“So how do we proceed from here?” Briones asked.
Cruz surfaced from his ruminations. “We wait to see what’s wrong with Santiago. And then we try to follow up on any leads, and root around to see if anyone on the street has heard any rumors. A loudmouth like Santiago would never be able to keep quiet about something this big, especially if he was behind it.”
The desk phone rang, and a terse conversation ensued before Cruz slammed the receiver down.
“They took him to Hospital Angeles, in Pedregal.” Cruz let out a sigh. “We’d better get over there and see what the damage is. Santiago would be the best place to start if we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
“Traffic will be hell. It’s going to take forever to get there.”
“Nobody said that police work was all glamour and fun, young man.” Cruz, who was only five years older than Briones, often called the lieutenant ‘young man’ as a subtle reminder of the power structure. “Hope you don’t have any plans for tonight,” he added.
“Not anymore.”
Even with the emergency lights on, it took them fifty minutes to get to the hospital. Dusk had set in as they pulled into the lot by the emergency room. Traffic congestion in Mexico City was infamous, especially during rush hour, and it could take close to forever to cross the city during peak periods.
The pair approached the marble-floored lobby of the pristine edifice and took the elevator down one floor to the operating rooms. Cruz had spoken with one of the officers sent to guard the prisoner, and he’d reported that the doctors had rushed Santiago into surgery after a hurried evaluation. The officer had called for backup, and there were now eight heavily armed tactical squad members lining the hallway to the surgical theater. Cruz walked purposefully to the officers guarding the doors of the OR.
“What are they doing in there?” he demanded.
“Some kind of procedure for his brain,” the officer replied.
“His brain? What’s wrong with it? Did they tell you anything?” Cruz asked.
“No, they just said that his pupils had a problem, so something was wrong with his brain. He never regained consciousness; that’s all we know right now.”
Cruz stalked the hallway, mind racing. A few minutes later, a green-gowned doctor emerged from the room, blood splattered down his front, and removed his surgical mask to speak with Cruz.
“I’m Dr. Consera. I presume you’re running this show?” he asked Cruz.
“Captain Cruz. Yes, this is my prisoner. He shot four of my men this morning and was taken after a considerable struggle,” Cruz informed him, for the record.
“Well, that explains the contusions and bruising…”
“Why are you operating on him? Was he hurt by the blows he sustained?” Cruz asked.
“Not really. We did a CT and an MRI, and this man has an abnormal heart. An area is enlarged, which is typical of victims of chronic atrial fibrillation.” The doctor flexed his hand, trying to get the muscles to relax. “No, what happened is that something, probably the morning’s events, caused a bout of fibrillation, and a clot formed in his heart and then traveled to his brain. Your man had a massive stroke. We went in through his leg and removed as much of it as we could so blood flow could return to the affected area of the brain, but it’s anyone’s guess how much permanent damage he’s experienced. In these cases, you just don’t know,” Dr. Consera explained.
“So he’s in a coma?”
“Precisely. His brain has been deprived of blood for at least an hour and a half, maybe more. Blood carries oxygen. Human tissue requires oxygen to live. If it was totally deprived of blood for that long, or longer, it doesn’t look good for him.”
“Then what’s the prognosis, as we speak?” Cruz asked.
“Poor. It would be a miracle if he ever regained consciousness. But in the end, we’ll just have to wait and see. I’d normally do a positron emission tomography scan of his brain to see what level of activity the area the clot-affected portion retains, if any, but it would be a waste of time at present. Maybe in a few days, but right now, he’s in God’s hands,” the doctor concluded.
“Or the devil’s. The man is a major narcotraficante, Doctor, and probably snorted kilos of cocaine every week.”
“That would make the chronic heart condition much worse, of course. It would explain a lot.”
“One thing I don’t understand. How does the clot form — from his heart beating, what, faster?” Cruz asked, genuinely curious.
“Atrial fibrillation isn’t necessarily tachycardia — a racing heartbeat. It can also be where the heart skips a beat, sometimes a lot of beats, which has a tendency to allow blood to pool in the enlarged heart chamber instead of pumping through. A little sticks to the valve, and then a little more, and pretty soon you have a clot the size of a pencil eraser headed for your brain, and, game over. Once it lodges, more blood begins to clot behind and in front of it, so it’s a downward spiral from there. We went in through the femoral artery into the brain and sucked out as much as we could get, and pumped blood thinners through him to get the remaining clotting to dissolve, but the damage already done after such a long period without oxygen…well…”
“Then there’s nothing that could have prevented this?” Cruz asked, seeking to clarify how the stroke would be reported by the doctor.
