“I will. I promise.”
Chapter 10
Fourteen Years Ago
A young man pulled himself up on the steel bar mounted in the doorway of his bedroom, his hundredth chin-up in the set of three he did every morning as part of his workout. Three hundred pushups, three hundred chin-ups, forty-five minutes of running, seven days a week, without fail. Sweat poured from his flushed face as he groaned an exhalation, counting the final one and then dropping onto the balls of his bare feet.
He’d completed his run, and also his pushups, so now it was time for his shower, and then he’d begin his day. He padded across the saltillo tile floor to his bathroom, stripped off his sweat shorts and turned the water on — always cold, regardless of the temperature outside. Like everything in his life, the cold water was a ritual, and rituals were important. Rituals had sustained him and given meaning to his life. Rituals meant he was in control, and as the grueling workouts and his straight-A schoolwork underscored, he was always in control — that was his rule, his promise to himself: always maintain control.
He soaped up, noting the six pack abs and professional athlete-level arm and leg muscles with satisfaction. It had taken years of work to create this body, and nothing had come easily. That was fine. He didn’t mind effort, and had developed formidable levels of fortitude and commitment. Without commitment, you gave up, and if you quit, you didn’t have control. Whatever you’d quit had won, and you lost. In his mind, it was polarized. Black and white.
The boy had grown into an impressive young man, with a quiet intensity and a brilliant mind, as his teachers could confirm. The private school he attended had skipped him ahead two grades, and he still found the work to be laughably easy. Whenever he was bored, he would read math and engineering books, with the occasional physics textbook thrown in for diversity. He had a seemingly insatiable thirst for knowledge, and devoured books like most teens went through sodas.
His life had taken an auspicious turn since that night in the cannabis field. The man who’d saved him had raised him like a son, and provided for him in ways he’d never imagined existed. In return, he’d demonstrated absolute loyalty, and had invested hundreds of hours practicing at the estate with every manner of weapon, in preparation for moving into an active role in the family business.
‘Don’ Miguel Lopez was a tough but fair master over his empire, which had grown powerful during the twelve years the boy had lived with him. It now included most of the marijuana crops in Sinaloa and a substantial cut of the cocaine trafficking business. He was respected and feared by his subordinates, as well as his enemies, and had evolved into a legend in the trade — one of the longer-toothed of the cartel heads at fifty years old. He made more in a day than most of his countrymen ever dreamed of making in an entire lifetime, and yet he remained simple, eschewing the ostentatious fast money lifestyle of the new crop of traffickers, as evidence of their insecurity and inferiority.
The boy had learned his lessons well. He inspected his reflection in the mirror and liked what he saw. Girls found him pop-star attractive, although his interest in them was limited to sex, and nothing more. He was a loner, and didn’t want or enjoy the company of others, preferring to be alone with his books and his thoughts. He’d avoided the traps of youth — shunning the temptations of drugs, and had only taken alcohol on a few occasions, and then only token amounts in accord with the setting. Altering one’s state meant surrendering control. He wasn’t interested. Likewise, sharing one’s thoughts or anything more than some anonymous physical pleasure also involved relinquishing control.
Today was a big day. It was his birthday, sweet seventeen, when he would become a man in the eyes of the cartel and could assume a position within the loose hierarchy Don Miguel had created. This was a touchy subject between them, because Don Miguel had hoped that the boy would go to university to study architecture or engineering, or get a law degree, the better to create a new generation of educated heirs to his empire. But the boy had other ideas. He had expressed a desire to be part of the armed enforcement division of the Don’s cartel, and wouldn’t be dissuaded. It was difficult for Don Miguel to argue against it with much conviction, considering his massive wealth had been created in the burgeoning trafficking industry, but they’d had numerous heated exchanges where the Don had told the boy he was throwing his talents away. He had the potential to be whatever he chose, and to waste it being an armed thug was sinful.
It was one of their few ongoing disagreements.
