Revenge of the Assassin

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Six Weeks Ago, Mexico City, Mexico. Midnight.

The pounding from the front door of the high-rise condo seemed to resonate eerily with the tinny ringing of the phone in the kitchen. Captain Romero Cruz of the Federal Police flicked the hallway light as he pulled a bathrobe on. The phone stopped its insistent trilling as he shuffled down the entry hall and then peered blearily through the peephole. Satisfied there was no obvious threat, he fumbled with the deadbolt and then opened the door.

A man in the distinctive blue uniform of the Federales saluted, ignoring the disheveled hair of his superior officer. He shifted nervously as he stared into space at some neutral point a thousand miles beyond his commander’s shoulder. Cruz ignored the circumstances and gestured for him to speak up.

“Capitan. I’m sorry to intrude. But you wanted to be alerted as soon as we had confirmation on the Tijuana situation. We’ve been calling for half an hour, but there was no answer…”

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