King of Swords (Assassin series #1)

by Russell Blake

  “But not from Julio or Ignacio’s groups. I want them out of the information loop. As far as they’re concerned, it’s just business as usual,” Cruz underscored.

  “I know, I know. We have four guys from Paolo Arriata’s squad who are going in. So it’s compartmentalized,” Briones assured him. Arriata was another veteran of the undercover street operations Cruz had initiated.

  “Good. All right, let’s get the next one in here and go through the drill.”

  Briones rose and went to find their three o’clock appointment.

  ~ ~ ~

  It was just beginning to get pretty hot in Culiacan, although it would get far hotter a few months later. Still, it was uncomfortable enough in the poorly ventilated confines of the jail, where prisoners awaiting trial or sentencing wiled away the days languishing on sparse mattresses in the general population area.

  Moreno had been given his own cell once he’d returned from Mexico City, and the quality and quantity of treatment had improved significantly. Instead of being forced to sleep in a room with twenty other men, many hardened lifelong criminals incarcerated for murder and kidnapping, he got his own, more comfortable bed and a private toilet, including a sink. This was akin to a suite in the Ritz Carlton to Moreno, who’d been living in a bleak lean-to on the outskirts of town, surviving hand-to-mouth on whatever he could steal and sell.

  As he’d gotten older, it had become more difficult to find legitimate employment; the only opportunities that had come his way over the last two years had been grueling construction jobs that required him to spend ten hours a day in the sun hauling concrete cinder blocks and mixing mortar with a shovel on a slab of plywood. With his pronounced limp and attendant complications, a lingering result of an unlucky two seconds on a tall ladder trimming plants on the second story of a home in town, he just couldn’t do it anymore.

  Mexico didn’t have a safety net for its poor or unfortunate, beyond medical care at the notoriously shabby and inept social security hospitals – where one could easily die while waiting to be attended to. There were no social programs, no food stamps, no unemployment checks, no lobbyists sucking prosperity out of the economy for redistribution to the huddled poor. If you didn’t work, you starved to death. The only buffer was the family structure, where caring for the old or the infirm was considered obligatory, but Moreno’s four children were no help. One daughter lived in the United States, where she was struggling as an undocumented alien in Southern California, doing housework for wealthy housewives too occupied with their busy schedules to attend to chores like cleaning their own homes; a son was a fisherman in Veracruz who was barely keeping his head above water; and the other two were dead, one a victim of a traffic accident, and the other of Dengue fever, which cropped up in outbreaks from time to time, and for which there was no cure.

  His daughter occasionally sent a hundred dollars, but it wasn’t anywhere near enough to live on, and there were no gardening jobs for a fifty-something year old gimp with a poorly healed pelvis. So Moreno did odd jobs here and there when he could, and had taken to alleviating the pain from his injury with the readily-available Mexican brown heroin, a habit that had rapidly consumed any savings he’d amassed. So he’d begun a career as a burglar, pilfering opportunistically – though he wasn’t very good at it, as proven by his recent capture. He couldn’t even run away from the two cops, who’d been alerted by a neighbor and were standing, waiting at the sidewalk when he’d climbed awkwardly out of the window.

  He knew he’d been incredibly fortunate that the police captain, Cruz, had found his story valuable, and he resolved to set himself on a more productive path once he was released. There was a Catholic church organization that would feed him if he did work at traffic lights soliciting donations, and while that was a dead-end prospect, it beat rotting in prison for most of the remainder of his life. No, he’d been given another chance, and this time he wouldn’t blow it.

  A guard came by his cell to inform him it was exercise time, followed by lunch in the general population. He pulled on his prison-issue shirt and followed the man out into the yard, where the scorching sun beat down on the assembled felons, dishing out further punishment for their abundant sins. He took up a position on the periphery of the yard, in one of the areas where the roof overhang provided some meager shade. A breeze would have provided some relief, but the surrounding twenty-five foot walls topped with razor wire and broken glass effectively blocked any, converting the jail into an oven. The concrete block construction made an unbearable proposition even worse, because the walls and roof absorbed the sun’s energy all day, and then continued to radiate heat throughout the sweltering night.