Don Miguel had no children, his wife having proved barren in spite of every medical innovation, and he’d invested much of his parenting drive in raising the boy to be a leader. His wife had died from cervical cancer six years previous, and he’d refused to get married again. He saw no point in it, preferring to have willing young women rotate through his harem rather than staying with any one. Don Miguel didn’t want the liability of having to worry about a wife — someone that could be used as a bargaining chip in an adversarial situation. The longer he’d been in the business, the more changes he’d seen. It was a different industry than before; more violent, more dangerous. If you loved someone, they could be used against you. He couldn’t afford it.
The boy strolled into the main house, dressed, ready for the day, which he’d been told would be a special one. Don Miguel wanted to take him to see something: a surprise, he’d said, instructing him to be ready to leave at nine a.m.. The boy had complied, punctual as ever. When the Don saw him enter the formal dining room, he rose to embrace him.
The cook had made a special breakfast to commemorate the event, and the two sat, eating, looking through the picture window at the river below them. Don Miguel owned most of the land in this area of Culiacan, stretching far into the slopes of the distant hills. He was one of the largest landowners in the region. His private estancia boasted two hundred ninety-five acres, and featured a stable for his fifteen horses — his one luxury.
Once they had broken their fast, the boy followed the Don to his truck — a new Chevrolet Suburban, which was the epitome of luxury compared to the two decade old Ford that was its predecessor. They drove into the hills, on a private road that bordered the estate, and continued for fifteen minutes until they reached a clearing. Don Miguel stopped the car, and wordlessly got out, walking around to the rear door and opening it. Inside sat a box, elegantly wrapped, no larger than a large photo album.
“Go ahead. Open it.”
The boy moved to the cargo compartment and lifted the box, taking care not to rip the wrapping paper as he carefully removed the tape that held it in place. Inside was a wooden case, highly polished walnut, breathtakingly ornate. He opened the lid and blinked at the gleam of a Colt.45 automatic, chromed and intricately engraved with eighteen carat gold that complemented the white pearl grip. The boy regarded the Don, his eyes moistening at the sheer beauty of the weapon. He’d never seen anything quite like it.
“It’s blueprinted and the slide’s been milled, so it should be incredibly accurate with a minimum of recoil. I had my specialist in the United States attend to it himself. There aren’t two weapons like it in the world. It’s yours, the symbol of your adulthood,” Don Miguel explained, a hint of pride seasoning his voice.
The boy picked up one of the two magazines that accompanied it in the display box and adeptly checked the rounds, noting they were partially jacketed; his preference for accuracy. He slapped it home into the grip of the gun and chambered a round. Don Miguel retrieved a pair of coconuts from the ground, tribute from the trees that ringed the field, and tossed them thirty yards away. They seemed very small at that distance.
“Go ahead. Let’s see if all that practice bought you anything,” the Don urged.
The boy adopted a military shooting stance, two handed and slightly crouched. Comfortable with the weapon’s weight, he fired once at each coconut. Both slugs found their mark and the coconuts shattered. Their ears ringing from the percussive blasts from the pistol, the pair stood admiring the
boy’s impressive handiwork. A gentle breeze whispered through the surrounding trees, rustling the leaves as though they, too, approved of the marksmanship display. Don Miguel clapped, delighted at the performance.
“Good shooting. You make me proud. I’ve never seen anything like that. Really amazing,” he congratulated.
The boy grinned, warmed by the compliments, and then turned and shot Don Miguel between the eyes.
“That’s for my mother and my sister.”
He undid his belt and urinated on Don Miguel’s face, a look of incomprehension still etched into its rigid features.
“That’s for my other sister.”
He then dropped his pants and defecated on the great man’s corpse, using the Don’s handmade linen shirt to clean himself afterwards.
“And that’s for my father. Now rot in hell, and may the devil do worse to you than you did to them. I’ll see you there, you bastard. I’ll be the one pouring the gasoline on you.”
