King of Swords (Assassin series #1)

by Russell Blake

  The doctor had reluctantly agreed to get him a room that he could lock, and had equipped it with a drip so he could stay hydrated. Cruz had been informed of the attendant risks and had bought off on them; they were considerably less than the odds of him being attacked by a cartel bent on killing him, so on balance, he fancied his chances better as a no-name patient in the maternity wing.

  His chest hurt like hell from the exertion, but he didn’t mind. He still had decent upper body strength even after the slug had torn through the pectoral muscle. The leg was another matter, but he’d deal with that on a day-by-day basis. If necessary, he could crutch it for a few weeks. He hoped that wouldn’t be required. Maybe some sort of a brace or a soft cast could be fitted. They’d go over options upon his release.

  The doctor said he could be discharged the following day, but would prefer if he stayed forty-eight more hours. Cruz wanted out of the hospital in the worst way, but didn’t want to wind up back in a few days because he pushed it. Tomorrow, Briones would bring a laptop so he could link in to the headquarters servers, which would make him feel more productive, so he’d resigned himself to tough it out and spend two more nights there.

  He reached his new digs, wheeled himself in and locked the door with the key that hung obligingly from the interior of the dead bolt. Now he was safe, or as safe as he could be in Mexico City. Once he was discharged, he was going to have Briones rent a by-the-week executive apartment in one of the fancy downtown high rises while he recuperated. It was pretty clear he couldn’t return to his house any time soon without risking extermination.

  Cruz climbed onto the bed and hit the button that extinguished the lights. The only illumination came from the window; the soft glow from the parking lot lamps provided just enough visibility so he could place the plastic bag on the bedside table and pull out the pistol, cradling it in his hand as he dozed off to sleep, finally able to do so without the worry of being butchered while he slumbered. His last thoughts were about Dinah, hair gleaming in the harsh fluorescent hospital lights, and the dreams, when they came, featured her smile in all its high-voltage glory.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next day, Briones arrived with the laptop and a bag of clothes to replace the ones that had been shot to bits and sliced off him by the emergency medical team. There were few things as humbling as spending three days with one’s ass hanging out the back of a gauze robe, so the sight of real clothing filled him with an optimism that defied rational explanation. Briones also had a special surprise – a brand new pistol with two spare magazines. Cruz handed back the one Briones had loaned him and hefted the new pistol happily. Only ten a.m., and already it was shaping up to be a good day.

  The doctor stopped in to check the dressing on his chest and leg, and promised him he’d be back later to change it and give him another shot of antibiotics. Cruz’s color had returned, signaling that his red blood count was back to normal – the blood tests would confirm that, but his skin told him all he needed to know. The nearly constant infusion of plasma, vitamins and minerals had given his body the necessary materials to rebuild, and he felt stronger by the hour.

  Cruz got online and saw that he had hundreds of messages to wade through. That took care of how he’d stay busy for the next ten hours. He turned to Briones, who seemed consumed by something on his phone.

  “What is it?” Cruz asked.

  “It’s not good. The phone numbers in the final section of Tortora’s book? All but one were cell phones that were registered, used once, and then tossed. Sound familiar?”

  “Standard cartel issue. Is there anything we can use at all?” Cruz asked.

  “Well, the last number was a Los Cabos number. A pay phone outside of the old bus station in Cabo San Lucas. It’s not much, but if that was being used by our friend El Rey, it means he’s already in Los Cabos, and has been for several weeks, at least.”

  “So more circumstantial evidence nobody will want to pay attention to, other than to point out holes in the case,” Cruz muttered bitterly.

  “Yes, but it tells us something important, I think – that we need to up our surveillance push in Baja and put more feet on the ground there. That’s where all the action’s going to take place, now that the summit is coming at us, only twenty-five or so days away,” Briones stated.

  He was right. El Rey had to be there. No question. But knowing that didn’t do them much good, unless they could pinpoint it a little better. The population across San José and Cabo was almost two hundred fifty thousand – not exactly a tiny group to sift through. And as they’d discussed many times, El Rey doubtlessly had ways of changing his appearance, so the sketch might not do them any good. Something as simple as a change of hair color or cut, or facial hair, could radically alter appearance. They’d had Arlen draw in goatees and moustaches, but the more you covered the face, the more generic the drawings got.

  They spent most of the day going through strategy, and at six, Briones begged off on any more work. He needed to secure an apartment for Cruz, and break the news to the additional officers they’d be shipping out for Baja, so he’d be lucky to be done by nine p.m..

  Cruz was grateful Briones had stepped in and picked up the slack while he’d been down for the count. He truly didn’t know what he would have done without his help, and was glad he hadn’t cut him out of the loop when he’d had his doubts about Julio and Ignacio.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kent hated phone conversations for anything of importance, but he couldn’t just hang up on the Speaker of the House, tempting as it was. At least he was calling from a landline. Cells were fraught with eavesdropping problems, and even though there was virtually nobody wishing to have him under surveillance, force of habit told Kent that discussing anything on the phone was a bad idea.