  Moreno pulled one of three cigarettes he had left from a packet he’d been given by the guards upon his return and, stooping over, retrieved a match from his shoe and struck it against the ground. A shadow moved across his, and as he stood, he was assaulted by a spike of searing pain. A burly prisoner with a ragged scar across his face plunged a shank into his abdomen with machine-gun speed, again and again, puncturing multiple organs before Moreno fell to the ground in a puddle of spreading blood. The assailant moved hurriedly away from the twitching form, melting into the prisoners, all of whom averted their eyes out of self-preservation.

  Moreno’s vision swirled as the world tilted and blurred, his lifeblood spilt in a miserable hellhole just as things were turning around for him.

  By the time the uninterested guards arrived and called for a medic, Moreno was sliding into oblivion, struck down by an unknown assailant for reasons nobody would ever piece together. His last thought as he slipped from the world was that the whole mortality experience had been vastly overrated.

  ~ ~ ~

  The flight from Mexico City to Los Cabos contained a surprising number of serious, well-muscled police officers distributed among the passengers. The men were traveling in civilian clothes, their weapons safely transported in a special locked container in the belly of the plane, which they’d collect once at their destination. They weren’t chatty and kept to themselves, avoiding interactions with their seatmates, preferring to study the in-flight magazine or close their eyes during the short flight.

  As the plane descended into the arid desert of the southern Baja peninsula, the plane bucked and bumped from the updrafts of hot air rising off the baking scrub below. Off to the left of their approach, the deep azure of the Sea of Cortez stretched into the distance; over a hundred miles of watery gulf washed between Los Cabos and the nearest point on the mainland.

  The wheels scored the tarmac with a smoking streak before the aircraft decelerated down the long runway, recently lengthened for the G-20 as well as to accommodate Boeing 777 flights from the mainland; the final stopping point between Mexico City and China. As the plane turned to loop around towards the terminal, the men noted a phalanx of private jets of every description at the far end of the field; a testament to the money concentrated in the region. Everything from King Air twin-engine prop planes to Gulfstream G-5s nestled wing to wing, and even as high season wound down and the town headed into the dog days of summer, dozens of jets of every shape and size jostled for space.

  The men disembarked, and in the baggage claim area met their local counterparts, the Baja contingent of the Federal Police, who’d retrieved their case of weapons and were waiting to take them to headquarters a few miles from the airport.

  After a cursory orientation in their temporary new home, the team broke for lunch at a nearby open-air seafood restaurant situated under a huge palapa with a thatched roof. When lunch was over, they drove to the site of the newly-constructed convention center that would host the G-20 summit. It seemed that the workers milled about aimlessly amid the constant stream of vehicles that came and went, as deliveries were made and supplies distributed.

  The lay of the land seemed relatively easy to secure, given that there weren’t any structures in the immediate vicinity of the complex. The only locations that were a concern were the school at the bott
om of the steep slope and the surrounding hills. A sniper could possibly take a shot from the crest of the nearest bluff, but it would be extremely iffy at such a distance.

  In the end, securing the site wasn’t their problem. The army would shoulder most of the burden for security during the summit, given the dearth of experienced police personnel. There were no armed conflicts with cartel members in southern Baja, so the local cops had never dealt with anything more dangerous than a shootout with a local dope dealing gang, an occasional drunk with a knife, or a furious wife hell bent on decapitating her wayward husband with a gardening machete.

  Satisfied they understood the geography, the team moved to the surrounding outlying areas, which were largely residential. Two and three-story condominium complexes lined the highway, punctuated by occasional soccer fields and small commercial centers, and the occasional shop and restaurant. The large grocery store and attached mall across the intersection that led to the G-20 was a quarter of a mile away, so posed no obvious threat.