That afternoon, Enrique, the Don’s most trusted lieutenant, was surprised to see Don Miguel’s new SUV pull up to his luxurious Tuscan home on the outskirts of Culiacan. He approached the tinted windows to greet the Don and was startled when the window opened and he found himself looking down the barrel of a shiny new pistol. The boy spoke four words.
“Get in and drive.”
In another clearing, where long ago his father’s tomato field had been, the boy got out of the truck and trained the weapon on Enrique. Nature had long ago reclaimed the land, eradicating any trace of the event that had changed the boy’s life.
“Do you remember this place, you cock-sucking lowlife?” the boy asked, conversationally, his voice betraying no emotion at all.
“Fuck you. If you’re going to shoot me, do it, you little cunt. I bet you don’t have the guts,” Enrique hissed in response, spitting with the curse.
The boy clubbed him across the face with the pistol, and then slammed him in the head with the butt, knocking Enrique out.
When he came to, he was sitting beside a tree on the edge of the field, the boy holding the weapon on him, unwavering. At the top of the tree, a large black form rested motionless, its feathers gleaming in the afternoon sun. Neither man noticed, their attention stolen by other things.
The boy smiled, and reaching into his back pocket, tossed Enrique a small bone-handled pocket knife.
“What’s this for?” Enrique asked, rubbing his head and wiping the blood off his face with his arm.
“Last year, I read a book on the American Indians. They had a way of killing their enemies I thought about every time I remembered you raping my mother that night. What they would do is tie one end of their enemy’s intestines to a tree, and then force them to walk around it until they’d pulled out all their guts. That’s a lot of trips around this small a tree. I want you to cut a hole five inches above your navel, and cut the intestine, tie it to the tree, and then start walking.”
“You must be out of your fucking mind if you think I’m going to do that.”
“You can do it, or I can shoot you in the gut and it will take you many hours to die, in extreme pain. And then I’ll tie your feet to the back of the truck and drag you back to your house. By the time we get close, you’ll look like hamburger. Your choice.”
Enrique ultimately wound up with door number two. When they found his body the following night, it wasn’t recognizable at first as human.
At the end of the week, the boy enlisted in the navy for a three year stint. His aptitude with weapons quickly impressed the officers in his unit, and soon he was receiving grueling specialized training in explosives, clandestine operations, and commando techniques as a special ops marine.
When he deserted after a year and a half, he singled out the Tijuana cartel, offering his services as a hit man. The first few contracts were considered suicide but he pulled them off flawlessly, and soon he became the go-to killer for tricky situations, at an ever increasing price.
El Rey had been born, risen from the ashes like the mythical phoenix.
Present Day
Cruz paced his office, contemplating his next move. Briones was still sitting with the sketch artist, trying to get the drawing closer to his recollection. That was always tough, as it was a highly inexact science, and often when they wound up catching a perp he looked little like the drawings. Still, it was their only lead, albeit a tenuous one.
Dreading the call, he picked up his desk phone and dialed an inside line. Tomas Llorentez picked up — the chief of the El Rey taskforce, and in Cruz’s opinion, a complete jerk-off. They exchanged pleasantries, and then Cruz got down to business.
“I may have a case related to your boy, Tomas,” Cruz said.
“Oh yeah? I didn’t hear of any assassinations today,” Tomas quipped.
“No, nothing like that. Have you got any photos or sketches of him?”
“Very funny. Yeah, based on descriptions, he’s between twelve and ninety years old, shape-shifts into animals whenever he needs to, and can levitate. Oh, and he’s got hooves and a tail, and scaly red skin,” Tomas joked.
Cruz’s generally non-existent sense of humor deserted him further when dealing with nitwits like Tomas.
“That’s very helpful. No, seriously. What have you got on him?”
“Not much, other than a chronology of his hits and a collection of rumors, many of them contradictory. He’s a crafty bastard, I’ll give him that. Every time we think we’ve got a break, it evaporates and we’re back to the drawing board,” Tomas groused.
