Revenge of the Assassin a-2

by Russell Blake

  The actual money that made it to the street level battle against the cartels was a laughable few billion. Contrasted against the estimated eighty to a hundred billion of wholesale value drugs moving through Mexico — cocaine, heroin, methamphetamines, marijuana — the army and law enforcement was perennially outgunned and outspent. If the cartels spent twenty percent of their profits on battling law enforcement, the government’s efforts were dwarfed by a factor of six or seven.

  The sad reality was that Mexico would never be able to spend sufficiently to curtail the cartels, certainly not as long as its huge neighbor to the north was the largest market for illegal drugs in the world. Everyone knew it — Cruz, the government, the cartels. But that didn’t mean that there couldn’t be successes along the way. Over the last few years, a sustained clampdown in Tijuana, one of the largest gateways for drug smuggling, had devastated the Arellano Felix cartel there, leaving a power vacuum. So wins could happen. Of course, the ultimate futility of the victories was simply that another cartel would step in and take over the territory — in this case, the Sinaloa cartel had radically increased its hold in Tijuana, and nothing much changed except who the money stuck to at the end of the day. Shipments continued unabated, supply in the U.S. was constant, and the cash flowed like champagne in a rap video.

  It was easy to get demoralized, but Cruz considered his job as much like that of a doctor. Patients would come and go, and yes, everyone ultimately would die — nobody escaped that final outcome. But in the interim, if he could save some people, or extend their lives, then he counted it as a success. True, one could view the entire exercise as futile — after all, the patients always died eventually — but that perspective wasn’t useful. Everything if viewed in that light was pointless, and nobody would ever get out of bed and do anything if they thought about it too much.

  No, better to stay focused on the small, sustainable victories and leave the big picture to its own devices.

  Cruz hurried into his private office, trailed by his younger lieutenant, Briones, now fully recuperated from the shooting that had almost taken his life during the confrontation with El Rey at the G-20 financial summit. Cruz tossed his satchel on his desk, then plopped down behind it, eyeing Briones warily.

  “What’s the damage today? What have we got going on?” Cruz asked.

  “The tip we got yesterday about the construction supply bodega seems to be panning out. We’ve had it under surveillance all night, and there’s a surprising amount of traffic for a storage facility that supposedly closes at six,” Briones reported.

  “Out towards Toluca, right?”

  “Near the airport. Four different SUVs, all luxury, visited between nine p.m. and midnight. Then nothing more until this morning, when what looks like three night guards were relieved by a day shift of two. The strange thing is that they were all heavily armed. I wonder if that means anything?” Briones wondered aloud.

  Cruz held back a smile. “Considering that gun possession is a felony in Mexico, you may be on to something. Seems like a lot of firepower to keep some kids from stealing a few bags of cement for beer money.”

  “That was my thinking,” Briones said, smirking. They both knew that the bodega was likely a distribution point for the Sinaloa cartel. “Has it seemed to you that we’re getting an awful lot of luck thrown our way lately against the Sinaloans? I mean, I’m not complaining, but over the last few months, I’d guess that ninety percent of our leads have been Sinaloa deals. That’s almost the polar opposite of how last year went.”

  Cruz nodded. “My guess is that the other cartels are trying to move against them, so they’re rolling over whenever possible. I’d say this is just a routine power play. Same as it ever was,” Cruz opined. “The continued war of attrition — survival of the fittest.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I just thought the timing was odd. It’s like someone flicked a light switch, and it became open season on Sinaloa, whereas in the past they’ve been untouchable.”

  “Does it really matter which scumbags we put away, in the end? There will always be more to take their place. For now, it’s Sinaloa. I say good. About time they started going down.” Cruz smiled at his secretary, who had entered with a cup of coffee for him. “What do you think, Raquel? Do you think it matters whether we arrest more Juarez, Sinaloa, Knights Templar, or Los Zetas cartel this month?”

  She just shook her head before departing unobtrusively.

