King of Swords (Assassin series #1)

by Russell Blake

  He’d commandeered another Dodge Charger, and had the doors reinforced with half-inch steel plates at a local body shop – he’d learned a valuable lesson from his OXXO shoot-out, namely that having something that would stop all but armor-piercing rounds could be a life-saver. It still hurt him to operate the gas and brake pedals, but he was willing to suffer in order to regain his lost mobility.

  The hunt for El Rey had gone exactly nowhere, and as the pages of the calendar turned and the summit raced towards them, Cruz’s agitation level increased further still. He knew his hunch was right – the photo had proved it in his mind, even if the other agencies downplayed it. When he’d tried CISEN one final time they’d actually laughed at him when he’d shown them the photo and the sketch. His pride still stung from that one, but he wasn’t in this for ego. They had the photo now, and hopefully would distribute it to their personnel leading up to the event. All he could do was push. The director had mocked his efforts, pointing out that the photo looked like a generic Mexican male under thirty-five, especially given the goatee. Not to Cruz, though, but perhaps he was too close to this now. He’d done his best, and would continue the hunt even if CISEN thought he’d lost it.

  Cruz forced himself out of the office every night at eight, and was awake by six. One advantage of residing in downtown Mexico City was that he could walk out his front door, turn right, and arrive at a really great coffee shop within a hundred yards. It had quickly become a favorite way to start the day, and the stroll was good for him.

  This morning, he was making plans to vacate the apartment at the end of the week and ship out to Los Cabos for the final five days before the summit. He could be of more immediate use there than languishing at the headquarters in Mexico City, armchair quarterbacking from seven hundred and fifty miles away. Cruz would fly over with Briones and ten of his top men, and hopefully, catch a break. If nothing else, he could review the security for gaps and become conversant with the lay of the land – something that would be critical to blocking any attempt in advance.

  Finished with his phone calls, he took the elevator downstairs and hobbled out of the lobby, squinting at the sun’s already bright light. He made his way down the block, thinking to himself that living downtown wasn’t so bad, when an iron grip clutched both his arms while a reeking rag was held over his face from behind. He fought against inhaling as long as he could while he struggled against his assailants, but succumbed to the urge and quickly blacked out.

  Chapter 20

  When Cruz came to it was getting dark out. He slowly rotated his head, trying to orient himself. He was lying on a plush bed in a room with high ceilings; heavy wood beams supported large, flat roof tile slabs above him. Groaning, he stretched his arms to his side, then automatically reached for his weapon. Gone, of course. His skull was splitting, and he felt extremely thirsty, no doubt a byproduct of the drug his kidnappers had used to knock him out. Ether? Chloroform? He couldn’t be sure. It probably didn’t matter.

  He sat up and spied an en-suite bathroom, the mottled marble vessel sink visible through the partially-opened door. Cruz cautiously rose to his feet and moved to the faucet, slaking his thirst with several glasses of water. He noticed a needle stick on his left arm – so it hadn’t just been the rag that had taken him down. He’d been drugged. He shook his head in an attempt to clear the fuzziness. Peering at his watch, he noted that it was six o’clock. He’d been out at least ten hours.

  Cruz spun around at the sound of the bedroom door being unlocked. It swung open and two muscular men entered. Cruz was largely recovered from his injuries but he was in no condition to fight these two bulls, so he figured he’d wait for a better opportunity to escape. Besides, he had no idea where he was, so it would be hard to break free unless he could get his bearings.

  The uglier of the two hulking men regarded him.

  “Come with us.”

  The trio walked into the hallway of what he now gathered was a large hacienda-style house, the floors finished in three foot square saltillo tile and the walls sponge painted with a heavy hand. The furniture in the seemingly endless hall was rustic and dark, hewn from weathered wood, many of the pieces appearing to be hundreds of years old.

  The passageway opened onto a courtyard, and the men led him to a veranda overlooking lush green hills, unspoiled by any other houses. Where the hell was he? This wasn’t Mexico City, that was for sure. Maybe Guadalajara area?

