King of Swords (Assassin series #1)

by Russell Blake

  Briones paced the floor around the chair where the spurious nurse who’d tried to kill Cruz was shackled, much as he’d seen the Capitan pace when he’d been conducting interrogations. He smiled inwardly at the impression Cruz had made on him over the last five years. He’d do Cruz proud on this one.

  Maria Trigos Gonzalez was twenty-eight years old, with a university degree in mathematics. She was a native of Los Mochis, north of Mazatlan on the coast – a notorious cartel trafficking stop on the route to the border.

  “Maria. We tested the syringe. We know you were going to kill him. That’s not in question. Judging by your performance it’s a safe bet this isn’t your first job. So cut the shit, tell me who hired you, and it’ll go better for everyone,” Briones said.

  “I told you. I don’t know the man’s name.”

  “How did he get into contact with you?” Briones asked.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “You mean you won’t. You won’t tell me that,” Briones corrected. “And that’s the start of our problem, you see?”

  “If I tell you who my conduit is, I’ll be dead by tomorrow. That’s how it works,” Maria warned.

  “Very melodramatic. But try this,” Briones reasoned. “If you don’t help me, you’ll be dead in the same amount of time, because there’s not a chance in hell your conduit will allow you to remain in custody until you decide it might be worth rolling on him. So your only safe bet is to cooperate now, before he knows anything’s wrong. Your window of opportunity closes after that, and I believe you when you say nobody can keep you safe then…”

  He saw a flicker in her eyes and knew he’d scored a major point. Maria was calculating, he could tell, trying to figure a way out. He allowed her time, confident that he had it right. If she rolled, he’d kill her; if she didn’t, he’d kill her. But if she rolled before he knew there was anything wrong, she had a chance.

  “You know what I’m saying is true – math degree, right? That’s not for idiots. Maria, I can’t let you walk after you tried to kill a captain in the Federales, but I can figure out a way to have you charged with something less, and incarcerated in a facility that’s lax in its ability to hold determined prisoners. We both know that’s the best deal you’re going to get, but it’s only available today, right now. When I walk out that door the deal walks with me, and you’ll be dead within a matter of hours. Think it through and make the right decision. Either way, your assassin days are over.” Briones studied her face. “You’re a very beautiful woman, Maria. I have a feeling you could figure out a way to have a good life without financing it by killing people. There are probably men lined up to court you.”

  “I’m not a big fan of men. They’re pigs. No offense.”

  “None taken. Okay, then, there’s a whole life out there you can live being whatever you want with whoever you want. But it goes away once you’re dead on the cellblock floor, which is how this plays if you don’t cooperate. So let’s save ourselves some time, shall we?” Briones suggested.

  She glared at him, but he knew he’d broken her will. Not because he’d tortured her or worn her down physically. He would prevail in this because he used stark reasoning. Sometimes that was the best way. Maria was probably accustomed to being the smartest person in any room, so her language was logic; even if she earned her living being a murderer, the math degree meant that she was analytical, and once the equation was calculated in her mind, if the answer was that she’d need to cooperate to stay alive, she would. He fished in his shirt pocket and withdrew his package of cigarettes – tapped one out and lit it, then extended the pack to Maria. She shook her head, declining the offer.

  Briones savored the smoke, having trimmed his habit to ten cigarettes a day. The hope was that he could eventually back it off, little by little, until he was only having a cigarette after dinner now and again. It wasn’t a bad plan, but the damned smoke did taste good. Sometimes life wasn’t fair – the things that were the most fun usually killed you.

  Maria looked up at him as he took time with his smoke, in no particular hurry; a man for whom time was on his side.

  “What do I have to do?”

  Maria approached the front door of the antique shop with a measured gait, stiletto heels accenting her perfectly-sculpted calves. She stopped at the door and peered through the glass, verifying that her conduit was there before entering. A middle-aged man with a goatee opened the door for her and kissed her on either cheek. He gestured with an open hand to a passageway at the rear of the shop, nodding at the girl behind the counter to hold down the fort while he attended to his guest.

