Briones stationed himself by the rheostat and waited for a signal. Cruz nodded.
The lieutenant hunched over the box and turned the dial halfway up. The rod emitted a faint hum.
“You might want to plug your ears, Lieutenant. I have a feeling our boy here is going to be crying like a bitch kitty in a second,” Cruz said. He applied the rod tip to Santiago’s neck.
The reaction was immediate. Santiago’s entire body stiffened, his eyes bugged out, and his face turned beet red as his stifled shrieks penetrated the rag. Cruz studied Santiago impassively as he flayed and convulsed for ten seconds, then he disengaged the picana.
Cruz made a gesture with the device, and Briones pulled the rag from Santiago’s mouth, who greedily gulped air as though he’d been drowning.
“Give me something, Santiago. Or I can do this all day. In fact, you know what? I bet I could charge admission to the families of the cops you killed this morning; make money allowing them to use it on you, if I get tired. Remember, I’m authorized by the President to do whatever it takes to get information, so there’s no way out of this for you.”
“You…you are so fucked,” Santiago hissed through swollen lips. “You don’t even know it. And your president? He’s a dead man.”
Cruz shrugged, and Briones returned the rag to Santiago’s mouth and then cranked the knob again. Cruz held the wand to Santiago’s neck, this time for twenty seconds.
Briones cut the current and removed the rag.
“Oh, look, what a shame. The big brave drug lord pissed his pants like a little schoolgirl. Hey, pissy pants, are we having fun yet?” Cruz taunted.
“Your brat pissed hers before I fucked her,” Santiago growled, spitting blood at him.
“What did you say?” Cruz’s eyes narrowed to slits.
“You heard me. She was pretty good for a five year old, or whatever she was. I think she kind of liked it when I had my boys go at her, too. Shame she lost her head. I could have trained her to be really-”
Cruz dropped the picana and pummeled Santiago’s face with his fists. Briones grabbed his arms from behind and dragged him away, but not before he’d inflicted considerable damage. Santiago was now bleeding freely from cuts on his cheek and a newly broken nose; a bloodshot eye was swollen half closed. Cruz stood panting his anger out until he regained enough control for Briones to release him.
Santiago raised his head.
“Tell the President I had a hand in having him killed, will you?”
“What are you talking about? You’re nothing. An insect. You have nothing, and you’ll rot in a military prison until you die. You, kill the President? You’re a urine-soaked piece of shit, nothing more,” Cruz growled, barely containing his rage.
“You remember that when El Rey takes him and his American master out. I’ll be watching it on TV. That’s a day people will remember for a lifetime.”
“You think these puny lies will buy you bargaining power? You’re mistaken. It’s pure bullshit. And it’s not going to work.”
“Remember you said that when your ass-licking president is lying dead with the Gringo cunt. Remember how smart you were.” Santiago fixed Cruz with his good eye. “And remember when your little baby was on her hands and knees, begging for me to give it to her, like your stinking whore wife did, and I-”
Cruz cranked the control box to maximum and took two steps towards Santiago, jamming the prod into his soaking crotch.
Santiago convulsed and screamed so horrifically that Briones was momentarily frozen in place. As Santiago convulsed, smoke began to rise from where the prod was in contact with his wet pants. Briones raced to shut off the current, and Santiago slumped over, unconscious.
Cruz spat on Santiago, and then handed the picana back to Briones, who averted his gaze.
“Let’s take a break for an hour and let this fecal speck stew in his filth. Maybe he’ll get more talkative now that he sees what I’m capable of,” Cruz said, checking his watch and straightening his uniform before moving to the door. “I’ll see you back here at five. Grab something to eat. This could be a long night.”
Briones’ eyes stayed glued to the floor, and he didn’t respond.
“Hey. Lieutenant. These are the bad guys, eh? They killed a bunch of cops this morning, and this one claims he raped and killed my wife and daughter. This is an animal. Nothing but an animal…” Cruz said.
