Hollow Point

by Robert Swartwood

  From the cluster of police cars, a man begins to approach. He wears a Kevlar vest with his badge hanging from a chain around his neck. He has his hands raised, holding a bullhorn in one of them.

  “This must be the hostage negotiator.”

  I wait until the man is ten yards away—moving slowly, one cautious step at a time—before I lower my window a few inches. By now I figure a half-dozen snipers have set up all around the airfield, and I don’t want to give them an easy shot.

  “Take one more step, and I’ll shoot him in the head!”

  The negotiator freezes.

  “Turn your sorry ass around and head back to your friends!”

  The negotiator doesn’t move. He’s here to negotiate, and so far he hasn’t had a chance to properly do his job.

  Before the man can say something, I shout again.

  “If you don’t back away in the next five seconds, I’m going to blow his fucking brains out!”

  The negotiator doesn’t move at first, at least to my liking, so I start a countdown.

  “Five!”

  The negotiator takes a quick step back.

  “Four!”

  Another step.

  “Three!”

  Another step.

  “Two and you better turn your ass around and get moving!”

  The negotiator complies. He doesn’t hurry, though, instead walks at a measured pace, probably to try to save face with his colleagues.

  President Cortez shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

  “How much longer?”

  “I don’t know. Hopefully my associate’s contact comes through. If not …”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re screwed.”

  The man doesn’t answer, though he does smile, and stares out his window again. I watch him in the rearview mirror for another moment before I speak.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Why did you believe me?”

  He thinks it over for a few seconds.

  “I saw the truth in your eyes.”

  “What truth?”

  “That you knew my son. That you were the one who … stopped him. It’s been almost a year now. I have thought of him more often than usual the past couple days.”

  I watch him in the rearview mirror for another moment, then lean forward to check the SUV’s glove box. I find a scrap of paper and a pen, and jot down several numbers. I pass it back to President Cortez.

  He looks at the paper for a moment. Frowns at me.

  “What is this?”

  “GPS coordinates to where we buried your son. If something happens to me, I want to make sure I followed through with my end of the deal.”

  Without a word, he folds the paper and slips it into his jacket pocket.

  “I need to know something, Mr. President.”

  He looks at me again.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Besides the cartels, who benefits most in your government if you’re assassinated?”

  He thinks about it for a moment, then smiles.

  “Quite a few people. I am not a popular man. My policies have been hard on the cartels, and in turn, the cartels have stopped contributing their blood money to many of those corrupt in my government.”

  “Mexico doesn’t have a vice president, does it?”

  “No. If something were to happen to me, the Secretario de Gobernación, or Secretary of the Interior, would assume executive powers provisionally.”

  “Who’s the current Secretary of the Interior?”

  “A man named Felipe Abascal.”

  “Any bad blood between you and Felipe?”

  “None I am aware of, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t any. Besides, he would not take over permanently. As I only have two more years in my term, Congress would select a substitute president by a majority of votes in a secret ballot. That person would be president until the end of the presidential term.”

  “So we know for a fact if you were assassinated, Felipe would take over, but it wouldn’t be for long. Congress would need to elect somebody else.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that could be anybody.”

  President Cortez shrugs.

  “I would not say just anybody, but there is no telling who may be elected.”

  “Would you say the majority of your Congress is corrupt? As in they would do whatever the cartels tell them to do?”

  “I would like to think not, but I do not know for sure.”

  “Who was the woman that was with you when you arrived at the hotel?”

  “My aide. She’s been working for me for almost seven years.”

  “So you trust her.”

  “Yes.”

  “She goes with you everywhere.”

  “Yes.”

  “Knows your schedule.”

  “Yes.”

  He pauses, seeing where I’m going with this, and shakes his head.

  “No. It … it cannot be her.”

  “Let me ask you this: when you arrive somewhere with your aide, who typically gets out of the vehicle first?”

  He says nothing, staring out his window.

  “I watched you motion for her to get out first. She didn’t. Almost like she knew something bad was supposed to happen.”

  Still President Cortez says nothing.

  “You understand why we’re here, don’t you? Somebody close to you has been feeding inside information to the people who wanted me to assassinate you. That person was providing up-to-the-minute intel. And that same person, if this goes as planned, will want to make sure I never get a chance to tell my story to the authorities. The last thing they want is for their plot to become known. Do you understand?”

  He nods, his expression pained, the knowledge that he was betrayed too much to accept.

  I ask, “What is your aide’s name?”

  “Imna Rodriguez.”

  I watch him in the rearview mirror.

  “I hope I’m wrong about this.”

  He meets my stare again.

  “So do I.”

  That’s when Tweedledee’s cell phone buzzes.