  “You told me there was no way we could be connected to the events, and now you tell me that you had to pull an asset and terminate him? What about the locals? You think they’re not going to go crazy when they discover he’s gone?” The Speaker sounded far more concerned than the situation warranted, in Kent’s opinion.

  “He was turned by the cartels, a black sheep, and disappeared. That’s the explanation. We can’t produce someone who doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “My point is, this is already unraveling. First the DEA memo, now a manhunt for embassy personnel. I don’t like it. I don’t think you have as solid a hold on this as you pretend,” the Speaker said.

  So there it was. The anxiety needed somewhere to land, and so they’d gotten out the shit-gun and spackled Kent with it. He’d put a fast end to that.

  “Nothing significant has happened. On any complicated plan, you expect a few random variables. These were ours. But they’ve been manageable. Have you heard anything more about the memo? No. It’s already buried and forgotten. Same as Joe. He was a rogue low-level staffer who apparently was lining his pockets doing the bidding of the cartels. Guess what? Regrettable as it is, sometimes good men go bad. That’s the surprised explanation we’ll eventually give – and we’ll waive diplomatic immunity for him should they locate him, as a symbol of our goodwill. The end. Nothing further to discuss. That’s why I’m not worried.”

  Kent had good points. It was a closed loop. The cop was out of circulation, Joe was sludge at the bottom of a drainage ditch in Vermont, the memo was one of thousands of informational bulletins read and then forgotten; the cartel boss was worm food.

  After a few more platitudes Kent hung up, satisfied that for now he’d talked the great man’s nerves down. As the big day approached, he knew there would be more of these displays, but as long as they got no worse, it was water off a duck’s back.

  All part of the job nobody else wanted, or had the guts to do.

  Chapter 18

  A group of heavily armed men in the distinctive blue uniforms of the Federales formed a defensive arc around the hospital’s rear emergency room entrance. The afternoon haze from pollution and dust hung over the valley like a shroud, obscuring the outlines of
tall buildings only a few miles away. A black Ford Explorer pulled up to the blue wheelchair ramp, and an officer emerged, pushing a seated figure wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, a blanket draped around his shoulders and down his front. The men closed ranks, and the figure was helped into the SUV before it tore off, followed by several police vehicles.

  Cruz watched the charade from his window. Anyone waiting for his departure had just gotten a nice show, and would now be tracking a motorcade that would drive around the city for an hour before making its way back to headquarters. He gingerly pulled on the loose pants Briones had brought for him and considered his reflection in the mirror. Considering what he’d been through, not so bad. He tucked his new weapon into his waistband; a Glock 21 that fired .45 caliber ACP bullets. It was light, accurate and held thirteen rounds with an additional one in the chamber – a lot of stopping power unless you were being charged by a rhino. He’d need to get a nylon shoulder holster for it, but for now the improvisation worked.

  Taking a final gaze around the parking lot and seeing nothing suspicious, he wheeled his chair to the front entrance and called Briones, who was waiting at the far end of the lot. He pulled up to the ramp, and an attendant assisted Cruz into the little Ford Focus.

  “That went well, I think,” Cruz said, shaking Briones’ hand.

  “It was very convincing. If I didn’t know it was all an act, I would have bought it,” Briones agreed.

  “Let’s hope that anyone watching for me was also taken in.” Cruz pulled his pistol out and held it up. “I need a shoulder holster for this. Stuffing it down your pants may work in the movies, but it hurts like hell in reality.”

  “I’ve got one in the back seat for you. Are you ready to go to your new home?”

  “Sure. And I’ll need someone to do some quick shopping and get me some clothes and shoes, and also go by my house and grab my uniforms and a few hygiene items.”

  “I’ll get someone on it. You’ll probably be gone for some time, sir, so I’ll arrange to have someone go by every week and flush the toilets and run the pumps,” Briones said.

  “Yeah. I suppose I’m going to be floating for a while, at least until we get El Rey.”

  “The summit’s in three weeks, so it shouldn’t be that bad. The place I rented is nice. Furnished, with dishes and glasses, a fully stocked fridge…almost like staying in a first class hotel,” Briones offered.

  “How’s security?”

  “Locking front door and a large foyer with a security guard, which I’ve beefed up with a pair of officers. Low key, plainclothes, but armed and ready for anything.”

  “Good. And what news do we have on Los Cabos? Anything? I can’t believe I lost almost a whole week. These bastards’ timing on trying to kill me couldn’t have been more inconvenient,” Cruz complained.

  “We have another six men on a plane to Los Cabos today, and we’re sticking with the protocol we agreed to. So far, no hits, but you never know. We could get lucky at any minute. It’s not that big a town, although the barrios go on forever, so if he’s holed up in one of them he’s as good as gone.”

  “I had a few thoughts last night. I think it’s worth taking a hard look at the crews doing the construction on the convention center for the event. If I was him, I’d be involved, even if just as a day laborer, so I got used to all the ins and outs of the place as well as the surrounding terrain. Nobody would look twice at a construction worker, scoping it out. You see what I mean?” Cruz asked. He’d been trying to think like El Rey, and he kept coming back to the build. That would be the natural place for him to gravitate.