“Not really. If he was on medication, and he didn’t take it, that could have caused problems as his blood thickened over time. Of course, the shock of being in a gun battle and being captured and, er, questioned…my official position is that this was just an unfortunate occurrence that was the result of an underlying medical condition, and couldn’t have been realistically prevented.” The doctor assessed Cruz frankly. “Although you might want to avoid putting cigarettes out on prisoners, or bludgeoning them,” the doctor said quietly, glancing at the guards to ensure they hadn’t heard him.
“Thank you for all your help and explanation. What happens to him now?”
“We’ll transfer him to a private room in the intensive care wing, and watch and wait. That’s all we can do.”
Cruz joined Briones, who stood talking quietly with several of the other officers.
“He’s in a coma. Probably forever. But I still want a guard on him in case there’s some kind of divine intervention and he comes to. I do not want this asshole having a miracle escape on our watch, do you read me?” Cruz ordered.
“Loud and clear, sir.” Briones stepped away from his companions, and they wandered a few feet down the hall. “Do they know what caused it?”
“He’s got a bad heart, and it shot a blood clot to his brain. He stroked out. Nothing we could have done about it, the doctor tells me,” Cruz said, holding Briones’ gaze.
“He seems awfully young to have a bad heart,” Briones observed.
“Santiago’s two years older than I am. But this was a congenital condition. So it’s not the same as a heart attack, or coronary artery disease. It’s a combination of Hoovering coke, and God knows what else, and inheriting lousy genetic material.”
“So yo — we’re in the clear.”
“Yes. But I want him guarded twenty-four-seven for the duration. He’s too high profile, and he’s got nine lives. I don’t want him strolling out because he beat the odds yet again.”
“I’ll schedule a detail. What are his chances?” Briones asked.
“About the same as Shakira being at my house when I get home.”
“So don’t hold my breath,” Briones concluded.
“I think we’ll be okay if we station four men at the hospital in eight hour shifts. I want one outside his door, and another at the entry to ICU, and then two more downstairs outside the lobby doors. The last thing we need is his gang trying to break him out. We know he’s a vegetable, but they don’t, so I could see one of their bright young bulls thinking it would be a great idea to come into the hospital shooting. These pricks have no fear, and even less sense, so anything could happen,” Cruz warned him
.
The stainless steel double doors of the OR opened, and two nurses wheeled Santiago down the hall, an IV drip attached to his inert arm. Cruz motioned to them to stop.
He approached Santiago’s bruised and battered face, now deathly pale.
Cruz leaned over his head and whispered into his blood-caked ear, “Looks like you didn’t win this one, did you, you piece of shit? I hope you come out of the coma, and live a very long life in excruciating pain. Consider it my promise to 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 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 Jose Cuervo Reserva de la Familia tequila in a brandy snifter, enjoying the aromatics of the smoky oak mingling with the distinctive scent of the agave distillation. He’d just arrived at Zapata’s offices; late for a social visit, but not
unheard of. The general’s presence was auspicious; he had progress to report, something far too sensitive to discuss over the phone — progress of the kind the attorney would want to hear as soon as possible.
“Carlos, I’m glad you could see me on such short notice,” Ortega began.
“Always a pleasure,” Zapata said. “You made it sound urgent, so how could my response have been anything other?”
“I have unfortunate news, but also some good news, I think. Which would you prefer first?” Ortega asked.
“Give me the bad first. Always the bad; save the best for last.”
“Santiago is gravely injured, and his associates are all dead. At least, the group he was meeting with today,” Ortega reported.
“How seriously hurt is he?” Zapata was already trying to calculate what impact Santiago’s absence would have on the ongoing operations of the cartel. The last thing they needed was yet another bloody power struggle among one of his client’s allies.
“It’s hard to know for sure, but my sources tell me he’s in a coma,” Ortega said.
“A coma, eh? That’s bad. Very bad.” Zapata appeared to consider it, then waved in the air with a limp hand. “But, fine — what’s the good news?”
“We know where he’s being held,” Ortega offered.
“Well, spit it out. Where is he?” Zapata demanded.
Ortega sipped his drink and chose his words carefully. “I want you to know that discovering this was difficult. I had to go to considerable trouble to find someone who would talk.” He wanted to ensure that Zapata and his clients understood that he’d gone an extra distance for them. Hopefully, that would appease any anger over his being caught unawares about the morning’s attack. He wanted to drive home the idea that he was irreplaceable and of continuing value to them. Worth keeping alive.
King of Swords a-1 Page 5