  Once they were inside his office, his manner became brusque.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “With the target at Hospital Angeles? Fine. I injected the poison as instructed, and got out before he died.” She smiled sweetly at him. “What did you expect?”

  He regarded her with puzzled curiosity. “That’s wonderful. I’ll collect the other half of the fee, and pay you in the usual manner. So why are you here, instead of dealing with this over the phone?” he inquired politely.

  “Aren’t you happy to see me?” she countered.

  “Of course, my dear, of course. It’s just not, erm, customary, so I’m a little surprised,” he said.

  “I want to meet the client, Ben.”

  Benjamin Del Fuerez stopped stroking his goatee. He gave her a harsh stare.

  “That’s not possible. You know that’s not how it works,” he snapped.

  “Ben, this was not an ordinary contract. I don’t know if you knew it or not, but the target was a prominent member of the Federal Police. That brings with it a completely different level of risk, and therefore reward, don’t you think?” she observed.

  “I had no idea,” Ben protested, his eyes revealing that he did. There was no surprise in them, no shock. Just duplicity.

  “Now you know. I want to meet the client and discuss how he can pay me what the hit was worth,” Maria explained.

  “I’m sorry; that’s not going to happen. What I can do is have a discussion with him, and see about some sort of a bonus for a job well done,” Ben suggested.

  “No. I need to meet him. Sooner than later. No negotiations on that,” Maria insisted.

  Ben studied her as he might an insect. “Maria – what the fuck is going on in your head? Who do you think you’re talking to? If you want any more contracts, you’ll back that attitude off now. Or our arrangement is finished. I mean it.”

  “Maybe I’m tired of killing people for money, Ben. Maybe I don’t need any more contracts,” Maria countered.

  Ben didn’t know how to react to that. Nobody quit in this business. Nobody.

  “You don’t have that option, sweetheart. Once you’re in, you’re in for life,” Ben warned.

  “I don’t think so, Ben.” She stood, and Ben was unsure how to respond to this latest surprise. He was honestly flummoxed by the interaction. Maria was as hard and efficient as pros got. Her announcing that she wanted to meet the client, and now intended to quit, was a complete departure from the script.

  “I don’t understand. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you know what happens if you walk out that door?” Ben threatened.

  “Let me guess. You kill me, or have one of your other people kill me?”

  “You’re on dangerous ground, Maria. You know I’ll do it,” he snarled.

  “Yeah, well, I’m betting that it’s a lot easier handling money for contract killings than doing it yourself, even though I imagine you’ve killed plenty in your time, eh?” Maria sneered at Ben, angering him further still.

  “You little bitch, I’ve killed cunts like you just for practice. How do you think I got into this business? You do not want to fuck with me. You walk out and you’ll be dead before nightfall. Am I getting through to you?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I imagine that should do the trick. You’ve made yourself more than clear, Benjamin Del Fuerez,” she intoned, and then
sat down, removing a small Beretta handgun from her purse.

  “What the hell do you–”

  A commotion interrupted them from the front of the shop; the sound of boots clattering on the stone floor. The door sprang open and three Federales in assault gear burst in with their evil-looking rifles pointed squarely at Ben’s head. A moment later, Lieutenant Briones strode in, holstering his pistol.

  He looked at Maria. “We’ve got the whole thing on tape. He’s fucked. Give me the gun,” Briones said, holding out his hand. Maria placed it into his palm, and he pocketed it before turning his attention to Ben. “As you may have surmised, being an obviously smart man, you’re fucked. What I mean by that is that you’ll spend the rest of your sad, miserable life being sodomized by AIDS-infested junkie convicts in the worst prison Mexico has to offer, based on her testimony and the recording we just made of you admitting to having killed many, what was the phrase, ‘for practice’? You also admitted paying her to kill a Federal Police captain, and that you handle money in exchange for managing a murder-for-hire enterprise.”