  A man in his sixties sat at a massive circular dining table, easily twelve feet circumference, eating soup from a lava bowl. Cruz did a double take and felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He stiffened automatically, causing the man on his right to grip his arm before forcing him into the seat opposite the man.

  “I see you recognize me from my fan photos…” the man said.

  “I’d know you anywhere,” Cruz acknowledged. “Carlos Aranas. One of the most powerful men in Mexico, and head of the Sinaloa cartel.”

  “One of the most? You might want to rethink that. Try the most.” Aranas grinned, dabbing at his moustache with a multicolored cloth napkin. “Want some soup? It’s really incredible. The best tortilla soup you’ll ever taste. From a recipe that’s been in the family for generations.”

  “My last meal?” Cruz spat.

  “Please. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be sitting here. I’ve gone to considerable trouble to get you here in one piece for this discussion. So don’t insult me with idiotic assumptions. Now, do you want some of the finest tortilla soup in the world, or not?” Aranas asked equitably.

  “I’m not going to dine with my family’s murderer.”

  “Again with the idiocies. For the record, I didn’t have any hand in the death of your family. If I wanted to send a message to you, I wouldn’t do it that way. I’d chop your dick off and make you eat it. Much more direct. So last time, soup or no? You haven’t eaten all day so I know you must be starving. Tell you what, since you’re stubborn, I’ll just assume the answer is yes.” Aranas looked over Cruz’s shoulder at one of the men standing silently behind him. “Cacho, have Yolanda prepare our guest a bowl of soup.”

  Cruz was startled by something wet pushing against his right hand. He jerked it away, looking down to see a boxer snuffling at him.

  “I see you’ve met Frida. Don’t worry. She doesn’t bite. Probably wants to see if you’ve got a treat for her. It’s why she’s so fat. Always on the prowl for food…” Aranas said.

  In spite of the surreal circumstances, Cruz slowly lowered his hand and stroked her head. She licked him appreciatively.

  “There. You see? She likes you. Just don’t let her get up anywhere near your soup. She’s a glutton, and she’ll drain it if you drop your guard.” Aranas smiled, and slurped another large spoonful.

  “What do you mean you had no hand in my family’s execution? They had your scorpions in their mouths. That’s your signature,” Cruz accused.

  Aranas sighed, and then his face lit up. One of the weightlifters set a massive black lava bowl of thick brown soup in front of Cruz, then set a spoon and colorful cloth napkin next to it. Aranas scooted a plate towards him on the slick mesquite table surface. It slid almost to the edge, by Cruz’s napkin.

  “It tastes better with a little lime. Try it. You’ll see. I recommend two slices to start.”

  Cruz reluctantly squeezed two of the cut lime wedges into the soup, and stirred it. Aranas sat expectantly, waiting for him to sample it. He raised the steaming spoon to his lip and took a tentative taste.

  “It tastes like shit.” Cruz took another sip.

  Aranas laughed with genuine merriment at the comment.

  “I see you have a sense of humor. They didn’t tell me that. Unexpected in an anti-drug crusader.”

  “I’m full of surprises. Now, what about my family?” Cruz demanded, slurping at the delicious concoction. Frida wagged her stump tail and stared hungry holes into his profile, then sat on the tile floor, hoping for a morsel to come her way. Cruz glanced at her. She
was fat, all right. But happy. Definitely happy.

  “I had nothing to do with that, like I said. That was probably Santiago. He was a shithead, and he perhaps thought he was being clever. But he was an ally, so we’ll leave it at that. You know I’ve cheerfully ordered hundreds of executions. There’s no reason for me to deny this one. But it wasn’t me.”

  “And I’m supposed to believe you?” Cruz waved his spoon. “You kidnapped me. Why?”

  Aranas scowled at his now-empty bowl and then dropped his spoon into it.

  “I needed to get your attention. I have it. So it worked.” Aranas tapped a finger on the table while watching Cruz. “I want to tell you a story, and then I’ll return you to Mexico City, unharmed. Your job in this is to listen to the story. I talk. You listen. This won’t take long, so indulge an old man, yes?” Aranas reasoned. Without waiting for a response, he continued.

