Fatal Exchange

by Russell Blake

  A hail of bullets tore a chunk of stone from the deck a few feet from him; he swiveled in a crouch and fired a few short bursts from his silenced assault rifle in the direction of the barking male voices. Another bullet ricocheted off the fire pit, signaling that it was time to make his departure. The surviving guards from the front of the house were closing in, and even he was reluctant to take on over a dozen armed men in a wide-open gunfight.

  He unclipped a final grenade from his backpack chest strap and pulled the pin, flipping it roughly twenty feet towards the house, and then unclipped the MTAR-21, emptied the magazine in the direction of the approaching guards and tossed it aside, satisfied with the screams of pain from their direction. He wrenched the night vision goggles off his head and threw them as far as he could towards the house before turning to run for the beach. The grenade’s concussion delivered yet another delay for his pursuers – the shrapnel from the explosion would stop any chase long enough for him to get a thirty second lead, which was all he needed. He sprinted to the water line across the luminescent sand and without hesitation dived into the mild surf, swimming energetically as he strained towards the mouth of the cove.

  A beam of light played across the water from the beach, and he sensed bullets shredding through the waves around him as he plowed further from shore. Counting to himself, he swam submerged for twenty seconds at a time, coming up for gulps of air before plunging into the safety of the deep.

  Once he was past the rocks at the mouth of the cove he angled to the right, and within a few moments reached a slimy outcropping of rocks a hundred yards from the angry killers on the shore. He fumbled around in the dark until he found the smooth fiberglass side of the black jet ski he’d secured there the night before and hurriedly tore the camouflage fabric from its sleek hull and freed it from the rocks. The tide had risen to the point where the small watercraft slid easily onto the waves, and within seconds the engine fired and he tore off into the sea, jumping easily over the surf that roiled atop the reef line.

  A few bursts of distant rifle fire chattered across the water but he was already out of range – the shooting was little more than a lament from the thwarted security. Savoring the adrenaline rush as he flew over the small swells at forty-five miles per hour, he reached beneath his chin and pulled the soaking balaclava over his face, jettisoning it into the sea as he plotted a course south, where a vehicle waited on a lonely stretch of beach for his nocturnal arrival.

  Tonight would be the stuff of legends, he knew. In a business where money flowed like water, he’d just pulled off the impossible in a spectacular and flamboyant manner. After this, he’d be able to command whatever fee he wanted, and there would be an international waiting list of eager clients. He’d left the card in Salazar’s maw to seal the deal and continue to build his reputation. It had started years ago, as an idea he’d gotten from an article he’d read about the American war in the Middle East, where the kill squads assigned playing cards to each target they were hunting. He’d liked the idea, but had taken it one step further. When he’d begun his career as contract killer, he’d made a point of leaving a tarot card with a depiction of the King of Swords on it, and he’d adopted a nickname that now struck fear into the hearts of those he targeted.

  King of Swords. El Rey de Espadas. Or as the press had taken to calling him, El Rey.

  It might have been a little melodramatic, but nobody was laughing now that his legacy of impossible kills was the stuff of front page headlines. Not since the days of Carlos the Jackal had an assassin gained such notoriety, and he’d carefully selected the contracts he’d taken for maximum publicity value, in addition to the money. He’d quickly developed a reputation as a phantom, an invisible man – a contract arranged with him was as good as putting a bullet in the target’s brain at the time the deal was negotiated.

  El Rey was a star, a legend, and even his clients approached him with a certain trepidation when they required his services. These were generally men who butchered whole communities to make a point, but who deferred to El Rey out of respect.

  He’d earned that respect the hard way, by taking the sanctions that were considered impossible and then delivering. In his circles, respect was earned at the edge of a knife blade or the barrel of a gun. It was blood currency. And now, he could name his price. Tonight’s logistics had cost him just under a hundred thousand dollars – the contract price had been two and a half million. Not a bad evening’s work. But after this, his rate would start at four million and quickly increase from there, depending on the level of difficulty.