  Cruz took a cautionary sip and then put the cup down to cool. “Let’s keep an eye on the bodega and have a tactical squad standing by for whenever a delivery gets made. It’s probably coming in as a shipment during business hours, and then the distribution takes place at night. Make a list of all the suppliers that show up, and let’s look for the oddity. I don’t want to take the place and wind up with my dick in my hand. If we’re going to move on it, let’s make sure there’s something there. Clear?” Cruz instructed.

  “Yes, sir. I’m way ahead of you. We’ll maintain surveillance for a week, and then once we’ve established a pattern, especially on the night visitors, we’ll go in. We’ve got nothing but time. They have no idea we’re on to them.”

  “Very good. What else do we have? Any progress on the Operation Fast and Furious weapons?” Cruz asked.

  Fast and Furious was a notorious international scandal where the American Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms had allowed thousands of weapons to be purchased in the U.S. and smuggled to cartels in Mexico, which were then used to murder countless people, including cartel members, American border patrol agents, Mexican policemen and soldiers, as well as the usual scores of innocents who were unlucky enough to be in the line of fire. The ATF had allowed the weapons to be shipped to Mexico for years, knowing full well who the customers were, and had lied to Congress about the program.

  Briones shook his head. “Most of the weapons have been traced to the Sinaloa cartel, but from there it’s a black hole. Some of them have been recovered, but the majority are still floating around on the street. We got a lead on a warehouse that was supposed to have a few hundred weapons stored, but as you may recall, that turned out to be a false alarm — or the guns had been moved by the time we made it in,” Briones recounted bitterly.

  “That’s the chicken ranch, right?” Cruz asked.

  The weapons had been reputed to have been stored at a farm that raised fighting cocks for chicken fights. The only thing that their raid had yielded was hundreds of combative birds and a disgruntled owner. Someone had tipped the press, and the laughable image of heavily-armed Federales toting assault rifles juxtaposed against a backdrop of roosters in pens had circulated in the papers for weeks, embarrassing everyone concerned, including Cruz, who had authorized the raid. Briones had led the strike that day, and for the second time in a year, been the public face of law enforcement run amok.

  “How can I forget? My cousins gave me shit about being a chicken molester for a month,” Briones muttered.

  “All right. Are we done for now? I have a mountain of paperwork I need to catch up on here. Do you need anything? Maybe a warrant to detain and body search some poultry?” Cruz inquired innocently.

  “No, sir. But thank you for the support. I’ll let you know as circumstances change on the bodega. Oh, and we got an international inquiry circulated our way on El Rey. Routine. We were flagged automatically on the distribution list.”

  “Haven’t heard that name for a while. I suppose we’re the experts on him now that the task force got dismantled…” Cruz observed.

  Since the assassination attempt, the three-year-old task force, which had proved completely inept at anything but burning money while delivering zero results, had been closed down, and its responsibilities incorporated into Cruz’s organization. He had two officers who worked part time on the El Rey case whenever the name came up, as opposed to the thirty full-time staffers upstairs who’d been employed at the task force’s peak. The notorious hit man had vanished without a trace after the unsuccessful atte
mpt on the former president and hadn’t been heard from since. Perhaps that was for the best, Cruz reasoned.

  “It was just a routine inquiry, looks like. Wanted more information on him. Nothing more,” Briones confirmed. “The probe came through Interpol, and we sent the usual package of data back — the photo, a few of the better sketches, and his dossier. Maybe he’s in South America now? Taken up cattle ranching?”

  “As long as he’s not here making our lives miserable. Although I have to admit that aside from his hits on politicians, he was doing the world a favor executing the cartel targets. Some would argue the same about targeting the politicians, too…” Cruz mused.

  Briones smiled. He shared his superior’s disdain for elected officials.

  “All right. Thanks for the briefing. Let’s get together this afternoon and compare notes. Please close the door on the way out and spread the word that I’ll shoot anyone who interrupts me before lunch,” Cruz ordered.

