Revenge of the Assassin

tequila he brandished as he slammed the heavy rustic pine door closed.

El Rey pulled cautiously away from the police checkpoint, his silenced Ruger P95PR 9mm pistol still hot from the rapid series of deadly shots required to dispatch the four officers. He knew from the satellite imagery that the ranch was a mile and a half further down the rutted dirt road a hundred yards up on his right. He’d already removed the brake lights from the old Ford so they wouldn’t illuminate at an inopportune time, and he shut off the headlights before he made the turn, his eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom as he cautiously stole down the dusty track.

When the lights of the house came into view over a small rise, he calculated the distance and kept driving for another thirty seconds, then pulled silently to a stop after carefully performing a three point turn, so the car was prepared for a fast getaway. He was approximately five hundred yards away, which allowed for a decent margin of error on accuracy. With the music booming from the compound over the desert scrub, he wasn’t overly concerned about making noise. He could hear the blare through his open window as he studied the light wind’s tugging on a ribbon he’d tied to his antenna. It sounded like quite a fiesta. He quickly climbed out of the car and opened the trunk, pausing before removing three compact tubes and setting two of them on the ground. He raised the third to his shoulder and sighted on the front gate, squinting to adjust his focus.

The first rocket streaked to the opening and detonated, destroying everything within forty feet with its thermobaric blast. He dropped the smoking tube and grabbed another. The second projectile detonated inside the house, as did the third, likely killing everyone inside. The pair of five thousand liter steel propane storage tanks adjacent to the house finished the job when they ignited in a massive fireball that erupted several hundred feet into the air, with a boom audible as far away as downtown Juarez.

Pausing for only a moment to watch the house engulfed in orange flames, El Rey carefully placed a tarot card bearing the familiar image of the King of Swords amongst the rocket launching tubes, taking care to wedge it so that it wouldn’t blow away in the breeze. Satisfied with the result, he hurried back behind the wheel and tore off down the road in the direction he’d come. By the time any of the surviving guards could give chase he’d be long gone, and he was confident their enthusiasm for pursuit would be short-lived now that the head had been cut off the snake. Chacho was nothing more than an oily smudge in the crater that had been his hacienda, and with his black soul’s journey to hell had also gone his eponymous cartel’s fragile dominance.

The Russian-manufactured RSgH-1 rockets hadn’t been easy to get in time, but Aranas’ contacts had been able to locate several that had somehow walked away from a Russian armory a year earlier. A private jet had transported them from Europe to Mexico, and the rest was simple logistics. He needed every shot to count, and his experience with the RSgH-1 had been that they were accurate at far greater distances than the more common RPG-7, even though the Russian devices were much harder to find. Well worth the extra effort, in his opinion. Normally, he would have gone through one of his regular contacts in southern Mexico, but in the interests of time he’d chartered Aranas with locating them.

He sped down the final hundred yards of the track and took the turn back onto the larger paved road, effectively flying by the dead police at the checkpoint. He wasn’t worried about an innocent vehicle discovering the cops — it was a rural highway, and in Ciudad Juarez, there was literally no chance that anyone who didn’t have to be on the road would be driving after dark. Still, he knew that it wouldn’t be too much longer before they were found by army troops heading to the ranch to see what had caused the explosions. By that time he’d be nearing the dirt airstrip where his escape plan waited. El Rey had arranged for a private plane to take him to Ciudad Obregon, where he would lay low for a few days until he could coordinate the logistics for the next phase of his mission — the execution of the Mexican president.

Dinah was cooking in the kitchen when Cruz made it through the door, tired after another long day at the office. He was in plainclothes, it being Saturday, and even though he was only supposed to put in a short session he’d quickly gotten buried and nine hours had flown by. It was an occupational hazard that Dinah had grown accustomed to, although she didn’t like it. But she knew Cruz wouldn’t change, and so had incorporated the routine into their lives.

“I’m sorry, mi amor. I don’t know how that always happens,” he said as he entered the kitchen and planted a kiss on her exposed neck. She was shredding chicken she’d cooked. “What are you making? It smells wonderful.”

“Enchiladas mole. I’ve been working on the sauce for hours. I kind of figured when you called at one and said it would only be a little longer that you’d get stuck for the rest of the day. It almost never fails,” Dinah said as she moved to the sink to wash her hands.

“I know. I wish I could lay off some of the paperwork on a subordinate, but unfortunately it all requires my signature…”

She turned to him and threw her arms around his neck and drew her to him, kissing him passionately for half a minute. His transgression had clearly been forgiven.

Eventually they came up for air, and he smiled at her.

“You make the best mole I’ve ever tasted. Really. It’s always a treat,” Cruz said.

“You better say that. You’re going to be eating it for a long time. I hope you’re telling the truth…”

“I have no reason to lie. Other than self-preservation.”

“Damned right. Now go get cleaned up. It will be ready in fifteen minutes.”

Cruz obligingly moved to the bedroom and shrugged out of the dress shirt and slacks he was wearing. After considering his watch, he decided to take a fast shower, and once dry, switched to comfortable old jeans and a sweatshirt. He padded back out into the dining area just as Dinah was placing plates on the table, next to two bottles of Negro Modelo beer. He pulled out one of the chairs and took a seat, sniffing appreciatively.

“It smells delicious,” he proclaimed.

Dinah smiled. She loved cooking and looked forward to the weekends when she had time to make a meal from scratch. It was one of her hobbies, passed to her from her mother, and she considered herself very good at it. Cruz seemed to like it.

They ate, chatting about their plans for the next day. At Dinah’s insistence, he’d stopped working Sundays, and they tried to plan something fun for their time together. Dinah had arranged to have lunch with another couple, friends of hers from the school where she taught second grade. Cruz got on well enough with them, and they’d agreed to meet at noon, and then catch a matinee of a movie Dinah wanted to see. Cruz would wear a baseball hat and sunglasses to lunch — his attempt at a disguise. Although he was known from the obligatory press conferences he was forced to attend when his task force had a major victory, he wasn’t particularly distinctive looking, and could have been mistaken for thousands of other men of similar age. There wasn’t a lot of risk that he’d be gunned down, especially since his whereabouts were secret and had been ever since the kidnapping incident ten months earlier.

Cruz cleaned his plate of every morsel and rubbed his stomach appreciatively while Dinah cleared the table.

“Have you given any thought to a date?” she asked as she placed the plates in the sink.

“A date?” Too late, Cruz realized his misstep. “Oh, of course. I was thinking maybe September? That will give us time to plan something…”

She gave him a curious look and then nodded. “I don’t want anything big. Just a small ceremony, with close friends and family. And we can limit the reception to a few hundred.”

Cruz stared at her.

“Kidding.” She smiled.

He rose from the table with a look of clear relief on his face and moved past her to the refrigerator for a second beer. They hadn’t really discussed the minutiae of the wedding, and he assumed that Dinah would handle things. Perhaps they needed to talk about it in more depth. He remembered from his first marriage that things could rush up on them, and if they didn’t start soon, they’d be buried all summer playing catch up.

“Come here, my angel, and let’s talk about the where’s and how’s of this. It’s an important event, and I want to make sure it’s perfect. As long as you show up, I’ll be happy, so tell me what you’re thinking and I’ll do whatever