Russell Blake - Revenge of the Assassin

“Have you been inside?” Cruz asked pointedly.

“Of course not. I followed your instructions to the letter. I waited until you got here. I don’t want any trouble from anyone. If a criminal was using one of my workshops, I had no way of knowing. I want it understood I am cooperating with the police,” Sanchez insisted.

“Good. And don’t worry. You’re not suspected of anything.” Cruz hadn’t told him who the criminal was or what he had done. Some things were better left out of the conversation.

Sanchez exhaled a noticeable sigh of relief and then walked back to the door and ceremoniously opened the deadbolt. He turned the knob and swung the steel door open, then gestured to the two officers.

“I’ll just wait out here. Take your time, gentlemen.”

Cruz entered first, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, and then both he and Briones ignited their flashlights — after the incident at the apartment, neither of them was in a mood to try the light switches. A long rectangular work table stood at the far end of the room, near a bank of grimy windows a few feet below the ceiling.

They moved to the table, where Briones began taking photos of the various tools and chemicals. Cruz gave it all a quick glance and then walked over to a black backpack resting against the far wall. He picked it up, but it felt empty. With one eye on Briones carrying out his inventory of the assassin’s wares, he methodically checked the zip-up pockets of the sack and found a crumpled envelope.

Briones continued his inventory and after a few minutes announced he was done.

“Looks like this is where he assembled the bombs and the helicopter. You could rebuild an engine with the number of tools in this place. And there are some traces of plastic explosive in a plastic bag. I think it’s time to call in the crime scene people,” Briones said.

Cruz appeared not to have heard him and then slowly turned to the table.

“Yeah. Call them. Let’s get a crew in here and go over the place with a fine-toothed comb. Maybe there’s something we can use that will lead us to his employer,” Cruz said, his voice tight.

Briones regarded him carefully. “Are you all right?”

He sighed. “Sure I’m all right. I’ve just been battling a cold for the last day. I think it’s wearing me down,” Cruz explained. “Make the call and tell the landlord we’ll probably have people here for at least six to eight hours. I want to get the prints of every person who’s ever been in here, or handled any of the tools or other items.” Cruz tossed the backpack onto the floor.

“Anything in it?” Briones asked, drawing his phone from his shirt pocket.

“No. It was empty.”

Cruz arrived home at the condo after midnight, exhausted to his core. He locked the door behind him quietly, taking care not to make noise as he padded through the foyer into the living room. A trail of alcohol vapor lingered in his wake, but he moved with surety, no hint of inebriation.

Dinah was asleep on the couch, a half full glass of white wine sitting on the coffee table next to a stack of homework she had graded. He considered her, slumbering peacefully, looking angelic in her untroubled dream state, and then brushed past to the bedroom.

Ten minutes later, he emerged with one of his small duffle bags and an extra uniform on a hanger. He placed the bag by the front door and laid the uniform on top of it. Returning to the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Modelo beer. When he popped the top open, it snapped with an audible crack, and Dinah jolted awake. She appeared disoriented for a few seconds, punchy from sleep, and she swung her head around until she saw Cruz. She smiled sleepily, and then her mood faded when she registered his expression.

“ Corazon . What time is it? God, it’s almost one. Where were you? I tried to wait up, but I couldn’t…” She stopped — he was staring impassively at her. “ Amor …what’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

Cruz reached into his shirt pocket with his left hand and withdrew the letter he’d retrieved that afternoon from the backpack. He flipped it at her, the small rectangle slicing a dizzy course through the tense air before it landed at her feet. Her eyes locked on it, and then her face collapsed.

“ Amor . Romero. I can explain…”

“Can you? Can you really? That would be good to hear. Tell me why my fiancee is passing detailed information to the world’s most dangerous assassin, and the subject of my task force’s every waking moment of effort. Tell me why the man who killed my men, who wades in blood and lives to murder, benefits from your notes, like a lover sneaking kisses in the night. Explain it to me. Because I’d really like to understand.”

“It’s not what you think. I did it for us…”

“For us? Really. How is that, exactly? How is betraying me, betraying everything I’ve worked for, good for us? Because I’m confused. I don’t get it. I don’t see how my wife-to-be could lie to me every day, and be handing my innermost secrets to my sworn enemy, yet really be doing it for my own good. Christ. Do you know what kind of an animal this man is?” Cruz took a long swig of beer, finishing the can in three swallows. He stared at it, and then tossed it into the garbage before opening the refrigerator and grabbing another. He turned back to her and scowled. “This parasite, this psychopath, has killed hundreds of people — and you have been handing him my game plan. Explain that to me because I’m missing some big pieces.”

“He…he found me three weeks ago…after the kidnapping, he came into my room at the hospital, and he threatened to kill me. To kill you. To murder us both…” Dinah hesitated, and then told him everything. The dead drops in the store. El Rey ’s demands. The threats.

Cruz listened wordlessly, taking occasional swallows of his beer, and waited for her to finish. When she had, he shook his head, and walked around the breakfast bar to retrieve the envelope before returning to the kitchen. He took his time in formulating his response and fought to keep the anger out of his voice.

“You could have come to me. Told me. I could have helped. I could have saved you.”

“No, you couldn’t. The man is a monster, capable of anything. And he’s beaten everyone he’s ever gone up against.”

“All but one. Me. I beat him. He’s in custody because of me. So you were wrong. You could have…” he slammed his beer down on the tile counter, “you should have come to me. But you didn’t. Instead, you passed information that cost people their lives to this killer. A murderer. A thug. The man who killed your father.” Cruz regretted saying it even as the words left his mouth, and he instantly registered the shock and pain in Dinah’s eyes. And then a part of him didn’t care. Screw it — let her live with the truth.

She was speechless as she processed what he had just revealed. Finally, she spoke in a quiet voice.

“He killed my father? And you knew? All this time, you knew?”

He put his almost empty second beer down on the counter and shook his head.

“Your father was his agent — he handled the money for him. He killed your dad when he planned his retirement. It was a loose end.”

Dinah had nothing to say to that.

“You gave him a top secret document that could get me put into prison if it had been discovered. You committed treason. It’s much more serious than a lover’s quarrel. You betrayed me, destroyed our trust, and committed a high crime that carries a horrible penalty,” he said, and then turned his back on her, walking towards the front door. “The penalty for treason, for doing what you did, is life in prison. It’s that serious. This isn’t a joke or a game.”