Briones’ Dodge Charger rolled to the curb a minute later, and Cruz got in. Briones handed him a cup of coffee and pulled back onto the street, cheerfully ignoring the speed limit as he accelerated and blew through a red light.
“Maybe you should hit the emergency lights,” Cruz suggested, and Briones flipped a dashboard switch. Flashing blue illuminated the car interior from the bar bolted across the upper windshield. “Fill me in on what you know.”
“The shoot-out occurred an hour ago. The target of the kidnapping was Romeo Saldado, the son of the beer magnate. He was at the club with several friends and two ex-marine bodyguards. When he left the club, four masked gunmen jumped out of a nearby van and tried to force him into the vehicle, but he fought them, which bought enough time for the guards to get their guns out. The kidnappers were armed with pistols, and there was a shoot-out. One of the guards took bullets in the chest and leg, but between the two of them they killed all the kidnappers. The unharmed guard emptied his weapon into the van as it took off, and a delivery truck slammed into it as it was crossing the intersection.”
“Sounds like the same MO as the other recent attacks, doesn’t it? Van, four men, a nightclub…”
“You’d think these kids would figure out that getting laid isn’t worth the risk of being snatched, or worse,” Briones said, ignoring that he was only five or six years older than the youths he was castigating.
“Any ID on the perps?” Cruz asked.
“Negative, but three of the four had tattoos that looked military. We’re running prints.”
“Military?”
“You know the kind. Flags, crossed rifles, that sort of thing. Oh, and one of the men had a scar from a gunshot wound. Not recent, but it might help get a fix on him.”
“Anyone besides the bodyguard hurt?”
“No, by the grace of God. There were some close calls, but everyone ran inside once the shooting started. We got lucky.”
“Sounds like it. A survivor, and the kidnappers didn’t open up with AKs and spray the street.” Cruz took a cautious sip from his cup. “And the coffee isn’t bad, either. Thanks, by the way.”
Briones smiled. “OXXO,” he said, mentioning the ubiquitous convenience stores that had spread like cancer recently. “What did we ever do before there was one on every corner?”
Cruz eyed him. “How much sleep did you get?”
“Four hours. I’m fine.”
“Are you up for the interrogation after we see the crime scene?”
“Try keeping me away.”
“That’s the spirit.” Cruz gave him a tired grin. “You see, even if you’re a desk jockey, you’ll still get hauled into the field in the dead of night. So it’s not all reports and meetings – there’s a little excitement to be had.”
“Nice to know.”
The club was chaos, with almost a thousand partygoers emptying out in waves through side doors as police vehicles blocked the street. A coroner’s van sat near the entrance, where a dozen uniformed police were standing around, exchanging jokes or complaints as they waited for the cleanup to conclude.
Cruz and Briones approached the area where the forensics technicians were working on the corpses. Cruz shook hands with the metropolitan police sergeant in charge of the scene, who gave them the rundown on what had transpired, finishing with his estimation that the techs would need another hour to finish their job and haul the dead away.
“We got statements from the two guards, the victim, and his girlfriends.”
“Plural?” Cruz said, an eyebrow raised.
“It’s a different world than I grew up in,” the sergeant observed. “As to the witnesses, everyone’s story is the same. It’s a classic grab that would have gone perfectly if the abductee hadn’t kneed one of them in the groin and kicked another in the stomach.”
“Really? That was aggressive.”
“He told me he does martial arts. I guess even half in the bag, the practice came to good use.”
“It could have gone the other way.”
“I know,” the sergeant agreed. “He’s very lucky he didn’t get a bullet to the head for his trouble. I told him.”
“Where is he?”
“Sitting in that Suburban with his bodyguard and the two girls.” The sergeant indicated a dark gray SUV with several police officers leaning against it. “The ambulance already took the other bodyguard to the hospital.”
Briones went to see what he could glean from the victims as Cruz inspected the bodies and asked a pointed question here and there. After fifteen minutes it was obvious that their presence at the scene wasn’t yielding any new information, so they thanked the sergeant and then made their way to headquarters.
The interrogation didn’t provide any breakthroughs. The driver knew very little, other than that he’d been hired by one of the dead men, who he believed was cartel-related. He’d been paid five thousand pesos for the night – the equivalent of three hundred and fifty dollars – with another five thousand promised upon the successful completion of the abduction. Cruz shook his head at the stupidity of the transaction. The man would spend at least ten years in prison for a total possible payday of seven hundred dollars.
Only one thing the driver said gave them pause: that the man who’d hired him had indicated that if he did a good job on this one, there would be plenty more work, because they were targeting more rich kids, the next grab to occur at a rave the following weekend outside of Mexico City. The driver had gotten the impression that the kidnapping ring was larger than the four dead men, but who else was involved he couldn’t guess, nor did he know any details about the coming attempt. He’d been picked up outside his tenement earlier that night, and he had no idea whether the kidnappers had a headquarters or, if so, where it was.