Briones slowly raised his head and met his stare. “He’s probably lying about your daughter, sir. The story is well known. He used it to bait you, to get a reaction-”
“It worked then, huh? I’ll bet he thinks twice about doing it again. Go get something to eat. We need to keep at him until he breaks. And he will break. Make no mistake about that,” Cruz assured him.
“Yes, sir.”
Cruz knocked twice on the door in a distinctive pattern; it swung open, unlocked from the exterior. Two beefy police officers stood outside, guarding the room. These were men fiercely loyal to Cruz — men he trusted with his life. One of them handed Cruz back his service pistol, which he holstered.
Cruz instructed them not to allow anyone into the cell while he was gone, then marched down the dank yellow hall, past two more armed Federal Police officers, to the scarred double doors of the industrial steel elevator. He punched the button and stood waiting as Briones joined him.
“I’m sorry if I seemed to lose it, Lieutenant. It was momentary. It’s been a long day, and I think I’m tired from the assault this morning.” Cruz stabbed at the button again, impatiently. “You were right. I gave the prick exactly what he wanted — a reaction. Learn from that. Always keep your emotions out of the job,” Cruz softly advised the younger man.
“I think I would have shot him,” Briones admitted.
“That’s why we don’t allow guns in the room.” Cruz turned his head and studied the lieutenant’s profile. “Are you sure you’re up for this? I can arrange a replacement if you’d rather sit it out. I won’t think any less of you — this is a tough assignment, and this part isn’t for everyone.”
“No, sir. I was also friends with several of the men who were killed today. I would want the same if one of these scumbags killed me. It’s the least I can do…to help you with this.”
“Good man. I’ll see you in an hour. I’m going to my office to start a report.”
“Do you…Sir, no disrespect, but do you think there’s any truth in what he was saying about the President — and the U.S. president? He sounded pretty cocky for a man in his position,” Briones ventured.
“That’s why I want to write it up. I don’t know what to think right now, but these bastards have turned the country into a killing field wherever they go, so I wouldn’t put anything past them. I want to capture exactly what he said while it’s fresh in my mind. We can investigate later. But yes, I’m taking it seriously. I agree he seemed sure of himself, and that’s troubling.”
“And he mentioned El Rey,” Briones underscored.
“I know. Then again, that’s like mentioning the boogieman. So it may mean something, or nothing. But either way, I’ll record it, and once we’re done with him, add it to the pile of things to do,” Cruz concluded.
The elevator finally arrived, and the two men stepped aboard. They rode up two floors to the ground level in stony silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Briones exited and proceeded purposefully to the security area that led to the outside world, while Cruz continued to the fifth, where his task force occupied the entire floor.
His mind flitted back to the day, two years prior, when he’d opened the container and seen his life crumble around him, his beloved family brutally butchered to send him a message. He pursed his lips and forced the images and emotions back into the ugly little box where he kept them hidden away and closed the door on that line of thought. He would extract revenge and make the bastards pay the ultimate price for their crimes, but he couldn’t do it by wallowing in despair. There had already been more than enough of that after the slaying, when
he’d taken a two month leave of absence and stayed drunk for most of it in Los Barriles, over on the Baja peninsula — an area that was uniquely free of the drug battles prevalent on the mainland. The southern part of Baja wasn’t a good trafficking choice, because there was only one road north, and it had military checkpoints every seventy-five miles, making it the hardest route imaginable for drug smuggling. Whereas northern Baja, by the border, was a battle zone much of the time — the Tijuana cartel had been at war with the Sinaloa cartel, leaving hundreds dead during the last year.
He’d crawled into a tequila bottle and stayed in a haze for six weeks, gradually emerging from the funk with a purpose. He would go back to work, and he would make those who’d destroyed his dreams of happiness pay for their savagery. He would avenge Rosa and Cass, and he would be merciless.
