to anyone, so the leak had to come from somewhere on your side. I’d start turning over rocks internally, or from whoever the contact person was with the dealer, because it wasn’t me,” Cruz repeated with an edge to his voice. He was rapidly tiring of being accused of treason by this smug prick.

“There is no way anyone in my group gave this information to Aranas,” Rodriguez stated flatly.

“Right. So we have a mystery…like virgin birth.” Cruz collected himself. “You guys are in the spy game. I’d suggest you apply some of that craftiness and figure out who in your camp sold you out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go stop the man who is hell bent on killing the president — much as I enjoy our little chats,” Cruz spat.

“This isn’t the las- ”

Cruz hung up, shaking his head. Who did these assholes think they were? He ran the most important police task force group in Mexico. And he wasn’t even sure what the hell Rodriguez did, or what CISEN was working on. It was all too secret to discuss.

Shaking his head, he stabbed at the keypad of the telephone and dialed a number. He needed to coordinate another all-out strike to get El Rey . That took precedence over Rodriguez’s difficulties because a lowlife gun smuggler had gotten killed — hopefully, with one of his own bullets. The line answered.

“Meeting in ten minutes with all the group heads. It’s going to be a late one.”

Four dilapidated vans with tinted windows encircled the block where El Rey ’s building was darkened in the two a.m. gloom. Only three apartments had faint lights on, where insomniac or partying residents burned the midnight oil. The insides of the vans were a marked contrast from their innocuous exteriors — sophisticated electronic eavesdropping equipment sat in racks in the back, feeding visual and audio to headquarters in a real-time stream. Tiny, cutting-edge military cameras were mounted among the cracked fog lights on the roof, and one had a directional microphone pointed at the assassin’s bedroom through a grimy half-lowered passenger side window.