  After completing their day’s orientation, the men checked into a nearby hotel. The undercover cops took siestas, because their shift would start at the fall of night, when adult entertainment began at the strip clubs as they flashed their neon promises onto the sidewalks of San José and downtown Cabo San Lucas. They’d be up until four in the morning most nights, talking up the girls and trying to see if anyone had spent time with a mainlander who seemed suspicious. It was a long shot, but a surprising number of criminals spent their lazy hours drinking with pros, and perhaps El Rey shared that habit. All the undercover officers carried reduced-sized sketches in their wallets, along with some lip-loosening bills, on the off-chance one of the young ladies had something to tell them.

  They wanted to avoid passing the photo around indiscriminately, because it could tip the assassin that they were actively looking for him in Los Cabos; once this professional was on high alert, he’d vanish, leaving them holding air until he struck from out of nowhere. They would wait until a day or two before the summit commenced to take that last-ditch step of desperation and circulate the sketch to all law enforcement and armed forces in the area.

  A big obstacle was that the local police were usually corrupt. Average salary was three hundred fifty dollars a month, so most augmented their income by taking bribes for all manner of favors – letting off traffic offenders, hassling business competitors, demanding money to protect shops and restaurants, and selling information to underworld connections; which presented the problem – El Rey would doubtlessly be plugged into the underground buzz, and would hear about a manhunt within hours of their going widespread with it.

  Every prisoner taken into custody would be interviewed and shown the sketch, just in case somebody had encountered him. Additionally, the undercover cops would spread the word through the local drug dealers, in case El Rey had a habit, which many criminals did. Once the undercover officers had bought a few times, they would show the dealers the sketch, concocting a story that the man had stolen property from a connected cartel boss, who was willing to reward anyone who could help locate him. It wasn’t unknown for those hiding to do so in Baja – it was considered the boonies by mainland Mexicans; a wasteland out in the sticks that nobody in their right mind would want to go to if they could help it.

  It wasn’t a comprehensive strategy, but it was a good start, and as the sun began to dip behind the Sierra La Laguna mountains the undercover team prepared to begin the first of many long nights in southern Baja’s dens of iniquity, searching for an illusive man with no name other than that of a tarot card.

  Chapter 14

  Cruz felt like he’d been through the wringer after the last two days’ back-to-back meetings. Ten hour shifts were customary for him, but with all the work piling up while he met with his team leaders, he was clocking twelve to thirteen, and it still was not enough. He hated this part of the job; but the administration aspect was an essential part of Mexican management, and whether he liked it or not, he was in Mexico…managing.

  Now that the teams had departed for Los Cabos, he felt like they were beginning to become pro-active. But it was an emotional roller coaster. He had the sense of time racing by as the summit drew nearer, yet they were really no closer to getting hard proof than they had been a week before. He’d taken the sketch of El Rey to CISEN and described the interview he’d had with the robber from Culiacan, but they’d seemed unimpressed. That didn’t surprise him given their first meeting. He knew from experience that, when bureaucrats fought turf wars instead of doing their jobs, there was no way of forcing them back on track. He’d tried shaming them, but they hadn’t budged – preferring to spin out lame assurances that all necessary steps to ensure the President’s safety had been taken. They’d told him not to worry – they were on the case.

  Cruz had left a copy of the sketch with them and hoped they’d wake up, but he wasn’t optimistic. For whatever reason, they hadn’t been interested in anything he had to say, so that looked like a dead-end.

  His meeting with the DEA hadn’t gotten any traction either. Bill had been noncommittal about the Secret Service’s reaction, which Cruz took to mean that he’d fared no better than he had with CISEN. It was possible that the Americans were taking the danger more seriously than Mexico was, but he thought it unlikely, given that nobody had touched base with him or asked for any additional information.

