Cruz joined Briones, who stood talking quietly with several of the other officers.
“He’s in a coma. Probably forever. But I still want a guard on him in case there’s some kind of divine intervention and he comes to. I do not want this asshole having a miracle escape on our watch, do you read me?” Cruz ordered.
“Loud and clear, sir.” Briones stepped away from his companions, and they wandered a few feet down the hall. “Do they know what caused it?”
“He’s got a bad heart, and it shot a blood clot to his brain. He stroked out. Nothing we could have done about it, the doctor tells me,” Cruz said, holding Briones’ gaze.
“He seems awfully young to have a bad heart,” Briones observed.
“Santiago’s two years older than I am. But this was a congenital condition. So it’s not the same as a heart attack, or coronary artery disease. It’s a combination of Hoovering coke, and God knows what else, and inheriting lousy genetic material.”
“So yo — we’re in the clear.”
“Yes. But I want him guarded twenty-four-seven for the duration. He’s too high profile, and he’s got nine lives. I don’t want him strolling out because he beat the odds yet again.”
“I’ll schedule a detail. What are his chances?” Briones asked.
“About the same as Shakira being at my house when I get home.”
“So don’t hold my breath,” Briones concluded.
“I think we’ll be okay if we station four men at the hospital in eight hour shifts. I want one outside his door, and another at the entry to ICU, and then two more downstairs outside the lobby doors. The last thing we need is his gang trying to break him out. We know he’s a vegetable, but they don’t, so I could see one of their bright young bulls thinking it would be a great idea to come into the hospital shooting. These pricks have no fear, and even less sense, so anything could happen,” Cruz warned him.
The stainless steel double doors of the OR opened, and two nurses wheeled Santiago down the hall, an IV drip attached to his inert arm. Cruz motioned to them to stop.
He approached Santiago’s bruised and battered face, now deathly pale.
Cruz leaned over his head and whispered into his blood-caked ear, “Looks like you didn’t win this one, did you, you piece of shit? I hope you come out of the coma, and live a very long life in excruciating pain. Consider it my promise to you that I will make that happen. Now, get well soon…” He straightened, smiled at the nurses, and allowed the gurney to continue its journey along the antiseptic halls.
Chapter 3
Cruz remained at the hospital for another hour, ensuring that the security provisions were adequate and that everyone was aware of the importance of their captive. His command was filled with men he had handpicked himself, so he was confident that they wouldn’t let him down — and perhaps more importantly, that they wouldn’t talk to the press. That was always a consideration when a powerful cartel member was arrested. It was big news, but coverage brought with it a set of headaches he’d just as soon do without.
Once he was satisfied that there was nothing more to be done, he retrieved his vehicle and headed for the freeway, exhausted from the challenges of the drawn-out day and longing for the solitary comfort of home. It would be at least another seventy minutes before he rolled into Toluca, so he resigned himself to joining the indolent crocodile of bumper-to-bumper cars that were still clogging the roads even at nine at night.
His late model unmarked Dodge Charger was one of the perks of running the anti-drug taskforce for Mexico City and the rest of the country. It was an important position that he’d been awarded by his superior after his predecessor had been killed in a brutal series of slayings around the time the Mexican crackdown on drugs had begun, under the auspices of a newly-elected president. That had been almost six years ago, and Romero Cruz had aged noticeably during his tenure — the most obvious toll having been levied during the last two years, following the savage slaying of his wife and daughter.
He ran his hands over his weary face, unconsciously tracing the fine line of the knife scar that ran from his hairline down the right side to his jaw, and felt older than his forty one years. The job was a twelve hour a day, six day a week obligation, and since he’d lost Rosa and Cassandra, it had become more of a seven day grind. Now that there was nobody waiting for him at home, he spent most of his time in the office or the field, battling adversaries who had infinitely greater resources; all on behalf of a regime that was riddled with corruption.
It was easy to be demoralized at times like this, but Cruz wouldn’t allow himself to entertain thoughts of failure. The job was the only thing he had now, the only thing that kept him trudging forward instead of eating his pistol and ending his misery. It enabled him to cling to the hope that he would find the men who had been responsible for the death of his family and drag them to justice, or barring that, put a bullet between their eyes — the latter being his preference, because Mexico didn’t have the death penalty and the prisons were notoriously luxurious for drug lords. It wasn’t unheard of for imprisoned kingpins to have a private chefs, hot and cold running prostitutes, all the alcohol and drugs they could consume, air-conditioning, plush mattresses, satellite TV, cell phones, bodyguards, even beloved pets. The list went on and on.
Cruz contrasted that to his home — a simple three bed, two bath, two story affair with department store furniture, a small enclosed yard, and bars on all the windows and doors. There was no question that the cartel leaders had infinitely richer lives, but at a steep price — their existences were ones of non-stop violence. Besides the drug trade, they all engaged in kidnapping, murder for hire, extortion, assault, rape, prostitution, slavery, torture…every imaginable depravity, and some that were beyond imagination. It was a short, brutal existence where you burned bright then faded fast. Few of them made it to Cruz’s age — less than a few, at that.
He stabbed the button of the car stereo, and Juanes’ distinctive brand of Latin rock boomed out of the speakers. Cruz wasn’t big on music, but it made the long crawl home seem shorter somehow. He tapped his fingers on the wheel as he hummed along, momentarily transported out of his head to a place where melodies lingered.
The CD was beginning its second rendition by the time he pulled off the freeway and weaved his way through the quieter streets that led to his little
As Cruz swung his car into the carport that substituted for a garage on the homes in his tract, he noted that the usual Ford Lobo truck, the Mexican version of the F-150, was stationed a few yards away. The vehicle, or one much like it, sat in front of his modest home night and day, with two uniformed police on constant rotation. This was a requirement given that every cartel in Mexico viewed Cruz as its mortal enemy — it was not unknown for even higher ranking police personnel to be slain in their sleep.
Of course, that hadn’t helped Rosa and Cass; they’d been over a hundred miles away.
He shook off the thought. Recriminations wouldn’t bring them back, nor would they help him sleep, which he desperately needed to do at some point. Cruz’s nights weren’t easy, even two years after opening the special delivery box, and no matter what his doctor prescribed for him he rarely got more than four hours of continuous rest. The therapist he’d been forced to see had ventured it might take years for him to be able to sleep normally and exorcise the nightmares of his family’s final moments, especially if he continued his stressful vocation.
Quitting the Federal Police force wasn’t an option for him, for a host of reasons. He’d be a dead man within weeks of going into the private sector — payback for his years of hounding the cartels and making their lives as miserable as he could. And his job afforded the potential of avenging Cass and Rosa’s death.
But most importantly, all Romero Cruz had ever wanted to be, since a little boy, was a policeman. The uniform and the job were as integral a part of his persona as the color of his hazel eyes, or the shape of his nose. Being a
Inside the house, he flicked on the lights and climbed the stairs to his bedroom before sluggishly changing
