“That may well be, but you don’t know him like I do. He’s a magician, not to mention that he’s killed dozens, if not hundreds of people in cold blood. I wouldn’t put it past him to chew his own arms off to escape, so there will be no negotiation. If I need to call the hospital administrator, I’ll be more than happy to do so. What’s it going to be?” Cruz threatened.
The doctor backed down. Fighting for his patients only went so far, and he didn’t need any additional grief in his life.
“Well, I don’t like it,” he lamented pugnaciously and then stalked off down the hall, shaking his head.
Cruz turned to the four heavily armed officers. “I want you on high alert. No fraternizing with the nurses. Do not eat anything, and only drink bottled water. You will be replaced in eight hours. Expect a full-scale assault to free this man, and also expect him to try to kill any and all of you with anything he can get his hands on. Do not let down your guard under any circumstances,” he warned them.
The elevator at the end of the hall opened, and Briones approached, his nose swollen, with a bandage across it holding a piece of gauze in place.
“Broken, eh?” Cruz asked.
Briones nodded. “Damned air bag hit it just the right way. A fluke. It actually blew my hand up, and my hand broke it.”
“So, you punched yourself in the nose?”
Cruz started chuckling, as did Briones. It was a little funny, and the dark humor helped relieve the accumulated tension.
“Yeah, but you should have seen the other guy…”
Cruz grinned, and then described the security precautions in place at the hospital. Briones listened intently and then nodded.
“The doctor just told me that he’s come to,” Cruz informed him. “They spent five hours operating on his skull, trying to drain the blood and fix the damage. He says the prognosis is good. I wish he’d stuck a pair of forceps into his brain and ended this, but that’s not how the Hippocratic Oath works, apparently. So El Rey’s still with us,” Cruz explained. “I’m going in to interrogate him. You want to be a fly on the wall?” he asked Briones.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The pair opened the door and walked into the room. El Rey was handcuffed and chained to the steel frame, and held down with restraint straps for good measure. His eyes followed Cruz and Briones from beneath a bandage enveloping his head as they walked to the foot of his bed. Cruz noticed that he had remarkable eyes. Bright, intelligent, but chillingly void of any emotion.
“What’s your name?” Cruz asked.
The man smiled almost shyly. “You can call me Romero.”
Cruz recognized that the assassin was mocking him by choosing his first name.
“Very amusing, indeed. You’re quite a card, eh?” Cruz leaned over the bed and lowered his voice. “You’ve pulled your last stunt, my friend. It’s over. You’ll spend the rest of your life rotting in prison for your reward. I hope it was worth it…”
El Rey didn’t say anything; just stared at them both with a disinterested gaze before closing his eyes.
“You’ll never be able to keep me prisoner. No prison will be able to hold me. Enjoy your moment of triumph. You deserve it,” El Rey said in a hoarse whisper directed to the ceiling.
“Oh, I think you underestimate my resolve. I agree, under normal circumstances you’d have a good chance at escape. But you, my little bird, are going to be kept in solitary in a special facility that houses the worst of the worst — under twenty-four hour guard. If you’re lucky they’ll give you solid food once in a while, and not make you eat through a straw. Assuming you can even chew, and the doctor that did the surgery on your brain didn’t scramble it.”
El Rey opened one eye. “Do what you have to do.”
“Oh, I intend to. Believe me. But I do have one question. Who hired you to kill the president? Who put you up to it?” Cruz asked.
“It was pro bono. Call it my charitable contribution to the great nation of Mexico.”
“I don’t believe that for a second. But no matter. I suspect whoever did it will want their money back, or will be looking for you harder than we did. You’ll be praying the prison is secure every night as you cry yourself to sleep,” Cruz said, smiling humorlessly.
“Right. You’re delusional. I watched the president being blown into a million pieces. Nice try, though.”
“Maybe you thought you did, but I’m afraid all you accomplished was to kill a few more innocent men. Seems like your reputation is a little bigger than your actual effectiveness. Par for the course with blowhards,” Cruz said.
“I’m sure that’s the last thing your men were thinking when they disintegrated in flames at the apartment. I read about it in the paper. Sad, really. You don’t train them very well, do you?” El Rey offered, eyes closed again, reclining against his pillow.
Cruz nodded at Briones. He walked over to the television suspended in the right corner of the room and switched it on. Looking at his watch, he flipped through the stations until he got to a news program. The newscaster was reporting on the morning’s attack on the cathedral, and then cut to footage of the president speaking about it. The camera cut back to the announcer, who concluded with the statement that the president had been involved in a near-miss assassination attempt, but was unhurt.
El Rey’s eyes had opened at the sound of the broadcast and now narrowed.
“I saw it myself.”
“What you saw was an hallucination. You failed. Both times you tried to kill a president, you failed miserably. You’re a loser. Maybe you got a reputation as hot stuff snuffing out drug lords and local politicians, but in the big leagues, you’ve been tested and found wanting. And you’ll be spending the rest of your life in a hole, the laughingstock of the prison. That’s your future, you cockroach.”
