Once it was dark, the prison population was called to dinner with the clamor of a bell, which prompted the surly men to form ragged lines outside the commissary. Only, tonight was different than most evenings. Tonight would be when a carefully planned escape took place, hopefully freeing a large number of Zetas. Word had circulated among the group, and they were ready. But before leaving, there were errands to attend to.
Manuel Ortiz was a lieutenant in the Gulf cartel, sentenced to forty years for organized crime charges relating to murder, drug trafficking, kidnapping and assault. His heavy features belied a peasant lineage, and his squat physique was accentuated by hours of prison weight training, which served to make him seem shorter than his five-foot-seven height. He had a large entourage of bodyguards in the facility — his vast fortune from being a key component of the cartel’s Texas trafficking route enabled him to afford the best. Every day in the facility was a potential bloodbath for him, with Los Zetas just on the far side of the prison yard, and Ortiz lived in a constant state of readiness.
When the attack came, it was sudden and brutal. Scores of inmates ran at his contingent and began stabbing them with homemade shanks — sharpened metal shards or pieces of rebar, patiently honed to razor sharp points over countless hours in darkened cells. His men fought back, but they were no match for the overwhelming number of attackers. The entire skirmish occurred in a muted silence, the only noise the wet thwacking of the blades stabbing into flesh, again and again, and the thudding of bodies falling to the ground, blood spreading beneath them. Forty seconds after it started, Ortiz and his seven Gulf cartel brethren lay dead or dying, and another fifteen bodyguards were wounded, as well as twelve of the attackers.
Once the massacre was over, two uniformed guards appeared near the security offices and signaled to the waiting Los Zetas prisoners. They moved as a unit into the interior, the double security doors wedged open thoughtfully for maximum traffic flow. Inside, three more guards unlocked the multiple barred doors designed to keep prisoners contained, and within minutes the stream of killers made its way out to the street, where the men quickly dispersed to the surrounding side streets and climbed into pickup trucks and vans that sat with engines running. None of the guards in the turrets noticed anything, preferring to occupy their time on more healthy pursuits than getting in the middle of a cartel-organized prison break. The vehicles sped off in a cloud of exhaust and dust, and in moments the area was empty.
Ten minutes later, the alarm was sounded, and within an hour the streets around the prison were filled with soldiers, police and media. One hundred and sixty prisoners, each a hardened murderer in the enforcement wing of the Los Zetas syndicate, had escaped. Nobody could explain why the federal troops who had been stationed outside the prison to prevent exactly this kind of breakout had been called away, nor by whom, but they had been. A regrettable incident that would be investigated at some future point. Like so many that seemed to occur when money and power were in play.
Likewise, nobody could explain how the dozens of guards on duty in the towers had missed a mass exodus of prisoners after a pitched battle and mass slaughter near the commissary. Nobody recalled having seen anything. It was one of the many commonplace miracles at the prison — three other mass escapes had taken place over the last two years, each a complete surprise to the warden and his staff. The running joke was that the Zetas used the prison as an inexpensive hotel where the guards and army were there to ensure nobody could get in to harm them. Stories abounded of inmates who disappeared for a day, then reappeared like magic, one of their rivals in town mysteriously gone missing. It was hard not to see the punch line, even if the humor was of a black variety.
The five guards who had disappeared were never heard from again. The rumor was that each man had seen five hundred thousand dollars for his role in the debacle — more than enough to live a full and untroubled life of leisure in one of the many small fishing hamlets along the coast.
Newspaper and television coverage expressed outrage at the escape, and the president ordered more troops to the region, effectively closing the barn door after the mare had bolted. The prior administration had warned the prison system to tighten its security numerous times, and yet Tamaulipas saw more prison breaks per year than many restaurants saw customers. It was further evidence that the state was a rogue one, much like the fifty percent of Colombia that was under rebel or paramilitary control — where the government dared not go and had no effective jurisdiction.
On the U.S. side of the border, local law enforcement warned the federal government that the cartel-driven violence and lawlessness was spilling over into the U.S., but the Feds took the stance that all was well. Speeches were made about how the borders were safe, in spite of the easily observable fact that countless tons of marijuana, cocaine, meth and heroin made it through every week, along with a steady stream of undocumented immigrants, many of them fleeing from the violence in their border states in Mexico, and some of them cartel soldiers bringing the criminality north.
The American government reassured its population that no emergency existed, even as police and state government demanded National Guard troops to bolster what was obvious to them as a porous border.
As far as the Feds were concerned, there was no problem.
Cruz’s meeting with the president’s chief of staff had gone better than he’d expected. The man had seemed very interested in the recommendations he’d made for safeguarding the president’s safety. The head of the security detail had been there with them, and then, towards the end, to Cruz’s considerable surprise, after a hushed discussion on a cell phone, the president had stepped into the conference room to hear a synopsis.