  Briones paused at the door. “Did you ask her?” he inquired softly on his way out.

  Cruz grinned lopsidedly. “She said yes.”

  “I knew you were in trouble when I first set eyes on her,” Briones finished. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. And you were right about being in trouble. But listen. Keep the news of our engagement to yourself. I don’t want to be the subject of any gossip, and you know how word spreads…”

  There were also safety concerns. The image of his family’s heads showing up in a box was still fresh in his mind, and he didn’t want to make Dinah any more of a target than she already was.

  “Of course. Congratulations all the same.”

  Chapter 5

  “Jania — what’s wrong? What is it?” Antonio asked, as her voice trembled over the phone. It was morning, and she was calling twenty minutes before the shop was supposed to open. A first for her. She’d been as reliable as the rising sun…until now.

  “It’s my uncle. Gustavo. He’s been murdered.” She choked on the final word, unable to go on.

  “Murdered? Good Lord, Jania. What happened? Are you all right?”

  “The police found him this morning and called me as next of kin. Someone broke in last night and killed him in his home office. Stabbed him with a letter opener. It’s horrible. The officer wouldn’t go into detail, but…”

  “Oh my God. That’s unbelievable, Jania. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?” he offered.

  “No. I don’t think so. It’s just…I mean, he was just an old man. What kind of sick bastard would kill a helpless old man?” Jania seemed confused by her question. Antonio knew better than to try to answer.

  “Do they have any leads?” He stopped. “Is this kind of thing common in Mendoza?”

  “No. I mean, there are robberies, of course. Just like anywhere. But a vicious murder like this in a good neighborhood…it’s very rare. I’ve never heard of anything like it,” Jania explained.

  “So it’s a robbery gone wrong?”

  “That’s what the police think. The officer was very nice on the phone. I’ll know more once I go down to the station. They want to take a statement from me. I don’t know how long that will take. That’s one of the reasons I’m calling — I don’t think I’m going to be in today. This is such a shock, and I have no idea what’s involved in claiming the body, or dealing with the cops…” Jania stuttered to a halt.

  “Don’t worry about anything here. I can look after the shop in your absence. Take as much time as you need, and don’t come back to work until everything’s settled on your end.” Antonio paused. “I’m so sorry about Gustavo. He was a wonderful man.”

  “Thank you. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

  “Take care, and do what you need to do. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

  Antonio carefully placed the handset back into the cradle and considered the front door of the shop, which was still locked.

  So the police had found Gustavo murdered with a letter opener and suspected a robbery gone wrong.

  Just as he’d hoped when he’d plunged the spike through the bastard’s chin and up into his brain, after kindly old uncle Gustavo had invited him over for a chat and a glass of wine. The topic had taken a turn for the worse when Gustavo had revealed his research into his true identity and concluded that he was an internationally notorious assassin hiding in Mendoza. The old man had laid out the evidence and given Antonio an ultimatum: either work for him in taking care of some problems in Buenos Aires with his criminal syndicate, or be exposed and the target of a manhunt.

  At first he’d pretended surprise and shock, but the old man had been relentless. Ultimately, Antonio had agreed to do as Gustavo wanted after being assured that nobody else knew what he’d discovered. He had done his level best to appear amenable. It sounded like child’s play, actually, to terminate the chieftains who were skimming from Gustavo’s take. The only real problem was that he didn’t respond well to blackmail, or to anyone knowing his identity, even if Gustavo was an outwardly gentle soul who was just trying to get his needs met. And so El Rey had palmed the letter opener when Gustavo had sealed the arrangement with a proposal of a glass of rare Cobos Reserve Malbec and had leapt across his desk and skewered his brain when he’d swiveled around from the credenza to the desk with the bottle — which he’d caught with his free hand and had taken home with him, to be savored as an after-dinner treat.