  “About three months ago, Santiago approached me for a conference. We did a lot of business together, so I granted his request. He came to this house with a proposal for me.” Aranas took a sip of water from the half-full glass. “A proposal that I declined.”

  Cruz waited for more.

  “He’d gotten it into his head to do the unthinkable – an action that would polarize the population against the traffickers, and in my opinion, would result in a catastrophic set of events for Mexico. I tried to argue for reason, but he was adamant. He wanted to assassinate our president, in an effort to sway the upcoming elections for a candidate he had clout with.” Aranas sat back. “The frontrunner had been killed recently, so he believed that if he took out the President, his man would have a very good chance.”

  Cruz nodded slowly, saying nothing.

  “As you know, the Secretary of the Interior had been killed in November, and then El Gallo was executed…all probably related, but I digress. Santiago was convinced he could get his pet politician elected president, and use his position to take on his rivals while turning a blind eye to his traffic. It was naive and dangerous talk. But it was intriguing, I have to admit, and I wouldn’t hesitate to back an idea if I thought it would be effective. But then he came to what I considered to be the deal killer. He said that he also intended to kill the American president at the same time,” Aranas recalled. “I asked him, why on earth he would want to brand Mexico with that, and kill a man who was, at worst, a figurehead? I could see taking out our president, but the American? It made absolutely no sense.”

  Cruz put his spoon quietly into his empty bowl, not wanting to interrupt the narrative.

  “He couldn’t explain his reasoning coherently. He just wanted to do it. He asked me if I would fund half the contract price. I wanted no part in it. It was lunacy, and I couldn’t see any advantage to be gained by pursuing it. I told him that if he persisted with the idea, our business together could be jeopardized, and later on, he agreed to drop it. Only I think he didn’t. And after recent information reached me, I’m sure of it.” Aranas snapped his fingers, and Frida trotted over to him, her previous resting place a puddle of drool. He broke off a bread crust from the platter beside him, and tossed her a piece. It disappeared with a swallow.

  “I have my sources, even in your hallowed halls, Capitan Cruz. I know you’re pursuing El Rey, and believe he’s the hired gun to take down the presidents. This scheme originated with Santiago, or worse, Santiago was fed it. It will be a disaster if it is successful. And that’s why I had you brought to me. I needed you to hear this from my lips. I have no part in any plot to kill the President,” Aranas finished. He’d said what he wanted to say.

  “What was the contract price?” Cruz asked.

  “Ten million dollars.”

  Cruz whistled.

  “You think he might have been fed the idea. Why do you say that? Who would want to get him to do this?” Cruz asked.

  Aranas stood and delivered a loving scratch to Frida’s ears. She looked up at him with unconditional devotion. Capitulating, he gave her another piece of bread. A large one.

  He turned to face Cruz.

  “That is part of the puzzle, is it not? What I can offer you is a name that I suspect strongly of instigating. You will need to do your own due diligence. Carefully, would be my advice. The name is Xavier Sorreyo. He had a lot of influence with my recently-departed associate.”

  “Sorreyo…I’ve never heard of him. Cartel?”

  “Much worse. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to attend to some chores that I put off to meet with you. Our business here is concluded. I got my message across to you, and what you do with it is your affair. But I wish you luck, Capitan. And I really didn’t kill your family. I’m not sure that Santiago did, but it seems like the kind of thing the man would do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run.” Aranas smiled his charming smile again, teeth gleaming beneath his gray moustache. “If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you like an ant. As I expect you would do with me. So now things return to normal, yes? You fight crime, I create it, and the world continues to turn, the spiders eating the flies.” Aranas petted Frida again and walked to the archway that led to the courtyard. “Thanks for coming, and good luck. You’re going to need it.”

  Cruz braced himself to rise, only to find himself with the now-familiar rag over his face. He instinctively struggled, then gave in, recognizing the futility.