“How long has the task force been in existence, Tomas? Is it already three years?” Cruz couldn’t believe this lazy drunken shit was still with the force, much less a squad that apparently couldn’t find its ass with both hands.
“Three and a half, actually. Tracking this guy has been a long road,” Tomas complained.
Cruz wondered whether his supervisors actually bought any of this crap. They must have, because he was still getting resources and funding, much to Cruz’s chagrin.
“So, to summarize, nobody has any images of him, or even an idea what he might look like?” Cruz tried one last time.
“There are a bunch of sketches, but no two look alike. We have one from a woman at the church from when El Gallo was whacked, and a few stool pigeons gave us descriptions they swear is him, but in the end they all look like a mid-twenties to mid-thirties Latin male. Generic. So, about as helpful as saying that he’s Mexican.”
“Would you mind having someone drop copies by my floor, Tomas? I know you guys are busy down there, but I’d really appreciate it,” Cruz felt the bile rising in his throat, protesting at how nice he was being, but figured he could take one for the team.
“No problem, for you. Give me a few hours and it’ll be with your secretary,” Tomas promised.
“I don’t have a secretary.” Cruz realized instantly that Tomas undoubtedly did have one. Probably two.
“Oh, well, you know, then, I’ll have them in your office. Always glad to help a fellow officer out, Cruz,” Tomas declared with a patronizing flourish.
Cruz couldn’t get off the line fast enough.
That went well, he thought. The country had a buffoon running the hunt for the most dangerous man alive, and was paying handsomely to get zero results.
He sat and typed a series of commands into his computer, then clicked his way through a clunky, five-year-out-of-date interface. Entering a name, he waited while the hamsters in the basement pulled up the results. Eventually, another screen popped up, and he was looking at a photo of Dinah, from her passport. That was one hot passport photo, he had to admit. Who looked good in their passport picture? Cruz’s looked like road kill, or some sort of animal that had been startled while feeding. Life had indeed been kind to young Senorita Tortora. Okay, maybe not too kind, given that her dad had just been filleted with a samurai sword. Still, she really did look great.
He read the rest of the data, more to give his mind something else to focus on whil
e he waited for Briones to get done, he told himself…
Dinah Montaner Tortora was thirty years old, and had graduated from university with a teaching credential. Rented a condo near the school, didn’t own a car, had never been arrested. Bank balance was two thousand dollars. Paid all bills on time. Had a cell phone, internet and cable TV, a credit card she paid off every month, and no delinquencies. Had a current gym membership two blocks from her place.
Not a particularly exciting bio. Then again, if you looked that good on your passport, maybe you didn’t need much more trimmings. It was a thought.
His rumination was interrupted by Briones knocking politely on his door jamb, Arlen, the sketch artist, in tow.
“Come in. What have you got?”
“This is as close as we could get it, sir. I only saw him for maybe a second or two, so it’s a little hazy, but I think it’s in the ballpark,” Briones apologized. He felt like an ass. He’d known there was something off about that guy…
Arlen put the sketch pad down on his desk, and Cruz studied the drawing.
“Great. So we’re looking for Enrique Iglesias?” Cruz asked, deadpan.
Arlen and Briones looked at each other, then at the drawing.
“You know…you’re right. It does look a little like him,” Briones admitted.
“Are you sure you weren’t describing a music video you downloaded?”
“No…although that is kind of funny now that you mention it. But this is as near as I can remember what the guy looked like, only scruffier. Still…”
“All right, then. All we need to do is wait at the Latin Grammies, and we’re sure to nail him.” Cruz turned his attention to Arlen. “Thank you for doing this. We appreciate it.”
She gave him a wan smile and departed, leaving the drawing on his desk.
“It doesn’t look that much like Iglesias,” Briones started.
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just been a tough day, and I was hoping for something more distinctive. But it is what it is. You’re sure this is the closest you can get?” Cruz asked.
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