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

made the long crawl home seem shorter somehow. He tapped his fingers on the wheel as he hummed along, momentarily transported out of his head to a place where melodies lingered.
    The CD was beginning its second rendition by the time he pulled off the freeway and weaved his way through the quieter streets that led to his little colonia . In the last year, the community developer had finally honored his promise and installed an electric security gate to keep unwelcome cars out, and they now had a grizzled security man who sat in the small concrete bunker to the side of the gate, watching a portable black and white television round the clock. His doppelganger counterpart appeared at seven every evening, relieving him until seven the next morning. Cruz gave a two fingered wave at the night man, who inevitably peered at his car like he’d never seen him before, then dim recognition struck, and he activated the opener with a salute; an inebriated sentry with nothing to do.
    As Cruz swung his car into the carport that substituted for a garage on the homes in his tract, he noted that the usual Ford Lobo truck, the Mexican version of the F-150, was stationed a few yards away. The vehicle, or one much like it, sat in front of his modest home night and day, with two uniformed police on constant rotation. This was a requirement given that every cartel in Mexico viewed Cruz as its mortal enemy – it was not unknown for even higher ranking police personnel to be slain in their sleep.
    Of course, that hadn’t helped Rosa and Cass; they’d been over a hundred miles away.
    He shook off the thought. Recriminations wouldn’t bring them back, nor would they help him sleep, which he desperately needed to do at some point. Cruz’s nights weren’t easy, even two years after opening the special delivery box, and no matter what his doctor prescribed for him he rarely got more than four hours of continuous rest. The therapist he’d been forced to see had ventured it might take years for him to be able to sleep normally and exorcise the nightmares of his family’s final moments, especially if he continued his stressful vocation.
    Quitting the Federal Police force wasn’t an option for him, for a host of reasons. He’d be a dead man within weeks of going into the private sector – payback for his years of hounding the cartels and making their lives as miserable as he could. And his job afforded the potential of avenging Cass and Rosa’s death.
    But most importantly, all Romero Cruz had ever wanted to be, since a little boy, was a policeman. The uniform and the job were as integral a part of his persona as the color of his hazel eyes, or the shape of his nose. Being a Federal was not just his day job – it defined who Cruz was.
    Inside the house, he flicked on the lights and climbed the stairs to his bedroom before sluggishly changing into sweats. He hung up his uniform, next to three others exactly like it, and placed his Heckler and Koch pistol on the bedside night table before going back downstairs to the kitchen to root around for something edible.
    Dinner would be another sandwich, his weeknight staple, unvaryingly filled with turkey, salami, chorizo and cheese, then melted in the microwave and consumed at the breakfast bar or on his shabby couch, in front of the television. He allowed himself two beers per night, no more, and savored the rich taste of the cold Bohemia he favored as he watched the vapid crap that passed for programming. It wasn’t much of an existence, but it occupied the time between leaving and returning to the office, so he was fine with it, such as it was. He recognized that this was no way to live, but since he’d been on his own it was all he could bring himself to do. He turned up the volume to drown out the emptiness that now sequestered the house and waited for the ghosts of his dead family to visit him once again.
     
    General Ortega swirled his José Cuervo Reserva de la Familia tequila in a brandy snifter,