  Off to his left, the lights of Punta Mita’s expansive coastline sparkled in the overcast night. Some of the homes along that stretch of beach cost well over five million dollars, he knew. Rich Gringos and successful narcotraficantes were the only ones who could afford them, and with a little luck, soon he would be part of the elite that called the area home. But he’d need to do a few more jobs before he could hang up his tail and horns and call it quits, and he was in no hurry to retire. El Rey loved the adrenaline rush of the kill; the more planning involved and the greater the level of challenge, the better.

  He glanced down at the dimly illuminated compass he’d mounted beneath the handles and made a small adjustment to his course, musing at the direction his life had taken as he sliced through the inky water, effortlessly making his escape into the warm tropical night.

  ~~Prologue~~

  Two Years Ago

  The central square in downtown Puebla was typical of larger Mexican towns; a cultural hub for the community as well as a gathering place. Tourists from all over Mexico traveled to visit the cathedral adjacent to the square; the area was one of the most picturesque in the region. A steady procession of cars cruised around the city center, although traffic was kind in the early afternoon. A light breeze rustled through the trees that sheltered picnickers from the harsh sunlight as they languished on the freshly trimmed grass.

  Rosa sat at one of the quaint cafés with her daughter, Cassandra, eating fresh fruit sorbet. It was summer, so school was out, and they were visiting Rosa’s parents for a week – a refreshing break from the press of humanity in Mexico City, which was among the largest cities in the world, and the place she reluctantly called home.

  The weather was hot, but not punishingly so, and free from the oppressive pollution that sat like a blanket over the valley where Mexico City resided. Some of the air quality problems were a function of geography, and some were due to the virtual absence of any emission control on cars until recently. The capital of Mexico was surrounded by hills, which prevented the thermal layer of un-breathable toxins from dispersing. It was one of nature’s cruel tricks that so many people lived in an area where breathing the air was the equivalent of smoking a pack of cigarettes a day.

  She wished that they could move, maybe to Guadalajara, where the weather was usually nice and the verdant region of Lake Chapala was little more than an hour away, but her husband’s job wouldn’t allow for that. She hated that they were locked into living in their little three bedroom row house in Toluca, near the airport, in a neighborhood that seemed chronically victimized by crime; but life wasn’t always fair or easy and they were doing the best they could.

  Rosa had a decent career as an insurance agent for her own small agency, and between her income and her husband’s they did as well as they could expect, but sometimes she was affected by a sense of melancholy, especially as she watched her eight year old daughter growing up in less than ideal conditions. Cassandra had been a miracle baby; Rosa’s doctor had convinced her that she would never be able to carry a baby to term due to a host of chronic immuno-deficiencies, but a strong faith in God and skilled care at the hospital had brought Cassandra howling into the world, where she’d been Rosa’s pride and joy ever since.

  Glancing at her daughter, Rosa brushed Cassandra’s hair out of her eyes, and using a corner of her napkin, wiped away a smudge of strawberry from the little girl’s upturned lips. Cassandra – Cass
– gave Rosa a look of embarrassment and hastily rubbed her forearm across her face. Rosa smiled at the gesture. That was another way to do it, she supposed.

  A policeman on patrol tipped his cap to the pair as he strolled by; she returned his smile out of courtesy. A striking example of classical Mexican beauty, with flashing eyes the color of espresso and black hair that shimmered like silk against her café-au-lait-complexioned skin, she was accustomed to admiring attention from men, even though she’d long ago pledged her heart and soul to her husband – the love of her life.

  Cass had inherited her stunning features, but with an unexpected twist of dirty blond hair – a testament to her father’s partial German lineage several generations back. Even now, barely an adolescent, she was a gorgeous child, and Rosa knew she was destined to break hearts when she blossomed. It was not out of the question that she could be a model once she hit her teens; a few of Rosa’s friends had already said as much.