El Rey? Fuck El Rey. Cruz would be the bloody sword of fury descending upon his enemies, cutting them out of life like a cancer. And he didn’t need some tarot card voodoo to do it. They would pay. And he would be the mechanism of their destruction.
Romero Cruz was far more committed to scorching the earth, hunting down and annihilating enemies than some fairytale ninja assassin. Cruz had nothing to lose; he was already dead inside, which made him far, far more dangerous. The man who didn’t fear anything was the worst enemy you could have, and that was what Cruz had become. His was the wrath of the righteous, and he would extract his pound of flesh from the wicked, and they would pay with their lifeblood.
That was his mantra every day.
That was why he still woke up.
To be an angel of vengeance.
Chapter 2
General Alejandro Ortega studied the features of the man sitting across from him, wondering what he needed to say to make him happy. Because the last thing he wanted was for the attorney who represented the Sinaloa cartel to be unhappy with him. That could be a quick trip to a shallow unmarked grave, even for an army officer of his rank. It had happened before.
Ortega didn’t intend to test the man’s patience. Carlos Zapata was one of the wealthiest lawyers in the country, and a visit from him was never a good thing.
“I wasn’t aware that Santiago had been captured. That must have been a Federal exclusive operation. I can assure you that the army was never notified. If it had been, well, it’s unlikely he would have been apprehended, obviously,” Ortega stated in the formal-and-polite tense of Spanish.
“Jorge Santiago is a trusted ally of my clients,” Zapata said crisply. “His incarceration is an affront to their authority, and calls into question their ability to protect those who rely upon them. I won’t bore you with how delicate the balance of trust is on handshake deals. There’s a bond, and friends look out for friends. So my question is, how can something like this happen, and how can you make it right?”
“I can assure you I started making inquiries the moment you called and informed me of the issue. It’s not public yet. None of the television stations or newspapers have reported anything,” Ortega observed, nervously smoothing his gray moustache.
“We need to know where he’s being held, so I can get someone on filing motions with the court for immediate consultation with him. I know how this works, and we cannot afford for him to disappear for two weeks to be ‘interrogated’ in a back room somewhere.”
“Of course. You’ll know everything, as soon as I find out. This is deeply disturbing to me as well,” Ortega assured him.
Zapata leaned forward. “My clients are bound to start asking what value they’re receiving for their money if friends can be attacked by government forces with no warning. And I’ll remind you that it’s not in anyone’s best interests for precarious power structures to be disrupted by the absence of a strong leader. That will lead to instability — younger rivals challenging one another for position, which inevitably leads to unfortunate outcomes.”
“I understand. Please convey to your clients that this was an unfortunate and unforeseen result of action by forces not within my purview. And even though I had no part in today’s events, I’ll still work diligently to ensure everything that can be done, will be,” Ortega promised.
“Start by finding out where he’s being kept. Then you can stand back and stay out of the way.” Zapata rose from his chair and fixed Ortega with a frigid glare. “You’re lucky you don’t have to go report on the bad news to my clients yourself. They don’t take these sorts of setbacks lightly.”
“No, I wouldn’t imagine that they do. I’ll call as soon as I know something.”
“Do that.”
Cruz was waiting patiently in the hall, chatting with the two guards, when Briones emerged from the elevator and strode hurriedly towards them.
“Sorry, sir. I got stuck in traffic on the way back from my house. There was an accident…” Briones offered.
“Forget it. We’ve all been there. Let’s get back to our shit-bag and see what we can shake out of him. You okay? Ready for this?” Cruz asked.
“Perfect. Let’s get to it.”
The guard unlocked the door, and Cruz and Briones entered the cell. Santiago was slumped over in his chair, still unconscious. Cruz paced over to him and jerked back his head by the hair, looking for any trace of fakery, but didn’t see any. He quickly took a pulse, which was faint and uneven.
“Get medical down here immediately,” Cruz told Briones, who hurried to the door and alerted the guards. One of them murmured into his radio for help. Briones came back to help Cruz with Santiago.