El Rey stared at him with that dead gaze, and then closed his eyes again. For him, the discussion was over.
Cruz spoke for a few more minutes, taunting him, but got no response. Eventually he tired of it, and he and Briones moved out into the hallway, being replaced in the room by two of the four armed guards.
They walked easily towards the elevator, and Briones turned to Cruz.
“I saw it, too.”
“What you saw was a very brave man — no, several brave men — give their lives for their country. One of which was an impersonator. A lookalike.”
Briones stopped. “Not the president?”
“No. When I met with his chief of staff, I was able to convince him that El Rey was likely to succeed, and that if the president insisted on being seen at public events while he was at risk, that they should find a standin for the events where he didn’t have to give a speech — much like many of the Middle Eastern despots have. This was the first time he used one, which turned out to be fortunate. Or unfortunate, depending upon who you ask.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Briones exclaimed, touching his battered nose gingerly with his fingers.
“Yes, I suspect we both will. It seems to go with the territory.”
“At least the hours are good.”
They both chuckled again.
The elevator opened and they stepped inside, an odd couple who looked like they were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. Cruz pushed the lobby button, and as the doors closed he glanced at Briones again and smiled.
Sometimes the good guys won a round.
Today was one of those days.
Chapter 31
“We got the information from the freight forwarder and traced it to a shipping company here. They gave us the address, so whenever you’re ready, we’ll go in,” Briones reported.
It had been two days since the attack at the cathedral, and they had traced down the manufacturer of the helicopter in the U.S. and gotten the information on the address where it had been sent. It wasn’t hard — there weren’t that many companies making four-foot-long electric remote controlled helicopters that could accommodate substantial modificati
ons. Once they had located the builder, they were able to find the freight forwarder in San Ysidro, California who had imported it into the country. From there it had just been grunt work to track it to Mexico City, where yet another local company had delivered it.
Briones approached Cruz’s desk and put a slip of paper on it bearing a street name and address. Cruz studied it briefly, glanced at the mountain of paperwork on his desk, and then shrugged before rising to his feet.
“I’ve got nothing to do. Let’s go take a look at Santa’s workshop,” Cruz said
The address was in a borderline area of town, mostly industrial buildings covered with graffiti and the few pedestrians, obviously either on their last legs, or overtly dangerous. Briones was driving — it wasn’t the kind of neighborhood to take a high-end BMW, and the Federal Police cruiser would keep most of the miscreants away while they were inside. Briones had warned the landlord not to enter the premises, cautioning that they could be booby-trapped.
“What are we looking for, exactly, sir?” Briones asked as he navigated around the deep potholes.
“I don’t know. Anything that can be used for additional evidence. Maybe a clue as to who hired him to kill the president. Maybe some indication of who he really is. Information.”
“He’s going to be sentenced to hundreds of years in prison. There’s no chance of him ever getting out,” Briones said with satisfaction. “Whoever he is, he’s going to be staring at the gray walls of a twelve-by-eight cell for the rest of his life.”
The prints had come back under the name of a former marine with special operations certification, who had deserted a decade earlier. But further digging into the navy’s documentation had quickly showed the birth certificate and voter’s registration card he had used to enlist was a forgery. It was mystifying — they had no idea who the man they had under guard awaiting trial really was and were no closer to understanding him than they had been a year before.
Mexico didn’t have the death penalty because it considered state-sponsored execution barbaric. El Rey would get multiple life sentences with no possibility of parole — the harshest penalty under Mexican law. The district attorney had already spoken with Cruz, and they were going to make a spectacle of the assassin’s trial, sending the message that no matter who you were, crime didn’t pay. After sentencing, he would go to one of the few truly dependable maximum security prisons in Mexico — Federal Social Readaptation Center Number One, ‘Altiplano’, near Mexico City, which housed a who’s who of drug kingpins. He would be sequestered from the general population and locked down twenty-four hours a day, having no contact with anyone but his guards, who would be regularly rotated from among the most senior and incorruptible in the system.
They rolled to the curb in front of a battered brick building with six metal entry doors, one of which stood with its protective outer grating opened. The owner fidgeted by it jangling a set of keys as he glanced nervously up and down the street. It was late afternoon, but this wasn’t an area you wanted to be in after dark.
“Captain Cruz? Hidalgo Sanchez. Nice to meet you,” the man said, sizing Cruz up as he offered his hand in greeting.
“Likewise. This is Lieutenant Briones,” Cruz said, which prompted the man to shake hands with Briones.
“Have you been inside?” Cruz asked pointedly.
“Of course not. I followed your instructions to the letter. I waited until you got here. I don’t want any trouble from anyone. If a criminal was using one of my workshops, I had no way of knowing. I want it understood I am cooperating with the police,” Sanchez insisted.
“Good. And don’t worry. You’re not suspected of anything.” Cruz hadn’t told him who the criminal was or what he had done. Some things were better left out of the conversation.
Sanchez exhaled a noticeable sigh of relief and then walked back to the door and ceremoniously opened the deadbolt. He turned the knob and swung the steel door open, then gestured to the two officers.
