Russell Blake - Revenge of the Assassin

They’d been on watch since six that evening, but hadn’t detected any sign of him. It was possible that he had spent the evening out, or slept in the interior bedroom — Gabriela had drawn a crude blueprint of the layout, and there was a study/guest bedroom that had no ventilation just off the living room. They couldn’t make out anything in the living room or kitchen. Heavy drapes over the windows rendered both permanently dark. They had asked about the curtains, and the woman had told them that they were new — the place hadn’t come with them. El Rey must have valued his privacy enough to install them himself.

Putting a female officer in with Gabriela had been discussed, but Cruz had rejected the idea. He didn’t want anything to spook or warn the assassin, and he was erring on the side of caution. Gabriela had been instructed to go in at her usual time in the morning and to call if she saw him. She was more than willing to play along.

A block away, Cruz and Briones sat in a condo they were using as the command center for the operation. Their field techs had set up the com lines and an auxiliary feed from the vans, and the four screens flickered with an eerie light in the darkened space. Another block beyond, two tactical assault personnel transports waited patiently, the men inside accustomed to hours of wakeful inactivity before they were thrown into the fray.

As the hours ticked by, fatigue set in, and the coffee maker one of Cruz’s subordinates had thoughtfully brought for them got a workout. These sorts of stakeouts were the worst, and Cruz would ordinarily not have been on site, but given the unpredictable nature of their assignment, he and Briones had chosen to stay up and supervise. At three a.m. a soft knock sounded at the door, and two officers entered carrying folding cots; blue canvas supported by aluminum tubular frames.

Cruz had always hated the field beds, but had to admit they came in handy on all-nighters. The officers in the assault teams weren’t so lucky. He picked up a radio handset and murmured instructions into it — the men could stand down for four hours and grab some shut-eye while they could. He wanted them ready for action at seven.

Gabriela had told them that El Rey usually didn’t go anywhere before ten in the morning, but he didn’t completely trust her judgment. She started work at nine, so for all she knew he could have been out from midnight to six every night at the clubs. She routinely stayed in her little office until ten at night, so he was fairly confident she had his daily schedule down pat.

Although, right now he was seriously questioning the entire affair. He knew it was the boredom and lack of sleep that had him pessimistic, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a non-starter. The discussion with CISEN had come back to nag at him. What if El Rey somehow had eyes and ears in the Federales ? In his own squad? It wasn’t impossible. Nothing was impossible, including that CISEN may have been penetrated.

He was a long way from when he’d joined the force, with high hopes and ideas about changing Mexico for the better. After the better part of twenty-five years in the Federal Police, he’d shed any illusions about his fellow man. The country, his country, ran on graft and corruption. As did most, he supposed. Some had civilized veneers and pretensions of honesty, but when it came to money, everywhere was the same. It just was a question of how much. The only difference in Mexico was that it was cheaper than in the U.S. because they’d eliminated the middle men — there were no lobbyists or influence peddlers, just wires to offshore bank accounts or briefcases of cash.

“You want to take the first watch, or should I?” Cruz asked Briones.

“Go ahead and get some rest, sir. I can monitor things until, what, five? That’s two hours of sleep apiece if we’re going to regroup at seven, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Cruz asked, eyeing the cot.

“Absolutely. Too much coffee,” Briones said, although they both knew that wasn’t the truth.

“All right, then. Wake me if the slightest thing happens,” Cruz said, with a doubtful glance at the monitors.

The sun was already heating up the air temperature in Ciudad Juarez, even though it had only been light for fifty-five minutes. Traffic was just starting to pick up for rush hour, which made the congestion caused by the assembled police, military and television vans a major bottleneck on one of the main thoroughfares. The soldiers were visibly agitated, their weapons at the ready as they formed a protective perimeter around the cops and the reporters, who were chatting as though they were at a sporting event, waiting for the big match to begin. Two uniformed officers waved traffic around a roadblock, directing the cars to an alternative route, and the combination of having to loop around, coupled with rubberneckers straining to see what the fuss was about, had caused a vicious snarl.

The captain of the Juarez office of the Federal Police approached the ranking officer of the army detachment, Major Trujillo, carrying a cup of OXXO coffee in a polystyrene cup. The major grinned when he saw his friend, Captain Pompa, up early for once.

“This must be very inconvenient for a late sleeper like you, eh?” he offered by way of hello.

“You have no idea. I was just getting to bed when I got the call,” Pompa fired back.

The men smiled and took in the creeping procession of annoyed motorists. “What do you think it means? Another round of retribution killings going to start?”

“No, I don’t think so. Although this is worrisome. They usually don’t target the press. Then again, why should journalists be any different than us? We all bleed the same,” Pompa observed.

“What’s his name?” Major Trujillo asked.

“Eligio Nerevez. Worked the crime beat at one of the local rags. Seems like he pissed off the wrong people. Dangerous line of work.” Pompa took another sip of coffee. “I don’t have to tell you that nobody saw anything last night. This was called in by someone driving, who didn’t want to identify himself. Imagine that. Wanted to remain anonymous…”

“Nerevez? That’s him? Huh. I recognize the name. He just did that series on the bloggers who were outing politicians on the take. I thought it was an ambitious project, but you’re right. Hazardous…obviously,” Major Trujillo agreed.

“He could have just printed a list of every elected official in the state. That would have saved time,” Pompa said, and both men laughed.

“You want to cut him down, or should we?” the major inquired, eyeing Pompa’s coffee. He wished he’d had the foresight to get a cup before taking up his station. It was too late now, but the smell was intoxicating.

They turned and considered the body of the young man, hanging upside down, suspended from the steel guardrail by a rope around his ankles. The blood on his face was coagulated and brown, already dried. A small amount had stained the road beneath him, its rust-colored puddle a contrast to the filthy gray. His hands were bound behind him, and half his head was gone from where a large caliber round had entered his mouth, blowing the top of his skull off. Next to him, a bed sheet with the distinctive markings of the Juarez cartel hung, issuing a warning to any good citizens who wanted to shorten their lives by focusing on the cartel’s misdeeds. It was a crude, but effective communication tool. Everyone got the point: taking on the cartels was bad for your health.

Pompa shook his head. “Nah. We’ll do it.”

At seven o’clock there was still no sign of activity in the apartment. Cruz slurped an oversized mug of coffee and ate an energy bar while watching the feed from the vans, and Briones used the bathroom. They’d just gotten confirmation that the tactical teams were back in place, awaiting instruction, but Cruz was unsure how to proceed. He felt better after the glorified nap, but not nearly at peak performance, and while he wanted this to be over he also didn’t want to blow their only chance at El Rey . He battled internally for a few minutes and then decided to have everyone stand down until they spotted their quarry. Better to keep the surveillance going than to rush in as they had at the machine shop. On that one, in retrospect, they should have hung back and waited for the assassin to exit the building and then taken him. He didn’t want to make a similar miscalculation on this one.