Free King of Swords (Assassin series #1) by Russell Blake

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