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

full in the face when he stepped out onto the sidewalk, and he squinted, his eyes adjusting from the comfortable gloom inside the cantina. He would go home and take a nap, sleep off the residual effects of the alcohol, and then call Godoy just before business hours were over. It was childish, he knew, but that was fine. He would take even the smallest vestige of autonomy and self-respect at this point.
    He flipped out his cell phone as he fished for his sunglasses and dialed his administrative assistant.
    “ Capitan Cruz’s office.”
    “Celia, this is Cruz.”
    “Oh, good. I have about fifteen messages for you. When will you be back in?”
    He thought about it. “I’m going to be out of touch the rest of the day. Reschedule any meetings, and tell any callers that you haven’t heard from me.”
    “Yes, sir...” The young woman sounded unsure.
    “I have a few errands I need to attend to, and I don’t want to be disturbed. The world can wait a day,” Cruz said, and then wondered if he was slurring. He decided he didn’t much care.
    “Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”
    “No. But remember: You haven’t talked to me.”
    “I understand. One thing, though. We just got word that El Gato is going to be transferred this afternoon. Some judge ordered it.”
    “Damn. Have you seen the paperwork?”
    “Yes. It’s all there.”
    Cruz sighed. “Fine. Then it’s out of my hands. We’ve done what we can. Now it’s up to the system to deal with him.”
    An uncomfortable silence hung on the line. No point in unloading on Celia. It was time to get off the call.
    “I’ll be in early mañana . Hold down the fort today,” he said, then disconnected.
    He watched pedestrians move along the sidewalk as he got his bearings, then squared his shoulders and turned, moving away from the bar towards a row of taxis waiting for the early lunch rush to begin. He flagged one down, and a man separated himself from a group loitering by a tree and approached unhurriedly, dropping his cigarette butt into the gutter as he gestured to the first car.
    Cruz gave him the address of his apartment and sank into the back seat, hating himself for what he knew he was going to do. He shut his eyes and tried not to think, but it was pointless, and as the cab darted through traffic, horn honking periodically in belligerent complaint, he cursed Godoy and the entire power structure of unthinking bureaucrats and petty tyrants that had placed him in this impossible position.
    He wanted to decline the assignment about as badly as he’d ever wanted anything in his life, but he knew there was only one possible response.
    Because, like it or not, his country needed him.
    And as always, he couldn’t refuse the call.
     

Chapter 11
    The hills west of Montemorelos, in Nuevo León, were cool in the afternoon. A breeze tickled the tops of the thick trees around the spacious villa, well off the main highway, down a three-mile private drive that was heavily guarded by gunmen. An iron gate featuring two dancing stallions blocked the way, and three men with assault rifles occupied the gatehouse. The bouncing beat of music emanated from a small radio next to their sophisticated communications gear – the technology surprising in a rural area, but not to anyone who knew the property well.
    One of the dozen ranches owned by Manuel Heraldo Alvadez, the current leader of the Los Zetas cartel, easily the most violent and powerful criminal syndicate in Latin America, it was remote and vast, ensuring the reclusive owner’s privacy. Alvadez moved around constantly, and the actual title to the property was held by a network of shell corporations, impenetrable and anonymous to the myriad law enforcement agencies that had targeted him. The enigmatic leader had taken power from the old leader, Sanchez Triunfo, in a bloody series of clashes that had left hundreds butchered in its wake, but the younger Alvadez was now the undisputed top dog after Triunfo had fled