Blood of the Assassin - By Russell Blake Page 0,25

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 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