“I’ll just wait out here. Take your time, gentlemen.”
Cruz entered first, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, and then both he and Briones ignited their flashlights — after the incident at the apartment, neither of them was in a mood to try the light switches. A long rectangular work table stood at the far end of the room, near a bank of grimy windows a few feet below the ceiling.
They moved to the table, where Briones began taking photos of the various tools and chemicals. Cruz gave it all a quick glance and then walked over to a black backpack resting against the far wall. He picked it up, but it felt empty. With one eye on Briones carrying out his inventory of the assassin’s wares, he methodically checked the zip-up pockets of the sack and found a crumpled envelope.
Briones continued his inventory and after a few minutes announced he was done.
“Looks like this is where he assembled the bombs and the helicopter. You could rebuild an engine with the number of tools in this place. And there are some traces of plastic explosive in a plastic bag. I think it’s time to call in the crime scene people,” Briones said.
Cruz appeared not to have heard him and then slowly turned to the table.
“Yeah. Call them. Let’s get a crew in here and go over the place with a fine-toothed comb. Maybe there’s something we can use that will lead us to his employer,” Cruz said, his voice tight.
Briones regarded him carefully. “Are you all right?”
He sighed. “Sure I’m all right. I’ve just been battling a cold for the last day. I think it’s wearing me down,” Cruz explained. “Make the call and tell the landlord we’ll probably have people here for at least six to eight hours. I want to get the prints of every person who’s ever been in here, or handled any of the tools or other items.” Cruz tossed the backpack onto the floor.
“Anything in it?” Briones asked, drawing his phone from his shirt pocket.
“No. It was empty.”
Cruz arrived home at the condo after midnight, exhausted to his core. He locked the door behind him quietly, taking care not to make noise as he padded through the foyer into the living room. A trail of alcohol vapor lingered in his wake, but he moved with surety, no hint of inebriation.
Dinah was asleep on the couch, a half full glass of white wine sitting on the coffee table next to a stack of homework she had graded. He considered her, slumbering peacefully, looking angelic in her untroubled dream state, and then brushed past to the bedroom.
Ten minutes later, he emerged with one of his small duffle bags and an extra uniform on a hanger. He placed the bag by the front door and laid the uniform on top of it. Returning to the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Modelo beer. When he popped the top open, it snapped with an audible crack, and Dinah jolted awake. She appeared disoriented for a few seconds, punchy from sleep, and she swung her head around until she saw Cruz. She smiled sleepily, and then her mood faded when she registered his expression.
“Corazon. What time is it? God, it’s almost one. Where were you? I tried to wait up, but I couldn’t…” She stopped — he was staring impassively at her. “Amor…what’s wrong? Is everything okay?”
Cruz reached into his shirt pocket with his left hand and withdrew the letter he’d retrieved that afternoon from the backpack. He flipped it at her, the small rectangle slicing a dizzy course through the tense air before it landed at her feet. Her eyes locked on it, and then her face collapsed.
“Amor. Romero. I can explain…”
“Can you? Can you really? That would be good to hear. Tell me why my fiancee is passing detailed information to the world’s most dangerous assassin, and the subject of my task force’s every waking moment of effort. Tell me why the man who killed my men, who wades in blood and lives to murder, benefits from your notes, like a lover sneaking kisses in the night. Explain it to me. Because I’d really like to understand.”
“It’s not what you think. I did it for us…”
“For us? Really. How is that, exactly? How is betraying me,
betraying everything I’ve worked for, good for us? Because I’m confused. I don’t get it. I don’t see how my wife-to-be could lie to me every day, and be handing my innermost secrets to my sworn enemy, yet really be doing it for my own good. Christ. Do you know what kind of an animal this man is?” Cruz took a long swig of beer, finishing the can in three swallows. He stared at it, and then tossed it into the garbage before opening the refrigerator and grabbing another. He turned back to her and scowled. “This parasite, this psychopath, has killed hundreds of people — and you have been handing him my game plan. Explain that to me because I’m missing some big pieces.”
“He…he found me three weeks ago…after the kidnapping, he came into my room at the hospital, and he threatened to kill me. To kill you. To murder us both…” Dinah hesitated, and then told him everything. The dead drops in the store. El Rey’s demands. The threats.
Cruz listened wordlessly, taking occasional swallows of his beer, and waited for her to finish. When she had, he shook his head, and walked around the breakfast bar to retrieve the envelope before returning to the kitchen. He took his time in formulating his response and fought to keep the anger out of his voice.
“You could have come to me. Told me. I could have helped. I could have saved you.”
“No, you couldn’t. The man is a monster, capable of anything. And he’s beaten everyone he’s ever gone up against.”
“All but one. Me. I beat him. He’s in custody because of me. So you were wrong. You could have…” he slammed his beer down on the tile counter, “you should have come to me. But you didn’t. Instead, you passed information that cost people their lives to this killer. A murderer. A thug. The man who killed your father.” Cruz regretted saying it even as the words left his mouth, and he instantly registered the shock and pain in Dinah’s eyes. And then a part of him didn’t care. Screw it — let her live with the truth.
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