Cruz had recited the entire story, including his experiences on the last assassination attempt, his impressions on this one, and the myriad times El Rey had outfoxed them. All three men had listened intently, but the real fireworks had started when he’d finished with his presentation and the president had asked him for his recommendation. The head of security’s mouth had literally dropped open when he’d told them what he thought was the prudent course of action, even as the chief of staff had nodded. The president’s normally impassive expression had broken, just for a moment, and the trace of a smile had played at the corners of his mouth.
Now that it was over, he wondered whether it had all been an episode of temporary insanity. He’d met the last president briefly after the G-20 Summit and had shaken hands with him as he’d thanked Cruz for his efforts, but that was different than sitting in a room across from the seat of power itself and arguing for an unthinkable course of action.
Whatever his life had become, it certainly wasn’t boring.
That evening, when he got home, Dinah seemed in better spirits than she had been in for weeks, and they decided to go to one of her favorite restaurants. Over a wonderful meal of slow-cooked cochinita pibil and margaritas, he’d given her the abbreviated version of his day, including the meeting with the president.
Even though she seemed interested, he left out the nitty-gritty of his recommendation. Some things were too weird to say out loud, and his surrealistic impromptu suggestion was one of them. Bad enough he had floated it past the great man himself and two of the most influential men in the cabinet. That didn’t mean he needed to also embarrass himself with his wife-to-be.
When they arrived at their new condo, bodyguards safely ensconced downstairs, they left a trail of clothes in the hall as they made their way to the bedroom.
For the first time in months, Cruz had the feeling that it was all going to turn out fine.
Chapter 28
The morning of the Easter mass at Catedral Metropolitana de la Asuncion de Maria, the streets were a nightmare. The cathedral — the largest on the continent — was located in the heart of Mexico City and was ringed on three sides by huge boulevards, which were closed off to traffic for the hour duration of the mass. The presidential helicopter would arrive on the south side of the cathedral, where th
ere was eighty feet of open space for it to touch down. The decision had been made to close the streets for fifteen minutes prior to its landing until after it took off, in the interests of avoiding the complications that thousands of vehicles could introduce into the security scenario — a valid precaution, but one that played hell with downtown traffic.
Likewise, spectators were limited to the huge square across the street, where the citizenry would be confined to an area that was barricaded off at the far edge of the six lane street that fronted the main entrance on the south side. Already, a crowd of almost twenty thousand had gathered, waiting for the spectacle to begin. Soldiers formed a perimeter around the church grounds, and the president’s security forces were deployed along the sidewalks of the buildings adjacent to and facing it. Snipers were nestled in the cathedral’s towering bell towers, scanning the rooftops of the numerous buildings surrounding the church for threats.
Cruz watched the proceedings from his vantage point near the front entrance of the cathedral, Briones in tow. The president was due in ten minutes, and as usual Cruz was anxious. El Rey had vanished, having apparently given up once his bomb had been discovered at the congress, but Cruz didn’t buy it. The man wasn’t the type to just quit. For all his reprehensible qualities, he had a hell of a work ethic Cruz understood in a very odd and dysfunctional way. El Rey was committed and singularly focused. Qualities he knew only too well. For all his distaste of the killer’s occupation, he had to concede that he’d never seen anything like his ability to pull off the impossible.
Vendors meandered through the crowd of onlookers hawking churros and cotton candy, and a fair number of both uniformed and plainclothes police were interspersed in the throng to watch for pickpockets or possible assailants. A security gateway had been erected at the far end of the square by the ice rink, where Chilangos, as the residents of Mexico City were known, normally passed the time on skates, improbable as that might seem to visitors from other countries. The popular view of Mexico was cactus and peasants wearing serapes and sombreros, walking their burros through dust and scrub with a mission bell tolling in the background, not cosmopolitan middle class business people and their children skating around like they were in New York’s Central Park.
Given the crowd, it was impossible to have the area completely buttoned down. Multi-story buildings everywhere, tens of thousands of people gathered, countless pedestrians moving through the far edges going about their business. It was every security planner’s worst nightmare. Thankfully, the president would only be exposed for a short while, as he made his way from the presidential helicopter to the massive front doors of the cathedral. Then it became a different matter.
Cruz had accompanied the president’s security head as the team had set up the security checkpoint metal detector inside the church, and chained all entries but the main one and the one leading to the vestry. Armed guards monitored the clergy entrance, subjecting the priests and altar boys to the same pat down and search as the general public. In addition to the president, virtually every dignitary in Mexico City was going to be in attendance, so if a terrorist wanted to eliminate the government in a single stroke, a well-timed attack during the service would achieve this with ease.
A team of explosive specialists had gone over the interior of the church all morning with bomb-sniffing dogs, inspecting every nook and cranny for suspicious items. After five hours of intensive searching, they’d turned up nothing. Cruz would almost have felt better if they’d located a device. The anxiety in the pit of his stomach had been building, although he had to admit that there was no evidence of an assassination attempt in play. Now the church was packed, with a hum of murmuring reverential voices vying with the organ music. There was little they could do inside at this point — the mass was imminent.
