Rage Of The Assassin by Russell Blake

combat dress with Federales emblazoned across their backs leapt from the vehicles, weapons held at the ready as they ran to where the vendor waited for them, out of sight of the men in the restaurant.
    The gathering of cartel thugs looked up in surprise when the armed contingent burst through the entrance. Two of the gangsters drew pistols and dove for cover as the police’s automatic weapons opened up on them. The high-velocity rounds shredded through the wooden tabletops that the pair had knocked over to shield themselves, and within seconds both men were burbling their last breaths in a lake of blood.
    The rest of Agundez’s men stood frozen as the sound of gunfire died and the shooters approached, assault rifles trained on the survivors. Agundez’s face twisted with anger as he slowly raised his hands, and the others followed suit.
    “Have you lost your minds? I pay everyone for protection. Whoever is in charge of this operation–”
    “Silence!” the leader of the squad barked. He glanced at the man to his right and then back at the cartel kingpins. “Which one of you is Agundez?”
    Agundez’s frown deepened. “I am. And who are you?”
    The leader nodded and the police guns blazed. Agundez’s men staggered backwards as rounds tore through them, the slugs churning their chests into hamburger.
    When the gunmen stopped firing, Agundez was the only one left standing, stunned, his hands still held high. The leader walked toward him.
    Agundez met his stare and hissed his question. “Who are you?”
    The leader’s gun butt caught Agundez on the side of the head, and he went down like a bag of rocks.
    “Me?” the leader growled. “I’m your worst nightmare.”
    He turned to his men and nodded, and one of them moved to Agundez with a syringe. He popped its bright orange cap, holding the plastic nub between his teeth, and after finding a promising vein, emptied the contents into Agundez’s arm as the wounded cartel boss moaned groggily. By the time he straightened, Agundez was out cold.
    The leader tilted his head at the unconscious figure. “Get this sack of shit out of here. Take the men’s weapons and belongings, and write a warning in their blood,” he ordered, and then turned on his heel and made for the entrance.
    Outside, the ice-cream vendor was on a cell phone, his eyes on the empty road. The leader grunted as he walked past him. “It’s done.”
    The vendor spoke softly as the leader returned to his waiting SUV, the steam drifting skyward from the drying pavement a ghostly fog in the brightening sunlight.
     

Chapter 10
    Mexico City, Mexico
     
    Cruz made his way down the hall of the condo to his front door and slid the key in the lock. He’d promised his wife, Dinah, that he would come home during the day at least twice a week rather than working his customary twelve-hour stints straight through, as had been his habit before they’d tied the knot.
    He swung the door wide and stepped into the condo – the latest in a long string of temporary residences they’d been relegated to for their safety. As the number one law enforcement officer in the nation chartered with stopping the cartels, Cruz was in constant danger of one of them deciding to snuff him out.
    “Dinah? I’m home,” he called, setting his briefcase down in the foyer by the entrance.
    “I’m in the kitchen,” she said.
    He made his way toward the sound of her voice and kissed the back of her neck. She smiled as he sniffed the mouthwatering aroma rising from the pan she was laboring over. “Wow. Smells delicious. What is it?”
    “An Italian dish. I downloaded the recipe from the web. Chicken pizzaiola.”
    “I can’t wait. How are you feeling?”
    Dinah had been under the weather for the last week, every morning claiming she was vastly improved over the prior day, but by evening lethargic and moody. He’d been after her to see a doctor, but so far she’d resisted.
    “So-so.” She paused. “Lunch will be ready in five