Briones accompanied Cruz to the elevators that led from the basement holding cell, moving slowly, fatigue obvious in his stride.
“What an idiot. His whole life thrown away…for what?”
“Not our problem. He chose his future,” Cruz said, his tone glum.
“I’m not sure what we do with the information about the rave. I’ll check to see what we have on upcoming events, but those are underground deals, with invitations strictly word of mouth.”
“We might think about leaking it to the papers.”
“True, but then what? The bad guys just change their plan, and we’ve accomplished nothing,” Briones said, frustration in his every syllable.
They waited for the elevator to arrive in silence, and Cruz turned to Briones. “Sounds like a big group, doesn’t it? Not a backyard outfit.”
Briones nodded. “It definitely has cartel written all over it. Way too organized for one of the local gangs.”
“I agree. Hopefully one of the dead men can be identified and we’ll better understand who we’re dealing with.” He paused. “The girl still hasn’t been returned. They paid the ransom last night, but so far, nothing.”
“You think it’s the same group?”
“Too early to say. But the fact that she hasn’t shown up yet is troubling. You know we’ll take the heat if they kill her.”
“But we weren’t involved. The parents deliberately kept us out of it.”
“I know. But that won’t matter if she shows up dead. There’ll be press conferences and angry demands by the media. They’ll be looking for someone to fry, and we’re it.” Cruz sighed. “Go home and get a couple of hours of sleep. That’s an order.”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“And I told you to go rest. Be back at ten. No arguments.”
The door slid open, and they stepped into the elevator, Briones silently grateful for being ordered home in spite of his protestations, Cruz could tell. Between the prior night’s mission at the airfield and now this, he was running on empty.
The elevator stopped at the main floor, and Briones got out. “Ten o’clock,” he confirmed, and Cruz watched with a trace of envy for his relative youth and resilience as he signed out a
t the security desk. Cruz considered taking his own advice, but knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he resigned himself to another long slog through the never-ending river of paperwork while he waited for the computers to cough out names to put with the kidnappers’ faces. He swallowed the acid that rose in his gorge, a combination of anxiety and coffee, and offered a silent prayer that at least the kidnapped girl would be returned alive.
Chapter 13
Tijuana, Mexico
Archbishop Rene Bolivar thanked his guests – a group of society wives who were instrumental in the Church’s charity drive to raise money for orphans – for coming, and shook hands with each as they left the rectory hall, where he’d hosted a dinner in appreciation of their tireless efforts. When the last woman had departed, he waved to Sister Catalina and wished her a good night. The cleaning staff was already at work clearing the tables and bussing dishes. He snagged a half-full glass of cabernet, a donation from one of the local wineries in the nearby Guadalupe Valley, and trudged wearily to his quarters on the second floor – an expansive suite of rooms by any measure, certainly compared to his prior Spartan digs when he was but a humble priest.
Bolivar was a hard worker, a hands-on administrator who was convinced he could make a difference in the community, changing attitudes about important issues like corruption, domestic violence, and abuse of property rights, all of which were greeted with apathy at present. Mexico’s history was one of constant corruption at every level of government, from the local police to the presidency, and his flock no more expected honesty from its public servants than it expected levitation. Likewise, spousal and child abuse were considered off-limits for discussion, dirty secrets best left unexplored, which ensured that they thrived through fear, ignorance, and ambivalence – or at best, quiet condemnation.
Property rights were his pet issue, due to the amount of land in Baja that had been sold to moneyed interests under questionable circumstances. His latest crusade was against unlawful restriction of beach access, which was guaranteed by law for the population – but which was routinely violated by resorts that paid off the local officials to turn a blind eye. And huge tracts of land had been stolen from their rightful owners by corrupt regimes that ignored legitimate deeds, preferring to write new ones for their cronies while the rightful owners spent decades in a court system that was as easily purchased as a dancing girl’s charms.
He’d managed to make progress on some things and was happy to see an increase in prosecutions against domestic violence, usually inflicted by alcoholic boyfriends or husbands while their mates cowered, afraid to tell anyone. There was also a slow increase in public outcry against corruption, although he had a long way to go on that one. In southern Baja’s most prosperous metropolitan area, Cabo San Lucas, the papers had leaked that over thirty million dollars had gone missing under the new mayor’s stewardship – not surprising given that his brother was in prison awaiting trial for embezzlement from his own term as the previous mayor.
Mexicans didn’t share the naïve beliefs of their northern neighbors and were under no illusions that prosperous men ran for office in order to become tireless public servants. The only reason any politician ran for anything was so he could get elected and steal everything that wasn’t bolted down, handing out sweetheart contracts for bridges to nowhere and misappropriating or otherwise absconding with the tax receipts while avoiding anything resembling actual work. That was how it had always been, and despite elevated rhetoric about change and a new era, nobody believed it would ever be any different in a society where votes were purchased for a few pesos and even the watchdogs were as corrupt as an Ecuadorian customs inspector.