  It was a classic catch-22 situation. He couldn’t prove that the pawn shop owner had been killed by El Rey, and had nothing new to report on that slaying, which meant that his sketch could have been of anybody – there was nothing to confirm it was the infamous killer, any more than the other sketches, besides the testimony of a jailhouse snitch, which was notoriously unreliable anywhere in the world. And Santiago’s statements had carried no weight – a cartel boss who’d died of brain damage after threatening to kill the two presidents; it was hardly pristine testimony. Cruz understood that. He’d been quick to distrust Santiago’s threats as well, until he’d had time to process his reactions and consider the man’s tone and demeanor. None of which was proof of anything, even if it was convincing.

  Cruz’s stomach growled. He glanced at the clock on his wall, surprised that it was already eight o’clock at night. The day had flown past yet again. Staring at the never-shrinking pile of paperwork in front of him, he felt demoralized. He wanted to be in the field, chasing down leads, questioning people, not acting like a goddamned CPA.

  He took a swallow of the now cold coffee from his oversized cup and, grimacing at the bitter brew, decided to call it quits for the night. The slush pile of documents would still be there tomorrow, awaiting his perusal and signature. Of that he was sure. He rose, stretched his arms and rotated his head to get the kinks out, and then experienced a stab of guilt. It was unlikely he’d have a house full of hookers and booze tonight, so he reasoned that he might as well take the work home and plow through it as he ate, rather than watching TV. At least he’d have less unpleasantness waiting for him the next morning, and it would certainly put him to sleep.

  Toting his newly-stuffed briefcase through security to his car, he decided to put in for a secretary. He’d always dismissed the idea, believing it sent the wrong message to his team, but he couldn’t go on like this. Cruz needed to be active operationally, especially now there were less than four weeks till the summit. Finding one wouldn’t be a problem, as all the other captains had administrative assistants, so he didn’t have any worries in that regard. He made a mental note to have Briones send out an inter-departmental memo notifying the staff, so if there were any candidates internally they’d get first shot. He’d prefer someone familiar with the labyrinthine processes imbedded in the Federal Police system; otherwise he was just further adding to his task load trying to bring someone up to speed.

  He tossed his briefcase onto the seat, returned to his office and grabbed a cardboard file box crammed full of the week’s worth of papers he’d been meaning to attend to, but never seemed to have
the time for. The container weighed a good forty pounds. Had he really allowed things to back up that much?

  Cruz heaved the container to the car and slid it onto the passenger seat, wedging his briefcase next to it so it wouldn’t go flying if he had to stop suddenly. Satisfied, he fired up the big V8, giving it thirty seconds to warm up before pulling out of the lot. He waved goodnight to the guard and swung into the night-time traffic of Mexico City, his vision blurred from fatigue and eye strain.

  The trip to Toluca was clearer than usual, probably due to the later hour, and he made it to his off ramp in under forty minutes – a kind of minor miracle. Spying one of the ubiquitous OXXO convenience store signs, he calculated the state of his refrigerator and decided to get beer and bread for his dinner; the current loaf had started to turn an alarming shade of green around the edges, and he didn’t want to tempt fate any more than he already had. Cruz was on his cell phone with Briones getting the evening download on day two of the operation in Baja, so he barely registered the truck that pulled into the space on his passenger side as he eased next to an ancient Impala that he knew belonged to the manager.

  “All right,” he told the lieutenant over the phone, “I want to fly to Los Cabos next week and spend a couple of days looking over the site before things get too hectic. We’re running out of –”

  His passenger-side window exploded in a hail of bullets as a burst of machine-gun fire tore into the side of the car. Cruz dropped the phone, momentarily stunned, and felt white-hot lances of pain from his chest and his right leg. Operating on instinct, he slammed the car into reverse and grabbed at his pistol, freeing it as he stomped on the gas. The Charger roared backwards. He spun the wheel to the right, blocking the truck in with his car as he jammed down on the brake. More gunfire glanced off the engine block as the shooter leaned out the truck window in an attempt to adjust his aim. Cruz emptied nine rounds through the vehicle’s windshield, noting with satisfaction that the shooter had dropped his weapon on the ground as some of the slugs found home.