  “I want my lawyer,” Ben insisted.

  “No, Ben – I can call you Ben, right? We’re all friends here, no? No need for formality.” Briones moved around the table to where Ben sat, and leaned in close, invading his space. “Nice cologne there, Ben, if a trifle heavy on the application. The boys in jail will love that. And that’s your future – a short life being corn-holed by killers before one of them slices your guts out, well, ‘for practice’.”

  “I was kidding…what I said to her–”

  “Sure you were. And the captain will feel much better knowing the man who paid her to kill him was actually kidding when he did so. I’m sure the judge will love that explanation, too.” Briones got his cuffs out. “You really do have a pretty mouth. Cherubic. I’m guessing even at your age you’ll get passed around the yard like a pack of cigarettes; a nice, soft, civilized caballero like yourself.” He flicked he cuffs open. “But there’s another possibility, unless you’re looking forward to living out your prison-rape fantasies…”

  Ben swallowed and blinked back at Briones, seemingly receptive to hearing more.

  That evening, a short man with a shaved head, wearing a suede dinner jacket and jeans, rang the bell of the antique shop, alligator-skin briefcase dangling nonchalantly from perfectly manicured fingers. An elaborate gold bracelet encircled one wrist, and a Patek Philippe moon-phase chronograph decorated the other. Ben emerged from the rear of the shop with a set of keys and hastily opened the double-keyed deadbolt, holding the door open for the man before relocking it behind him. He motioned to his office area and followed the small man back. Once seated, the man put the briefcase onto the desk and opened it with a flourish.

  Ben frowned and said, “The contractor indicated that the target was a Federal Police officer–”

  Ben’s statement was interrupted by the muffled sound of the new arrival’s small pistol shot blowing through his eye. The little man calmly replaced the weapon, a Ruger .22 caliber with a custom-machined silencer, and closed the briefcase, rounding the desk to grab the keys from Ben’s lifeless hand so he could let himself out.

  When Briones and four armed officers burst through the rustic, hand-carved wood-paneled door at the rear of the office, the small man’s composure fractured for the first time.

  “You’re under arrest, for murder and conspiracy to commit murder,” Briones said as he stepped forward with cuffs at the ready. The little man bolted towards the front of the shop with the briefcase and the keys, stopping when he saw more police out front. He slowly turned to face Briones, whose pistol was pointed at his head, and tossed the briefcase to the floor with a flourish. The corner of one lip twitched upwards, and he hissed the first words he’d spoken since entering the shop.

  “You’re making a huge mistake.”

  Chapter 16

  “What do you mean, they can’t find him?” Briones screamed into the phone. “We brought him in last night, and I’m scheduled to interrogate him this morning. How the hell does a prisoner go missing in lockup overnight?”

  “I don’t know what to say, Lieutenant. I’m checking it out now. Theoretically, it’s impossible. Maybe we filed him under the wrong name, or there was some other administrative error,” the duty sergeant speculated.

  “Do you have any idea who this man is? He’s the one who arranged to have Capitan Cruz killed,” Briones yelled, still aghast that the little man had disappeared.

  “I understand, sir. Listen…captives don’t just stroll out of here whenever they like. We’ll find him. Give me an hour to sort this out. I just came on duty at nine,” the sergeant assured him.

  Briones looked at his watch. It was nine-thirty. “Call me back as soon as you find him.”

  He swore as he slammed down the handset. A perfect sting, the perp caught red-handed with the murder weapon while the body was still warm, the killing memorialized on tape, and he vanishes into thin air? What the hell was going on?

  Briones recalled the only words the man had spoken. Gringo-tinged Spanish in an almost femininely-high voice telling him he’d made a big mistake. And a smirk that had made Briones’ blood run cold.