Bolivar pushed his door open and took a long sip of the magnificent cabernet, grateful that another demanding day had drawn to a close. Unlike his predecessor, who had spent most of his time avoiding his responsibilities, Bolivar believed that it was his duty to work long and hard, and that if he didn’t want to, he shouldn’t have the job of being a an opinion leader. But in spite of his commitment and religious enthusiasm, some days the size of the task seemed overwhelming. This was one of those days.
Bolivar removed his clothes, taking care to fold them carefully and place them over the back of a chair, and treated himself to a long, hot shower – his first real opportunity to relax since launching into action early that morning. He took his time and was toweling off when he heard a rustle from his office.
“Hello?” he said, his head cocked as he listened.
Nothing.
“Hello…” he called again as he tied the towel around his waist. He tried to remember whether he’d opened his office window that morning, but couldn’t. Perhaps he had, or his housekeeper had, and the wind from the ocean was rustling his papers.
He walked into the office, but nothing was out of place, and the window was closed. He peered at the vines outside, making a mental note to have the gardener cut them back, and returned to his bedroom and the glass of wine. He drained it in three swallows, the dregs tasting bitter to him, and returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth. By the time he was done, his eyes were so heavy he was barely able to stand, and he almost didn’t make it to the bed before he passed out.
El Rey stepped from behind the armoire, wearing a priest’s cassock, his bag slung over his shoulder. The 30 mg of zolpidem he’d put into the priest’s wine was enough to knock out a pony, rendering the archbishop unconscious for the final moments of his life.
The assassin glanced around the room and opened his bag. He retrieved three DVD cases and slipped them under the desk blotter near the priest’s computer, and slid one of the disks into the CD player so it would be found in the morning. Pornography was widely available, but deviant porn of this type was rarely seen, the bestiality, violence, and other offensive content so disturbing that even if it had been legal, it would have been frowned upon by most.
The dossier CISEN had provided indicated that the bishop was a pervert of the most extreme sort, his tastes running far beyond what might be considered normal in even the most liberal interpretations. El Rey had no doubt that when the good father was found and the contents of the DVDs reviewed, the church would ensure the case was closed before it even opened.
He removed a length of black silk rope from his satchel and secured it to the lamp fixture over the desk area, pausing to test it with his weight. Satisfied, he moved to the priest and lifted him. The cleric’s thin form was relatively light, and in five minutes he’d finished setting the scene, a package with six Ambien still unconsumed in the bathroom and one of the CDs looping on the computer. He glanced at the dead priest without expression and then slipped out the way he’d come, leaving the bishop to be found in the morning, naked and suspended from the ceiling, the victim of a deadly drug-and-alcohol-fueled bout of autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong in pursuit of the ultimate climax.
Chapter 14
Tepuche, Sinaloa, Mexico
Serpentine waves of gentle breezes from the nearby mountains washed across the tall grass, the field undulating like the surface of a stormy sea. Indalecio Arellano eyed the approaching clouds with a wary eye.
The pigs had gotten loose again, and he was out looking for them, hoping to find them before they got really lost or a less-than-charitable neighbor got his hands on one and decided to have bacon for breakfast. As industrious as any animal when it came to escape, his freedom-loving swine were highly intelligent and possessed of a fierce independent streak. And now he was paying for their newly acquired liberty with sore feet from hours of marching through the grass.
The sound of motors reached his ears, and he squinted against the high afternoon sun. Two pickup trucks were racing up the dirt road that led to his property, trailing a dust cloud that lingered like beige smoke. Indalecio lived in a rural area of Sinaloa, far from the bustle of Culiacán, the capital city, and rarely had visitors on his large farm, where he grew lush harvests of tomatoes and organic vegetables as his forefathers had for centuries.
Indalecio was sixty-four but looked a decade younger, mostly due to a rigorous regimen of exercise tending to his farm and a diet that was primarily vegetables he grew himself. The truth was that he hadn’t had the heart to butcher any of his pigs for as long as he could remember, having named each one and gotten familiar with their personalities, which were as distinct as any human’s, and which he generally preferred to his fellow man’s company. He’d read somewhere that a pig had the intellect of a four-year-old human child, and ever since that time he’d been unable to bring himself to eat them, incurring regular ribbing from Ruiz, who didn’t share his idealistic philosophical idiosyncrasies. Still, Indalecio had made it clear to his hand that the pigs were off-limits, and he doted on them like they were his children, which in many ways they were.
“Frigging pigs will be the death of me yet. Fine. Go run free and see what it gets you. You’ll be back before nightfall, begging for slop. Let that be a lesson to you,” he muttered under his breath as he trudged toward his ranch.
Ranch. A grandiose term for his sixty acres of land for which he fought a constant battle against the encroachment of the surrounding wilds. Only a third of it was really suited to farming, and the rest was more of a nuisance than an asset most of the year. Still, it was his, and he viewed himself more as custodian than owner, still thinking of it as his father’s land, even after these many years had passed since the elder Arellano had gone to his reward.
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