Briones and he stepped back through security and into the sun, shielding their eyes while surveying the crowd across the empty boulevard. One of the security detail approached them and tapped his watch. They would need to move to the perimeter. The president was due to land in three minutes.
Cruz and Briones walked across the cobblestones to the far edge and waited, Cruz studying the four and five story buildings at the sides of the massive square distrustfully. As he waited for the great man’s arrival, he looked up at the church’s ornate front facade, grimy from exhaust and soot, but still impressive. Built on the site of the main temple of the Aztec city of Tenochtitlan in the mid-1500s, it had been enlarged over the years and was now easily one of the most impressive sights in the city, as well as being a reminder of the Spanish role in the history of the country.
As Cruz resumed scanning the surroundings, his eye caught a glint in a distant window on the top floor of the Gran Hotel de Mexico, across the street from the most distant corner of the square. Simultaneously, the distinctive sound of a large helicopter battering the air above them intruded into the expanse, echoing off the church and momentarily drowning out the din of the crowd. He squinted and tried to make out what he’d seen at the hotel, but it was no good. Then the downdraft from the chopper caused a dust cloud to blow off the landing area, causing him to cough and close his eyes to fend off the grit. The aircraft touched down and the rotation of the long blades gradually slowed, enabling Cruz to resume his surveillance. He eyed the hotel’s windows and then spotted it again.
There.
Cruz elbowed Briones and leaned in to him.
“Binoculars. Now.”
Briones hesitated for a moment, then lifted the leather strap that held the glasses over his neck and handed them to Cruz. He raised the lenses to his eyes and studied the window that had caught his interest and then handed them to Briones before racing to where the head of security was standing, in preparation for the president’s exit from the aircraft. He cupped his hand over the man’s ear and yelled something, and then the security chief moved his handheld radio to his lips and issued a terse order. The helicopter remained in place, but the doors didn’t open.
Cruz sprinted across the empty boulevard to the sidewalk in front of the hotel, Briones panting in his wake as he struggled to keep up. Three serious-looking men with earbuds and suits carefully tailored to hide their shoulder holsters dovetailed from their positions near the barricades to meet them, and within a minute they were in the lobby of the hotel.
Ignoring the surprised stares from the guests in the sumptuous, centuries-old lobby, Cruz hurriedly approached the reception desk and gave a command to the young uniformed woman. She looked unsure of herself for a moment and then nodded and picked up the phone. After a few hasty sentences, she hung up and regarded him.
“Miguel, the head of maintenance, will meet you on the top floor in two minutes with a passkey. Do you know which room you want?” she asked.
“It’s the fourth from the corner, facing the cathedral,” Cruz answered.
She tapped on her keyboard and pulled up the information.
“Registered to Senor Ricardo Gomez, from San Luis Potosi. Checked in two days ago,” she told him.
Cruz had already motioned to the men and strode to the large, ornate wrought iron elevator that was the showpiece of the spectacular ground floor, its green and gold trim glancing off the sunlight that poured in through the intricate stained-glass roof over the lobby. The hotel was a rough rectangle built around the lobby, with the walkways and room doors facing the atrium.
The elevator creaked to a stop and they got on, with one of the men soundlessly taking the stairs in case their quarry got wind of their arrival and tried to make a stealthy escape.
When they reached the top floor, the maintenance man arrived, having followed the security man up the stairs. They counted the doors, and when they arrived at the suspect one, the group drew their guns. Cruz heard a collective gasp from the crowd in the lobby beneath them, which was now following the unfolding drama with interest. He took three steps over to the railing, holding a finger to his lips, his pistol clutched in his other hand. The people below scattered at the sight
of the weapon and made for the exits, which was just as well, he reasoned. If there was going to be a gun battle, it would be best if civilians weren’t in the line of fire.
He returned to his position by the side of the door and indicated for the maintenance man to open it using his universal card key. The man slid the coded rectangle into the card reader, and the light on the lock flicked to green. Cruz motioned for him to move aside, which he didn’t need much encouragement to do, and then quietly gripped the lever and turned it. Once in the open position, he abruptly swung it wide and rolled into the room, gun searching for a target. The rest of the men followed him in, with Briones taking up the rear.
A telescope sat on a tripod, aimed at the cathedral. Next to it, on a chair, lay a laser range finder and an M110 SASS rifle with a custom high-powered scope. An empty golf bag sat in one corner of the room. Cruz gestured to the men to check the bathroom and held his breath while the lead man darted in, pistol first, and then emerged a few seconds later, shaking his head. Briones swung the door of the eight-foot-tall armoire open, but it was empty except for an overnight bag and a shirt. The assassin had fled.
Cruz unclipped the radio from his belt and gave a quick summary to the security chief, and watched through the telescope as the president and his bodyguards exited the helicopter and made their way into the church.
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