Revenge of the Assassin

As the morning wore on, CISEN headquarters in Mexico City was buzzing with activity. Solomon approached Rodriguez’s office, tapped discreetly on the door and waited in the harshly illuminated hallway, holding a report. After an appropriate delay, he heard his boss call for him, and he entered, taking care to close the door softly behind him.

The office was large, furnished in a Mexican contemporary style, all angles and lines, fashioned from Danish birch and glass. A collection of modern oil paintings were featured on the main wall, abstract renderings with swatches of color on a dark gray background. Rodriguez sat behind his desk, his suit jacket hung on a hook on the back of the door, shirtsleeves rolled up as he typed busily on his computer.

He glanced at the new arrival and indicated with a nod of his head that he should take a seat. Solomon complied, saying nothing.

“Yes, Solomon. What have you got for me?”

“A delicate development on the El Rey front, sir. Our asset is scheduled to deliver a package of material to the assassin tomorrow, here in Mexico City.”

Rodriguez stopped typing and pushed back from the keyboard.

“That creates a problem for us, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

“If we pass the information on to Cruz, the positive is that he may be able to apprehend the assassin. The negative is that the information couldn’t have come from too many places, so it potentially jeopardizes our source — who is crucial to our ongoing operation, as you know,” Rodriguez explained.

Solomon shook his head, but chose his words with care. “I don’t see it quite that way, sir. I see it as us having information that could prevent a successful attack on the president by an assassin with a miraculous track record of spectacular hits. Which, if we didn’t pass the info on, would have us looking like traitors — especially if the execution attempt was successful.” He hesitated before continuing. “I see it as life in prison, versus doing what we have to.” He slid the report across the glass desktop.

Rodriguez took the file, stood up and paced the length of his office, reading the two pages carefully. A few minutes later, finished, he stared at one of the paintings, as if the solution lay in its inscrutable brushstrokes.

“You have a point. But the danger to our ongoing operation is still very real. And the truth is that the likelihood of information leaking about our having this information after the fact is small.”

Solomon took a breath, and realizing he was in delicate territory, put his most convincing disinterested expression forward. “So there’s only a small likelihood that everyone who knows about this spends the rest of their lives in prison. That would be you, and I, and two others who have already seen the report — at least two others. I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t like those odds. Bad news has a way of breaking at the worst possible time…”

Rodriguez frowned. His subordinate was right, unfortunately.

“Get Cruz on the line. Or better yet, have him come over here.” He looked at his watch — a newish Rolex stainless steel Submariner. “Put a rush on it. We don’t have much time.”

Solomon stood and moved to the door. “I’ll let you know if he is available to come in today.”

“Do that. Tell him if he delays, it’s on his head. That will get him motivated.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Cruz returned from CISEN headquarters he practically ran from the elevator to his office. Briones spotted him as he crossed the floor, and after one look at his superior’s face, stopped what he was doing and followed him in and closed the door.

“Call a meeting. Now,” Cruz ordered. “All the El Rey task force heads. We just got a major break — this will probably be the best lead we’ve had on him since this case started.”

“When are you available?”

“Five minutes.”

Briones trotted back to his cubicle and hastily called the various members of the team who weren’t in the field. A few minutes later, they were gathered in the conference room. Cruz entered and moved straight to the head of the table. He surveyed the expectant faces and then launched into a condensed version of the information he’d gotten from CISEN.

“Tomorrow, eleven o’clock, he’s to meet a cartel member to take delivery of some explosives and other items, at a machine shop six miles from here. Obviously, we need to take him. We can expect that he’ll be disguised, so it’s paramount that we be discreet. We can’t circle the building with Federales until he’s confirmed as being inside.”

A hand shot up. “I know that area, sir. It’s dense, even for Mexico City, and the buildings are packed together. Maybe we can get a few apartments or offices that are proximate and set up surveillance he won’t see?”

“Excellent suggestion, Guerrero. But it has to be low key. Get a team to canvass the area once this meeting breaks up. Softy and gently. We don’t want the neighbors freaked out, or the contact to get spooked,” Cruz warned.

“Maybe we can bug the machine shop tonight while it’s closed?” Briones suggested.

“Not a bad idea, but we have no intel on what counter-surveillance gear is in place, so we could give ourselves away if we try. We need this meeting to take place, gentlemen. We can’t do anything that would spook either El Rey or his contact. Let’s just assume that the shop is a front for illegal activity, and that as such, it is likely wired with security equipment,” Cruz advised.

“How do you want us to take him, then?” Guerrero asked, willing to step into the breach, as always.

“I want a team of twenty men in full tactical gear ready to go in on thirty seconds’ notice. If we can get a nearby building without attracting attention, perfect. If not, we’ll use one of the big transport carriers and wheel up to the shop for a shockwave deployment. But people? We can’t screw this up. It has to go off like clockwork. Ruiz? Sandborn? Pick your very best men and ensure they don’t blow it.”

They spent the next half hour discussing the assault and agreed that they would combine visual observation of some sort with a raid by a lightning strike force. Cruz left it up to his field officers to recommend a final approach once they’d studied the lay of the land. As the men gathered their notes, there was a palpable sense of energy in the room. Finally, after weeks of no progress, there was a break, and they could get into the field and bring their quarry down.

Dinah left the condo, walking in a seemingly aimless manner, window shopping at the upscale shops in the trendy neighborhood they’d been moved to three weeks earlier. She hated the upheaval every few months, but had come to accept it as a part of staying alive. She understood the need for constant moving, but it still created a hardship on them. At least they were being put up in high-end buildings. There seemed to be no budget limitations when it came to keeping the task force commander alive. For that she was grateful.

She paused at the corner and glanced around to ensure that the two plainclothes officers watching the building were still there, and noted with concern that one had left his position in the car across the street and had begun following her at a discreet distance. She swallowed, her mouth dry from anxiety, and crossed to the far side.

Continuing her walk, she picked up the pace, putting a few yards of valuable distance between herself and her bodyguard. She debated trying to give her protector the slip and then realized that it was an impossibility. His presence would just make things more nerve-racking, but wouldn’t alter the outcome of her trip, and trying to lose him could raise difficult questions with Cruz she preferred not to be asked.

She’d gotten a call that morning on the small cell the assassin had given her at the hospital, and the man’s soft voice had calmly laid out instructions. She was to summarize any information she had gleaned and drop the notes at a pre-ordained spot at a specific time. When he hung up after only a few seconds of instruction, she’d scrambled to pull herself together, her heart pounding in her ears from the tension.

Dinah had done as instructed, methodically detailing the conversations she’d had with Cruz on a single sheet of her note paper, and then set about showering and getting dressed. It was a Saturday, and school was out, so she had half a day before Cruz would return from headquarters. Still, she felt rushed, and guilty — she was selling her future husband down the river.