to the outside world, while Cruz continued to the fifth, where his task force occupied the entire floor.
His mind flitted back to the day, two years prior, when he’d opened the container and seen his life crumble around him, his beloved family brutally butchered to send him a message. He pursed his lips and forced the images and emotions back into the ugly little box where he kept them hidden away and closed the door on that line of thought. He would extract revenge and make the bastards pay the ultimate price for their crimes, but he couldn’t do it by wallowing in despair. There had already been more than enough of that after the slaying, when he’d taken a two month leave of absence and stayed drunk for most of it in Los Barriles, over on the Baja peninsula — an area that was uniquely free of the drug battles prevalent on the mainland. The southern part of Baja wasn’t a good trafficking choice, because there was only one road north, and it had military checkpoints every seventy-five miles, making it the hardest route imaginable for drug smuggling. Whereas northern Baja, by the border, was a battle zone much of the time — the Tijuana cartel had been at war with the Sinaloa cartel, leaving hundreds dead during the last year.
He’d crawled into a tequila bottle and stayed in a haze for six weeks, gradually emerging from the funk with a purpose. He would go back to work, and he would make those who’d destroyed his dreams of happiness pay for their savagery. He would avenge Rosa and Cass, and he would be merciless.
Romero Cruz was far more committed to scorching the earth, hunting down and annihilating enemies than some fairytale ninja assassin. Cruz had nothing to lose; he was already dead inside, which made him far, far more dangerous. The man who didn’t fear anything was the worst enemy you could have, and that was what Cruz had become. His was the wrath of the righteous, and he would extract his pound of flesh from the wicked, and they would pay with their lifeblood.
That was his mantra every day.
That was why he still woke up.
To be an angel of vengeance.
Chapter 2
General Alejandro Ortega studied the features of the man sitting across from him, wondering what he needed to say to make him happy. Because the last thing he wanted was for the attorney who represented the Sinaloa cartel to be unhappy with him. That could be a quick trip to a shallow unmarked grave, even for an army officer of his rank. It had happened before.
Ortega didn’t intend to test the man’s patience. Carlos Zapata was one of the wealthiest lawyers in the country, and a visit from him was never a good thing.
“I wasn’t aware that Santiago had been captured. That must have been a
“Jorge Santiago is a trusted ally of my clients,” Zapata said crisply. “His incarceration is an affront to their authority, and calls into question their ability to protect those who rely upon them. I won’t bore you with how delicate the balance of trust is on handshake deals. There’s a bond, and friends look out for friends. So my question is, how can something like this happen, and how can you make it right?”
“I can assure you I started making inquiries the moment you called and informed me of the issue. It’s not public yet. None of the television stations or newspapers have reported anything,” Ortega observed, nervously smoothing his gray moustache.
“We need to know where he’s being held, so I can get someone on filing motions with the court for immediate consultation with him. I know how this works, and we cannot afford for him to disappear for two weeks to be ‘interrogated’ in a back room somewhere.”
“Of course. You’ll know everything, as soon as I find out. This is deeply disturbing to me as well,” Ortega assured him.
Zapata leaned forward. “My clients are bound to start asking what value they’re receiving for their money if friends can be attacked by government forces with no warning. And I’ll remind you that it’s not in anyone’s best interests for precarious power structures to be disrupted by the absence of a strong leader. That will lead to instability — younger rivals challenging one another for position, which inevitably leads to unfortunate outcomes.”
“I understand. Please convey to your clients that this was an unfortunate and unforeseen result of action by forces not within my purview. And even though I had no part in today’s events, I’ll still work diligently to ensure everything that can be done, will be,” Ortega promised.
“Start by finding out where he’s being kept. Then you can stand back and stay out of the way.” Zapata rose from his chair and fixed Ortega with a frigid glare. “You’re lucky you don’t have to go report on the bad news to my clients yourself. They don’t take these sorts of setbacks lightly.”
“No, I wouldn’t imagine that they do. I’ll call as soon as I know something.”
“Do that.”
Cruz was waiting patiently in the hall, chatting with the two guards, when Briones emerged from the elevator and strode hurriedly towards them.
“Sorry, sir. I got stuck in traffic on the way back from my house. There was an accident…” Briones offered.
“Forget it. We’ve all been there. Let’s get back to our shit-bag and see what we can shake out of him. You okay? Ready for this?” Cruz asked.
“Perfect. Let’s get to it.”
The guard unlocked the door, and Cruz and Briones entered the cell. Santiago was slumped over in his chair, still unconscious. Cruz paced over to him and jerked back his head by the hair, looking for any trace of fakery, but didn’t see any. He quickly took a pulse, which was faint and uneven.
“Get medical down here immediately,” Cruz told Briones, who hurried to the door and alerted the guards. One of them murmured into his radio for help. Briones came back to help Cruz with Santiago.
They un-cuffed him and lay him on the floor. Cruz walked over to the
After a few minutes, Cruz heard the distinctive sound of a gurney being wheeled down the corridor to the interrogation room. Two paramedics ran a quick check on Santiago’s vital signs, then heaved him onto the gurney like a sack of cement. Cruz ordered the two officers by the door to accompany Santiago to the hospital and stand guard in whatever room he was in — if he needed surgery, they were to take up a station outside of the operating room. He wanted to take absolutely no chances that Santiago could escape, or be broken out of captivity by his mob.
Cruz took the elevator up to his office, accompanied by Briones, and they got their stories straight for the inevitable investigation should Santiago die. It would be a cursory formality, to be sure, given that the captive had participated in gunning down a group of police that morning, but it was better to be prepared in advance. Both men had been with the department long enough to know how the drill worked, so they agreed that it was best not to mention the
Cruz showed the lieutenant his interrogation summary, on the off chance he’d omitted some key element or gotten something wrong or remembered it differently. Briones read it slowly and placed it on the desk between them when he was done.