  The man had refused to talk since then, all the way into headquarters and through booking. Not a sound. Just a steady look that projected arrogance and irritation, as though Briones had interrupted a favorite TV show, or demanded to see his license after a traffic stop. What he hadn’t behaved like was a suspect who’d just been apprehended for murder in an open-and-shut case. It had been worrisome, and now that he was nowhere to be found, that small kernel of anxiety had blossomed into a full-blown panic.

  His phone buzzed again. Briones snatched up the handset. It was the front-desk receptionist.

  “There’s a woman on the line who’s asking to speak to you, Lieutenant Briones.”

  “A woman? Did you get a name? Did she ask for me, specifically?” he asked.

  “One moment please,” the receptionist responded and put the call through, further annoying an already agitated Briones.

  “Lieutenant Briones. Is Captain Cruz all right?” the voice asked, vaguely familiar but not so much so that he knew who it was.

  “Uh, yes. May I ask who I’m speaking with?” Briones fielded.

  “I’m sorry. This is Dinah. Dinah Tortora. From the pawn shop? My father–”

  “Yes, yes. I remember, of course. How can I help you?”

  “I called to speak to Captain Cruz, but the woman who put through the call said he wasn’t there because he’d been shot,” Dinah explained with a worried tone.

  God damn it. What did the operator think she was doing? News of Cruz’s shooting was sure to end up all over the papers, which he’d hoped to avoid. He made a mental note to go down and beat her senseless when he hung up the phone.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so, Dinah.” That cat was obviously already out of the bag, so he saw no harm in confirming it.

  “How did it happen? Is he all right? How badly is he hurt?” Dinah asked in a jumbled rush.

  “In the line of duty. He should be fine,” Briones said, guarded from there on out.

  “Is there any way I can see him?” Dinah asked.

  “I don’t think so. He’s still at…he’s still in the hospital, Dinah.”

  “Oh. Well, I thought he’d want to see what I found. I guess it can wait…” her voice trailed off.

  “What you found? What do you mean, what you found?” Briones asked, now on alert.

  “It’s some sort of a diary, with contact names. I was going through a box my father gave me just before he died – it was almost like he had a premonition. I remember I thought it was strange. He asked me to hold on to the box for him. I forgot about it with the shock of seeing his…finding him. But I was thinking about what Captain Cruz said, so I went and got the box and pored through it. There are some bank statements and similar stuff, but also an agenda with names and numbers in it. Names I’ve never heard of. But I
thought maybe it might help you with the case,” Dinah offered.

  “Dinah, I’m going to the hospital later. What time can you be here?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Briones was livid. The same sergeant was on the line, giving him an impossible answer.

  “What do you mean, he was released?” Briones couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “The man’s a murderer. We have him dead to rights.”

  “I wasn’t here, but I called the night sergeant, and he remembers the man. A Gringo. They let him make a phone call, don’t ask me why, and a few hours later the computer updated with a list of those to be released in the morning, at seven, and his name was on it. Nobody questions the computer. If it says release a man, you release him,” the sergeant explained.

  “How did he get access to a phone? What the hell is going on down there?” Briones was speechless at the incompetence involved.

  The sergeant lowered his voice. “You know how it works, Lieutenant. I’m sure money changed hands, but nobody will ever admit it. All I know is what the night sergeant told me. The prisoner made a call, and then the computer listed him as one of the prisoners to release. End of story.”

  “No, not end of story. I want to know who authorized the release. Someone has to sign the order. And what about the man’s name? Surely you had a name to book him under? And prints? You still print prisoners you process, correct? Damn it, man, what have you got? I need to find this prick, and every minute you delay is another advantage for him,” Cruz warned.

  “I’m looking it up. Yes, I see he was booked under the name…oh…you’re not going to like this.”

  “What?”

  “He gave his name as Juan Perez,” the sergeant told him – the Spanish equivalent of John Doe.

  “Good God in heaven. Tell me this gets better. Please.”

  “Well, we did take photos and print him, so that’s something,” the sergeant said, still reading.

  “Send me the prints and everything else you have on him. Now. On the intranet.”