  Forty-Nine

  The police had set up a perimeter around the airport of a couple blocks, mostly to keep the news media away. The security detail had driven her there once word reached them that that was where the woman had taken President Cortez, and she had to speak to several different police officers before they were allowed to drive through the barricade. Even then, more police cars were lined up outside the fence, making it difficult to see the SUV out on the airfield.

  She stepped out of the SUV and was immediately met by an older black man with salt-and-pepper hair. He flashed his badge at her. FBI.

  “Hello, Ms. Rodriguez. I’m Special Agent in Charge Bryan Rhodes. I understand you were with President Cortez before he was abducted.”

  She stared out at the airfield, trying to get a glimpse of the SUV. Above them, helicopters hovered in the sky.

  “What is happening?”

  “It appears we have a hostage situation.”

  “President Cortez is a guest in this country.”

  Forcing anger into her tone, the proper amount of outrage.

  The man nodded, his face tight.

  “I understand that, Ms. Rodriguez. And right now we’re doing everything we can to ensure President Cortez’s safety.”

  Her primary concern wasn’t Cortez, of course. It was the woman. The woman who knew way too much. If somehow this ended without her being killed by the police, she would be arrested. Imna couldn’t have that.

  A radio on the agent’s belt crackled, and a voice came through.

  “Jones is approaching now.”

  Imna asked, “Who is Jones?”

  The agent said, “He’s the hostage negotiator.”

  She raised herself up on her tiptoes, like that would help her see over the barricade of police cars, but it didn’t do much good. She could just glimpse a man walking towa
rd the SUV on the airfield.

  The voice came through the radio again.

  “Driver’s window coming down.”

  The agent unclipped his radio and spoke into it.

  “How much?”

  “Only a few inches. The target looks to be talking to the negotiator.”

  A moment of silence from the radio, the sound of the helicopters in the sky the only thing she could hear, and then the radio crackled again.

  “Jones is falling back.”

  The agent said, “Repeat?”

  “He’s walking backward, returning to the cars.”

  The agent shook his head as he muttered under his breath.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  A few minutes passed in silence from the radio. Imna, growing impatient, tried seeing past the cars again, and she wondered how she was going to handle this, just how much power she could exert in this country—not to mention how much power the country would allow her to exert—when they heard the gunshots.

  It sounded like distant firecrackers, almost lost under the noise of the helicopters, and immediately the radio crackled again.

  “We have gunfire. I repeat: we have gunfire.”

  Her heart began thumping in her chest, a rush of adrenaline shooting through her, and she realized she needed to continue her act as the frantic, concerned aide.

  “What happened? What happened?”

  The agent ignored her, the radio to his mouth.

  “Status?”

  The radio crackled again.

  “The driver’s door is opening. And … a gun was just tossed out. Hands are up in the air, and … target is stepping out of the SUV. I repeat: target is stepping out of the SUV.”

  Imna was on her tiptoes again, straining to see, but a dozen agents were rushing out onto the airfield, their guns raised, and she couldn’t see a thing.

  The voice from the radio said, “Target is on her knees with her hands on her head. Officers approaching the SUV now.”

  Several seconds ticked by in silence from the radio, and Imna realized she was holding her breath. She knew if the news came that Cortez was dead, she would need to show tears, and she had been practicing the past week, forcing herself to think about her abuela, whom she had loved dearly, who had raised her most of her life and was shot dead in the street like she was nothing more than a crippled animal.

  The radio crackled.

  “They’ve secured the target. I repeat: they’ve secured the target. Now they’re checking the SUV, and …”

  Silence.

  The agent said into his radio, “Status.”

  Another beat of silence, and then the radio crackled again.

  “The hostage is dead.”

  Fifty

  She turned away at once, squeezed her eyes tight, and thought about her abuela. The tiny mole on her neck. The way she always smelled of flour and spices after she made dinner. The kiss she put on Imna’s head every day before she left for school. And then, of course, the day Imna witnessed her gunned down in the street by those narcos.

  Tears began to stream down her face, and she started shaking her head, muttering no no no under her breath.

  Special Agent in Charge Bryan Rhodes was saying something into the radio, but his words were lost behind the sound of the helicopters. One of the security detail hurried over to her, placed a hand on her shoulder, tried to steer her back to the SUV, but she shook him off.

  Wiping at her eyes, she turned to the agent.

  “I want to see him. I want to see his body.”

  The agent hesitated, thinking about it. He shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Rodriguez, but not right now. We need to secure the scene.”

  “The president of my country was murdered.”

  Putting all she had into the word, almost screaming it, but not wanting to overdo it at the same time.

  The agent nodded solemnly.

  “I understand that, Ms. Rodriguez, I do. But we have to go through protocol here. First, we secure the scene, and then—”

  He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and checked who was calling him.

  “I need to take this.”