  He’d made short work of wiping Gustavo’s computer of any incriminating files and had painstakingly cleaned the handle of the letter opener, still protruding from the old crook’s chin, his eyes open in shocked surprise, staring off into oblivion as if regretting his ultimate misjudgment.

  El Rey’s pulse hadn’t increased from the effort, nor had he been particularly upset over having to terminate his friendship so abruptly. It was nothing personal, just as the uncle’s researching his past hadn’t been personal. He’d done what he’d felt compelled to do, and El Rey had responded in kind. That was how the world worked. If you played with vipers, you shouldn’t be surprised when one bit you. It was the law of the jungle El Rey lived by, and the incident only served to reinforce why it was a good idea to never get too close to anyone, or too attached to any place or thing. Relative peace and safety could turn dangerous in a heartbeat, and it was foolishness to drop your guard.

  Gustavo had been working on his project for over a week — he’d seen from the e-mail dates. Which meant that if he’d been telling the truth, he’d known, or suspected, for almost that long. El Rey could only hope that he’d kept the information to himself, which he believed was strongly likely. Anyone else knowing would have compromised the old man’s hoped-for hold over El Rey, and he was sure that Gustavo had leveled with him about his problem in Buenos Aires. His only miscalculation had been in believing that he could control the assassin and force him to do his bidding.

  It was a pity — it was hard to find friends these days. But it was also unavoidable.

  El Rey had two choices. He could disappear, hoping to elude any pursuit, or he could stay put and see what happened. But he didn’t want to trip any alarms and a sudden departure immediately after the murder of his chess partner might trigger the exact sort of manhunt he was hoping to avoid. After much thought, he decided to wait and see rather than running. He liked Mendoza more than anyplace else he’d been, and he wasn’t anxious to leave if he didn’t have to. So he’d gathered up his passports and double-checked his escape kit, which he’d stowed in the large safe behind a paneled section of his home study, and resigned himself to being patient and waiting it out. Nothing was ever gained by making rash moves.

  Jania had sounded genuinely surprised and shocked, so Gustavo hadn’t told her anything. That was good. He would have hated to have to kill her over that sort of indiscretion. On balance, then, it wasn’t a bad start to the day. She would get to live.

  He hummed to himself as he walked to the glass front entry, silently debating not opening, and
then dismissing the idea. Better to go about his business as though nothing had happened — which in a way, it hadn’t. His shopkeeper’s uncle had been the victim of a failed burglary attempt, or alternatively, had been killed by some of the unsavory elements from his murky past. Either way the police looked, they’d encounter a dead end. There was no trail to him, or the shop, to follow.

  He flipped the sign over from closed to open and unlocked the door. If today was like any other weekday, he’d be lucky to see five customers before dinner time.

  El Rey brought his notebook computer from out of the back office and settled in behind the counter on the high padded stool where Jania spent most of her time. Peering at his watch, he mentally calculated how many hours he’d be on this lonely duty and sighed resignedly as he moved the cursor to his favorite web browser to surf the web.

  El Rey closed at two o’clock for the customary two hour lunch break that all of Argentina took. Sometimes it was extended to three hours on slow days, which today, given the two customers so far, he felt qualified as such. He walked a block to his favorite lunchtime restaurant, a small Italian place on one of the main streets, and ordered a salad and some duck ravioli. Following his meal, he opted for an hour and a half at the gym.

  Refreshed from the exercise, he stowed his gear in the locker he rented by the month and made his way back to the shop. The usual sprawl of students was lounging around, carousing on the promenade in front, but other than that, he saw nothing of note. He grudgingly opened the door, propping it open to lure tourists in, and remounted the stool, waiting for closing time to come.

  At six, two men in trench coats entered, removing their fedoras, and Antonio instinctively stiffened, their bearings unmistakable. The taller of the pair approached him — a rough-looking man in his early fifties whose baby face had long ago succumbed to the effects of wine and gravity, and whose day-old stubble was laced with gray.