They un-cuffed him and lay him on the floor. Cruz walked over to the picana and gave Briones a hard look. The lieutenant hastily gathered up the cord and the wand, stuffed it back into the rucksack, and carried it from the cell. The two sentries stood impassively by. Cruz knew he could count on them to have seen and heard nothing. Loyalty was a precious currency in the force, and you watched your peers’ backs if you wanted to go very far. It could be your own ass on the line at any point, so it was always better to be discreet.
After a few minutes, Cruz heard the distinctive sound of a gurney being wheeled down the corridor to the interrogation room. Two paramedics ran a quick check on Santiago’s vital signs, then heaved him onto the gurney like a sack of cement. Cruz ordered the two officers by the door to accompany Santiago to the hospital and stand guard in whatever room he was in — if he needed surgery, they were to take up a station outside of the operating room. He wanted to take absolutely no chances that Santiago could escape, or be broken out of captivity by his mob.
Cruz took the elevator up to his office, accompanied by Briones, and they got their stories straight for the inevitable investigation should Santiago die. It would be a cursory formality, to be sure, given that the captive had participated in gunning down a group of police that morning, but it was better to be prepared in advance. Both men had been with the department long enough to know how the drill worked, so they agreed that it was best not to mention the picana or the battering during questioning. Any injuries could be attributed to the assault and gunfight. Nobody was going to look too closely at the rights of a violent, psychopathic drug peddler; as long as they remained on the same page, there shouldn’t be any issues.
Cruz showed the lieutenant his interrogation summary, on the off chance he’d omitted some key element or gotten something wrong or remembered it differently. Briones read it slowly and placed it on the desk between them when he was done.
“Really, the only thing we got from him was that he claims to have been involved in your family’s execution, which is unverifiable, and he also claims to be involved in a plan to assassinate the President, as well as the American president. Which is also unverifiable. Where does that leave us?” Briones asked.
“I think we have to assume, given the circumstances of the interrogation and when and how he blurted it out, that there may be some truth to his claim. Santiago isn’t smart enough to invent a story like that while in extreme pain. Besides, it doesn’t come across on the report, but the way he said it�
��you heard him — it was like he was bragging. Like he wanted me to know what he’d done, so when it happened, I’d understand the power he wields,” Cruz concluded.
“I know. I got that, too. It’s what makes me nervous about all this. He seemed almost…I don’t know, almost happy with himself. And if he actually did hire El Rey, we have a real problem.”
“That’s the understatement of the year. The fucking media has made El Rey’s exploits more popular than reality TV, and it will result in an uncontrollable circus if even a hint of this leaks. It has to be just you and I that know about this until I’m able to nose around and see if we can find any corroboration,” Cruz warned the lieutenant.
“The cartels certainly have the money to hire him…” Briones mused.
“I know. That’s what scares me. Who knows what kind of twisted schemes these lunatics can cook up?” Cruz stopped and stared out the window. “But why kill the President? He’s only going to be in office till the end of the year, so why bother?”
“Some kind of a power statement? To show the population who really runs the country?”
“Could be. But I don’t buy Santiago would spend a fortune to prove a point. And it could backfire on him. I don’t know. Who the fuck knows what these animals dream up while they’re high?” Cruz groused.
“What do you think it costs to hire El Rey to do something like this?”
“El Rey? Probably, oh, I don’t know, five million U.S.? He’s got to be the most expensive killer in the world by now. I’ll say one thing, he knows how to market — now that he’s a celebrity in the press, he can command a lot more. These cartel bosses are just like everyone else. They read the papers, too, and money is no object to them…” Cruz trailed off, considering his last statement. Santiago could easily afford five million — just as easily as he could fifty. The take on trafficking Mexican cocaine was estimated to be in the twenty-five billion dollar-plus range at wholesale prices. That was almost the national budget of North Korea. So money was certainly not an issue.
King of Swords a-1 Page 4