  He turned away as he answered the phone, and Imna wiped at her eyes again. The security detail needed to see her reaction to this moment. Needed to remember it, so that they could later relay just how she had done everything in her power to respect President Cortez’s memory and represent their beloved country.

  The agent closed his phone and turned back to her.

  “Sorry about that. Now, about what you were asking—”

  She cut him off.

  “What will happen to that woman?”

  “Ms. Rodriguez—”

  “She murdered him.”

  More tears fell down her face, but she purposefully didn’t wipe them away. She wanted the man to see the tears.

  The agent said, “The woman has already been taken into custody.”

  “Where will she go?”

  “Right now she’s not going anywhere. Apparently, she was involved in an incident out in Texas two days ago. Two U.S. Marshals were killed, so their office wants a piece of this, too. Trust me, this woman will get what’s coming to her.”

  “She will be jailed, you mean.”

  “That’s for the courts to determine.”

  “For murdering our president.”

  “Ms. Rodriguez, I know that—”

  She cut him off again, speaking now between clenched teeth.

  “I want to see her.”

  The agent frowned.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I want to see this woman. I want to face the person who murdered our president. It is the least our country is owed.”

  The man said nothing at first, just stared at her. Imna kept the tears going. She doubted they would allow her to see the woman, but she needed to ask. It was what would be expected from her. She needed to be strong and brave for Mexico, and she needed to be the one to confront the person who killed their much-loved president.

  Finally, the agent said, “Wait here. I need to make some calls.”

  She watched him step away, putting his phone to his ear, and she turned back to the security detail. She told them what happened, though she knew they had already figured it out. The few who were with President Cortez when he was taken from the hotel looked to be filled with shame. Good. They would forever carry the knowledge that they were responsible for what took place today.

  The agent returned. He took her aside, and lowered his voice.

  “I’ve been given the green light. You can meet with her, but only for a couple of minutes.”

  “Where is she?”

  “They’re holding her away in the security office here at the airport for the time being. If you’d like, I can drive you over there.”

  She nodded, wiping a few stray tears from her eyes for show, and followed the agent to his car.

  Fifty-One

  The room is tiny—barely twenty square feet—with the walls bare and fluorescent lights buzzing in the ceiling. No windows. No two-way mirror. Not even a camera in the corner to monitor what’s going on. Just a chair and me sitting on it, my hands behind my back, wrists bound by zip-ties.

  When the door opens, an older man with gray hair looks in at me. He doesn’t enter. He glances at somebody standing off to the side, nods once, and that’s when she steps into view.

  Imna Rodriguez.

  She stares in at me for several seconds before stepping forward. The door closes behind her, and then it’s only the two of us.

  The woman scans the room, searching for a camera or wire or something that might record our conversation, and when she’s satisfied there’s nothing, she takes two more steps and leans forward so she’s only a couple inches away.

  She whispers, “Your family is dead.”

  I say nothing. She frowns.

  “Do you think I am lying? Your entire family has been murdered.”

  Still
I say nothing. Her eyes harden.

  “The cartels sent a sicario to kill them. For what you did to Fernando Sanchez Morales. They demanded revenge.”

  I keep staring back at her. Silent.

  Imna Rodriguez leans away, shakes her head.

  “You created quite a mess. What happened to the men you were with?”

  I ignore the question and ask one of my own.

  “How much is the cartel paying you?”

  Her eyes harden again.

  “You do not know what you are talking about.”

  “The cartel has wanted Cortez eliminated for quite some time. That’s why they went after his son and his family. Did you know I was the one who killed Alejandro?”

  “Of course. That was why you were chosen.”

  I echo it: “Chosen.”

  “That is correct. It made the most sense for you to be the one who pulled the trigger.”

  “I was supposed to die back at the hotel, wasn’t I?”

  The woman nods.

  “That is correct. You were not supposed to live so you could tell your story.”

  “But I am still alive.”

  She nods again, and her face darkens.

  “That is why I am here.”

  She holds up her wrist, and the glass face of her watch glints in the fluorescents. She takes off the watch and opens the back, and she uses her fingernail to dig out a tiny white pill.

  I say, “That’s not aspirin, is it? Because I have the mother of all headaches right now.”

  She holds the pill up for me to see.

  “It is not an aspirin, but it will take your headache away.”

  I look past the pill, stare into her face.

  “What is that supposed to do—kill me?”

  She nods.

  I say, “Now why the fuck would I want to kill myself?”

  “Again, you were not supposed to live so you could tell your story. That is why I am here now. To ensure your story ends.”

  I frown, tilt my head at her.

  “No thanks, I’m good.”

  She says, “Your family is dead. You have no one to protect anymore.”

  I grin back at her.

  “How does it taste, all the bullshit coming out of your mouth?”