Blood of the Assassin (Assassin Series 5) by Russell Blake

screw themselves. To try to blackmail him out of his pension was just the lowest betrayal he could imagine, although it didn’t surprise him that the ruthless bastard had gone there without hesitation. Godoy was a shit, to whom nothing was sacred. Of course, he would be crying the loudest if he were ever forced to confront the sort of danger Cruz did on a daily basis, but that gave him slim comfort. Like it or not, Godoy held Cruz’s financial future in his hands, and could destroy it with a few phone calls.
    The anger bubbled to the surface again, battling for supremacy, and he considered his options. Unlike in some countries, he couldn’t go to the media and tell the story of his pension being stolen – it would be censored with a single call from Godoy. Nobody would touch it; and frankly, it wasn’t really news. People were forced to do ugly things every day by uncaring, malevolent superiors – they worked in dangerous conditions, breathed toxic dust on construction sites, toiled for pennies, sold their bodies and souls for a few tortillas and a scrap of bread. That was reality.
    He could contact the companies that had expressed interest in hiring him for security consulting work, but he knew that if the government was vindictive it could exert enough pressure to nip that in the bud. And if Cruz walked now, when the nation was facing a crisis...the administration would be vindictive, he could be sure.
    Perhaps even of graver concern was the issue of personal safety. Cruz had made many enemies over his career, and some of the most dangerous and violent psychopaths in Mexico wanted him dead. The list of cartels that would cheerfully cut his heart out and stick his head on a pike was too long to contemplate. There was a reason that he had to move every five or six weeks. If he quit, that would be over, effective immediately, and he would be on his own. Which would mean going into hiding without the resources of the Federales to protect him.
    He could manage it, but Dinah...the risk to her would be too great. She would need to quit working with children – something she loved – and they would need to disappear, for years. The money wouldn’t be a problem, but the disruption to their lives...
    The bartender glanced at him with an eyebrow cocked as he busied himself cleaning some glasses, and Cruz held up a finger and then pointed at his beer. When the bartender delivered another Modelo, he reached for the tequila glass and then hesitated, eyeing Cruz.
    “ Uno mas ?” he asked. One more?
    Cruz shook his head and gave the glass a baleful look.
    “No, muchas gracias. Listo ...,” he replied, requesting the check. He was done. If he had another double shot of tequila, it would turn into the whole bottle, and he couldn’t afford to be incapacitated. He needed to think – to think through his next moves.
    He sat, listening to a seemingly endless procession of singers bemoaning the unfairness of fickle love, and over time, hit a plateau where he no longer felt angry, but rather resigned and very, very old – far beyond his forty-something years. He took his time with the beer, nursing it, and when two men entered, laughing noisily, it served as his cue to leave. He dropped a few peso notes onto the scarred wooden surface of the bar and pushed back, finished with his internal debate. It could have gone either way, but ultimately the thought of Dinah dictated his actions. He couldn’t just fall into a bottle and shut out the rest of the world. He would need to join his fellow struggling humans and suck up the ugliness, and choke down his pride and morality in favor of cynical pragmatism.
    There was really no other choice. Godoy had painted him into a corner where no matter what he did, he was screwed. As unpleasant as it was, the option of working with the assassin was the lesser of the evils he’d been presented with.
    But he wouldn’t give Godoy the pleasure of knowing it until the end of the day.
    Sunlight hit him