Blood of the Assassin - By Russell Blake Page 0,99
doubt that they would actually allow him to live through it all anyway. Because if they did, and El Rey held a grudge...
For the first time in days, Cruz didn’t feel like he had it all that bad. Some had it worse.
He didn’t think it was possible, but a tiny part of him actually felt sorry for the most dangerous killer in Mexican history.
He pressed a button on the coffee machine and listened to the hypnotic sound of water percolating, then rose and made his way back to his desk.
What an odd journey this had been so far.
Cruz was momentarily overcome by an impulse so powerful it felt like a physical need, and he reached for his phone and dialed a number. When Dinah answered, she was surprised to hear his voice.
“Why are you calling? What’s wrong, mi amor?” she asked, concern obvious in her strained tone.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to say...I just wanted to tell you I love you.”
Silence greeted the declaration for a pregnant moment.
“Why, Romero, I love you too,” she said in a tiny voice, a quaver in her words. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
A pause, a momentary hesitation filled with an ocean of things unsaid.
“I am now. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“I love you, my big strong warrior.”
He swallowed hard, and then sighed.
“That’s all I needed to hear.”
Chapter 43
The street that ran in front of the Federal Police headquarters was teeming with traffic at rush hour, as were most in Mexico City, as the population embarked on its evening slog from the downtown business areas to the suburbs along the outskirts of town. As the day shift wound down, hundreds of officers moved down the wide steps of the entry to the sidewalk, some to catch a bite to eat, most to catch one of the packed buses that swarmed in and out of the endless procession of vehicles, pulling to grinding stops to on-load commuters.
Officer Porfirio Lopez waved goodbye to the three Federales he was chatting with and split off to grab a taco at one of the curb vendors, where throngs of passers-by stopped and consumed the soft corn-wrapped meats while passing cars honked their progress. It wasn’t dinner, more a snack – he got hungry by six, and this would tide him over until he got home and hooked up with his friends at the local cantina, which had a two-for-one special on Thursdays on their succulent pork carnitas; an irresistible deal.
As he stood munching the arrachera steak taco, he felt a sense of...something odd, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe too much coffee – he’d drunk at least seven cups that day, which was close to a record for him. The food quieted his stomach, and when he was done, he tossed the paper wrapper into a trash can and strode to the bus stop, where hundreds of workers waited for their ride home with the dogged determination of spawning salmon.
A paperboy moved through the crowd, holding the evening issue of La Prensa aloft, a lurid photograph of four people found dead in a poor barrio on the front page, the victims of feral dog attacks that had polarized the city. The wild dogs lived in caves near the park where the victims had been found, dead of blood loss from multiple bites. The prevailing theory was that roving packs looked for opportunistic targets and then killed the unsuspecting for food. Such was the outcry that the police had gone in and rounded up dozens of dogs, whose incarceration was now a cause célèbre and had created considerable consternation for the mayor and other public officials, whose plan was to euthanize them without question.
He bought a paper and read with marginal interest until his bus arrived with a hiss of air brakes, and he shouldered through the clamoring crush to get aboard before it rolled away. He dropped his few pesos into the fare box and took the small receipt offered – proof of payment in the event of an impromptu inspection by the transit police, and a handy way for the drivers to be held responsible for all the money they had taken in on their route. The drivers were each issued a roll of tickets, and when their shifts were done, the number missing was counted, which established how much every driver owed in fares. The inspections were regular, making collection of the tickets by the riders mandatory to avoid heaping fines.