  “I understand. Let’s get you situated at your new place, make sure the internet’s working and that you can get around, and then I’ll get some men on it.”

  “I can walk. It’s just a little painful. But the doctor said that if I took it easy it wouldn’t be an issue,” Cruz said.

  “I know. I got you a set of aluminum crutches at the apartment, and a cane. Very sporting.”

  “Too bad you couldn’t make them fifty caliber. At least they’d be useful,” Cruz said with a humorless grin.

  “That wasn’t part of the ordering options, unfortunately.”

  The little car narrowly missed a collision with a truck that had run a red light, causing Briones to stomp on the brakes and lean on his horn.

  “Your driving is more dangerous than the cartels’,” Cruz observed.

  Briones shook his head, jammed the car back into gear and sped down the busy boulevard.

  ~ ~ ~

  The man pulled into the contractor parking lot, the ancient Toyota Camry groaning as it lurched over the rutted dirt surface. He parked at the far end of the field, all the other spaces already full, even at seven a.m.. The pace had increased as the summit drew nearer, and it seemed like, every day, more new arrivals were thrown at the problem in a bid to meet the deadline.

  He’d packed a lunch – a torta, the quintessential Mexican sandwich, prepared on a large square bun and loaded with ham, cheese, chorizo, and a host of other delicacies. He cheerfully swung the plastic bag as he ambled towards the site to get his work orders for the day. The explosive faux light fixtures would be ready in one more week, so now he was actually helping to get the convention center built, which amused him to no end. He was more motivated to get the project completed on time than anyone else on the crew, and so his men were routinely finished with their assignments ahead of schedule. It was a pity he couldn’t direct the whole project. The incompetence was typical, with a lot of tired men going through the motions of a thankless job, uninterested in the quality of their work.

  Give him two weeks with the crews, and he’d have had the fucking thing finished. Then again, he had more important matters to attend to.

  He approached the trailer where the electrical team gathered every morning, and clomped up the temporary wooden stairs, swinging the door open with his right hand while clutching his sandwich in his left. He adjusted his security badge – numbered, with his photo laminated on it – and said good morning to the group of preoccupied engineers. One of them looked up at him from his workstation and peered at his badge, comparing it to the list.

  “I guess you didn’t get the word, huh?” the engineer asked without looking up.

  “What word?”

  “Your company is off the project. It got terminated,” the engineer said unsympathetically. He finally looked up, and held out his hand. “I’ll take your construction badge, please.”

  He stood immobilized for a few moments before collecting himself.

  “That’s impossible. Could you check again?” he demanded.

  The engineer held up his list, and made an X next to the name of the company he’d joined to get onto the project.

  “That’s you, isn’t it? Some sort of a dispute, so they’re history. Sorry about that. Might want to take it up with them. I can’t do anything from this end. Now, if you please, your badge…” the engineer ordered.

  He unclipped it slowly and handed it over, his thoughts churning.

  “Is anyone else hiring? I…I don’t have any other job. Do you know of anything else on the project? I have a lot of experience…” he tried.

  “No. At this point, with only a few weeks left, there’s nothing I know of. It’s a shame. You’ve done good work – I have no issues with you. It’s your employer that’s the problem. Probably trying to shake the builder down for more money. A lot of these guys wait till the project’s nearly done and then stick it to them, figuring they’re irreplaceable or that the builder will cave. Not these guys. They’ve adopted a zero-tolerance policy to that kind of bullshit.”

  “So I can’t work as an independent contractor? You’ve seen the quality of my jobs. They’re some of the best here,” he said, now almost pleading.

  “Nope. All the hiring takes place out of Monterrey, and I know for a fact that you need to have a company with at least a three year history, and a bond. I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Now, could yo
u move aside? I need to get these work orders distributed,” the engineer finished, dismissing him to his fate.

  El Rey descended the shaky stairs and considered his options. He hadn’t foreseen the company he’d weaseled his way into having a dispute with the builder. That had never come up in his contingency planning. He cursed inwardly, then calmed himself – losing his patience would accomplish nothing, and was a luxury he couldn’t afford. What was done was done. But this was a disaster for his plan. There was no way he’d be able to mount the light fixtures now, much less stay on to do maintenance up to the big day, ensuring the detonator was in place and functional. He was screwed. And he only had three weeks to come up with an alternative plan; the blink of an eye in terms of this scope of a hit.

  All the work and preparation had just been flushed down the toilet by a larcenous contracting company. He momentarily entertained a vision of the company owner, flayed alive and suspended over a fire, and then dismissed it. Satisfying as it might be to take his frustration out on someone, he needed to spend his time more productively.

  Opening the door of the junky, beaten car he’d bought in the barrio for a thousand dollars, he fumed at his ill fortune, and then reconciled himself to plodding forward. It was a setback, but he was used to overcoming adversity. It’s what made him El Rey.

  Which was all well and good, but wouldn’t get the job done. He was running out of time, and the clock was ticking even as he sat in the dusty lot cursing his fate. The engine turned over with a puff of alarming-looking black smoke. He wheeled around and headed for the exit, mind working furiously on alternatives.