Revenge of the Assassin

The sun was already heating up the air temperature in Ciudad Juarez, even though it had only been light for fifty-five minutes. Traffic was just starting to pick up for rush hour, which made the congestion caused by the assembled police, military and television vans a major bottleneck on one of the main thoroughfares. The soldiers were visibly agitated, their weapons at the ready as they formed a protective perimeter around the cops and the reporters, who were chatting as though they were at a sporting event, waiting for the big match to begin. Two uniformed officers waved traffic around a roadblock, directing the cars to an alternative route, and the combination of having to loop around, coupled with rubberneckers straining to see what the fuss was about, had caused a vicious snarl.

The captain of the Juarez office of the Federal Police approached the ranking officer of the army detachment, Major Trujillo, carrying a cup of OXXO coffee in a polystyrene cup. The major grinned when he saw his friend, Captain Pompa, up early for once.

“This must be very inconvenient for a late sleeper like you, eh?” he offered by way of hello.

“You have no idea. I was just getting to bed when I got the call,” Pompa fired back.

The men smiled and took in the creeping procession of annoyed motorists. “What do you think it means? Another round of retribution killings going to start?”

“No, I don’t think so. Although this is worrisome. They usually don’t target the press. Then again, why should journalists be any different than us? We all bleed the same,” Pompa observed.

“What’s his name?” Major Trujillo asked.

“Eligio Nerevez. Worked the crime beat at one of the local rags. Seems like he pissed off the wrong people. Dangerous line of work.” Pompa took another sip of coffee. “I don’t have to tell you that nobody saw anything last night. This was called in by someone driving, who didn’t want to identify himself. Imagine that. Wanted to remain anonymous…”

“Nerevez? That’s him? Huh. I recognize the name. He just did that series on the bloggers who were outing politicians on the take. I thought it was an ambitious project, but you’re right. Hazardous…obviously,” Major Trujillo agreed.

“He could have just printed a list of every elected official in the state. That would have saved time,” Pompa said, and both men laughed.

“You want to cut him down, or should we?” the major inquired, eyeing Pompa’s coffee. He wished he’d had the foresight to get a cup before taking up his station. It was too late now, but the smell was intoxicating.

They turned and considered the body of the young man, hanging upside down, suspended from the steel guardrail by a rope around his ankles. The blood on his face was coagulated and brown, already dried. A small amount had stained the road beneath him, its rust-colored puddle a contrast to the filthy gray. His hands were bound behind him, and half his head was gone from where a large caliber round had entered his mouth, blowing the top of his skull off. Next to him, a bed sheet with the distinctive markings of the Juarez cartel hung, issuing a warning to any good citizens who wanted to shorten their lives by focusing on the cartel’s misdeeds. It was a crude, but effective communication tool. Everyone got the point: taking on the cartels was bad for your health.

Pompa shook his head. “Nah. We’ll do it.”

At seven o’clock there was still no sign of activity in the apartment. Cruz slurped an oversized mug of coffee and ate an energy bar while watching the feed from the vans, and Briones used the bathroom. They’d just gotten confirmation that the tactical teams were back in place, awaiting instruction, but Cruz was unsure how to proceed. He felt better after the glorified nap, but not nearly at peak performance, and while he wanted this to be over he also didn’t want to blow their only chance at El Rey. He battled internally for a few minutes and then decided to have everyone stand down until they spotted their quarry. Better to keep the surveillance going than to rush in as they had at the machine shop. On that one, in retrospect, they should have hung back and waited for the assassin to exit the building and then taken him. He didn’t want to make a similar miscalculation on this one.

He radioed the tactical team and relayed his orders. Remain in place. Next, he contacted the van operators and instructed them to do the same. They were also likely exhausted by now, but that was the job and it came with the territory. At worst, the two man teams could sleep in short shifts, as he had. It wasn’t his problem, but he still felt sorry for the men.

The morning dragged by, and at noon Cruz made a judgment call. They would go in, but stealthily, only three plainclothes officers using a passkey provided by the soon-to-be-wealthy Gabriela. If El Rey was in there, he’d managed to shield the apartment from their best surveillance efforts, but that didn’t surprise Cruz.

Cruz turned to brief the men he had selected, who had arrived a few minutes earlier.

“Guerrero, you, Simon and Roberto do the entry. Use whatever force is necessary. You have my permission. And make sure you have vests on under your jackets. I don’t want to have to call anyone’s family and tell them daddy’s not coming home.”

Guerrero pounded his chest with his fist, thumping the bulletproof vest for emphasis. They were ready.

The men made their way to the apartment complex, scanning the sidewalk reflexively. They stopped in the well-kept lobby and got the key from Gabriela, then took the elevator to the sixth floor. The building was a medium luxury property, where the rent on a two bedroom apartment would run three month’s salary of any of the officers; when they exited the elevator they stepped onto polished marble tiles.

El Rey’s apartment was the last on the left. The officers moved soundlessly on rubber soles, pistols ready, safeties off. Guerrero, as usual, was in the lead, and he moved to the far side of the doorway, with his two partners taking the opposite wall. He gingerly slipped the key into the lock and turned it with the delicacy of a neurosurgeon. Their ears strained for any hint of movement inside, but heard nothing. Guerrero nodded at Simon and Roberto, holding each man’s gaze, and then with a deep breath, he turned the knob and eased the door open. Under Guerrero’s holding fire cover, Simon lunged into the foyer, doing a lightning scan of the small entryway with his weapon but detecting no threat.

Roberto and Guerrero followed him, guns sweeping, and they moved as one into the darkened space beyond the entry. As their eyes adjusted to the paucity of light they could make out a kitchen on the right and a larger area straight ahead. Guerrero moved past them into the living room, his Beretta M9A1 now pointing at the master bedroom doorway, and then he stopped, sniffing the air.

What the hell?

He turned to Roberto, who was reaching for the wall switch to give them some light, and screamed, “Nooo…!”

It was too late.

A blast erupted through the apartment door, blowing out all the windows, showering the street below with glass and debris as the fireball shot through the apertures. The crude five gallon gas can had been augmented by leaving the stove propane running with the pilot light off and the automatic shutoff disabled, creating a massive bomb. Rigging a simple electrically-activated detonator had been laughably simple. The three men were instantly incinerated, the air sucked out of their lungs almost as quickly as their skin melted and their bones seared.

Cruz watched the firestorm erupt through the apartment’s facade on the monitors and realized instantly that somehow, the assassin had trumped them.

He threw back his chair and slammed his coffee cup down against the table, shattering it with a crash. Briones pushed back from his vantage point and moved to help and then thought better of it when he saw the look in the captain’s eyes.

Cruz licked away a rivulet of blood from his hand and wrapped a paper towel from the coffee tray around it, seemingly oblivious to the pain. He collected himself with a shudder and then took another glance at the screens, watching black smoke belch from the front of the complex. He didn’t need to wait for the report from the team that was rushing towards the building.

That afternoon, he would be making the visits he dreaded to the three spouses.

Chapter 25