  When he regained consciousness, he was sitting in the passenger seat of his car, the keys in the ignition, the doors locked, ventilation coming from the battery running the air. He checked the time. Two a.m.. He grabbed at his shoulder holster and relaxed when he felt the now familiar bulk of his new Glock nestled there.

  Cruz took a few deep breaths, trying to clear the fog from his vision, and registered an unfamiliar sensation in his clenched right hand. He opened it and stared down at the crumpled piece of paper stuck to his palm. On it were scrawled two words. A name.

  Xavier Sorreyo.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next morning, Cruz felt like he’d drunk a bottle of rotgut tequila. The hangover effects of the drugs he’d been knocked out with were substantial. His mouth tasted like lead, his head was pounding, and the body aches were accompanied by a pronounced disequilibrium.

  Cruz considered driving to the office, but decided against it. Instead, he called Briones to ask for a ride. Briones had been panicked yesterday by Cruz’s absence, but didn’t know what to do – and in truth, there wasn’t much he could have done.

  Briones wanted to know everything that had happened. Cruz promised to fill him in on the way to work.

  Once in the car, Cruz recounted the story dispassionately while Briones’ mouth hung ever wider in disbelief. Finished, he laid out their battle plan for the day.

  “Obviously, Aranas felt that the name Sorreyo was important enough to warrant snatching me, so I think the priority needs to be getting everything we can on him.”

  “I still can’t believe they did it. I mean, I know they’re powerful, but that…it makes you kind of want to reconsider being a cop.” Briones vocalized what Cruz had been thinking.

  “He could have killed me at any point. And still could. I think that was the other part of the message – to clarify how things really stand,” Cruz agreed.

  “Why do you think he didn’t?”

  “Honestly? I believe Aranas wants El Rey stopped as badly as we do. He’s afraid it will be bad for business, and he’s right. It would. Especially if the Americans decide to help us in the war against the cartels by sending in a hundred thousand soldiers, which isn’t out of the question if their president is killed. Can you imagine the outcry? It would be the end of the cartels, and also of Mexico as an independent nation. Aranas is no patriot – he’s a killer, and a businessman who doesn’t see a benefit in killing the U.S. president. So…he’s on our side, for once,” Cruz mused. “And I think he understands there will always be someone in my job, so it might as well be me – the devil he knows, if you like. That’s the plain truth. We’ve been so unsuccessful against the cartels, he’s n
ot worried.”

  On that depressing note, they arrived at headquarters, and within a few minutes were entering Xavier Sorreyo’s name into the system. Moments of processing later, a screen popped up informing them that the file was classified.

  “Classified? By who? We’re the fucking cops. How can it be classified?” Cruz fumed. He smelled the hand of CISEN in this – and whenever an intelligence service was involved, it was never good. He remembered what Aranas had said when he’d asked whether the man was cartel: “No, much worse.” Cruz had forgotten that part of the discussion up until now, no doubt an effect of the drugs. What could be much worse than murdering drug traffickers? And be classified?

  He’d tried the front-door route enough times and been humiliated out of the building, so now he’d do it the old fashioned way. His cousin, Laura, worked at CISEN, and occasionally did him favors, as he had done for her. Cruz called her cell, and gave her Sorreyo’s name, explaining the problem. She committed to getting information within a few hours, and told him she’d call him back when she had it.

  Cruz worked with Briones on the logistics of setting up a functional remote command center in Baja, and before they knew it, the morning had flown by and it was one o’clock. Cruz’s cell rang. It was Laura, wanting a meeting in thirty minutes at a restaurant they both liked.

  He made it in twenty.

  Laura entered ten minutes late. Cruz rose and kissed her. She was a handsome woman, three years older than he and almost as tall, with a full head of curly black hair going gracefully to gray. They sat, and after ordering, she slipped a single folded piece of paper to him.

  He read it and stared off into space, puzzled. Then the pieces clicked into place. In a single burst, he understood that this was far bigger than a cartel boss wanting to off the President. Three little letters, and it all came together for him, or at least a chunk of it did.