  As they watched the cars go by and the kids playing on the square, both mother and daughter felt happy to be relaxed in a place that was safe and relatively unspoiled. They’d just finished lunch at a small restaurant at the base of one of the old hotels facing the church, enjoying the best chicken Mole Poblano Rosa had tasted in years. Mole sauce was more of an art than a recipe, and each region had its own take on the dish. In Puebla, the sauce was nearly black, as thick as liquid tar, redolent of chocolate and clove and thirty-something other spices and ingredients. It was a rich and heady dish, and few restaurants could pull it off as well as the one they’d dined at. Puebla was one of the Meccas of Mexican culinary accomplishment, and Mole Poblana was a signature Pueblan specialty.

  Cass had busied herself naming the pigeons that paraded and strutted across the street in the square, and one particularly unctuous example of male avian belligerence had captured her attention. She’d announced to Rosa that his name was El Guero – the pale one. The bird was almost blindingly white and had a remarkable presence; a swagger in each step and with chest puffed out, he fanned his wings and tail feathers in a display of mating finery. The smaller gray females were clearly impressed with his moves, as was Cass. Back and forth he swooped, cooing loudly as he pranced, the bird king of the Puebla park holding court for his admiring subjects.

  Finished with their post-prandial treat, they left the vicinity of the square and made their way to the parking lot where they’d left their car – a Peugeot that had never seemed to run correctly since the day they’d bought it new, on payments that amounted to twenty percent annual interest. Rosa hated the little blue beast; they were counting the days until it was paid for so they could sell it and get something more reliable.

  Two blocks from the square, a Ford Expedition pulled to the curb beside them, and two men who had been following a few yards behind abruptly grabbed the pair and forced them towards the rear door. Rosa screamed, as did Cassandra, who also kicked and tried to bite her assailant’s arm. One of the men punched Rosa hard enough to break her nose in an effort to stop the yelling, before he manhandled her to the vehicle. There was sparse pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk, but the few people who saw the altercation stopped walking, frozen in place. Kidnappings were an unfortunate and all too regular feature of some larger cities in Mexico, and the armed gangs that specialized in it were not to be trifled with. Shootouts were not uncommon, because those drawn to the profession were typically violent and desperate, with nothing much to lose.

  The man who had punched Rosa pinned her on the rear seat while the other man lifted the struggling, screaming Cassandra and stuffed her next to her mother. One kidnapper got in back with the pair; the other climbed into the front passenger seat. The truck roared off down the street in a cloud of exhaust and a squealing of tires. It had no license plate, a not particularly rare occurrence for those who didn’t want to pay registration fees, so there were no immediately identifying marks other than a description of a large white Ford SUV.

  The man in the rear seat slapped duct tape over Cassandra’s mouth, then reached over and did the same with Rosa. The abductor in the passenger seat trained a pistol on Rosa’s head, convincing her quickly that creating further havoc could be a fatal miscalculation. Cassandra sobbed into the tape, terrified of what was happening and what was likely to come.

  Twenty-five minutes after being snatched off the street in broad daylight, their assailants threw Rosa and Cassandra down a flight of stairs into a basement with a filthy mattress and a broken sewer line evacuating into one of the corners. The stink was overpowering, and once the tape had been torn from their mouths, Cassandra vomited all over herself, infuriating the four men who descended the stone stairs a few minutes later. The largest of them slammed her against the far wall and issued angry instructions to one of his subordinates, who quickly returned with a hose from the garden immediately outside the basement entrance.

  Rosa attempted to shield her daughter, but the large man grabbed her by the hair and punched Rosa in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her and crippling her with pain. She collapsed on the floor, helpless, and two of the men alternated kicking her with their pointy-toed cowboy boots. After a few blows, she mercifully slipped into unconsciousness. Even so, the men continued to rain kicks on her abdomen and back until they tired of the sport and turned their attention to the young girl.

  A stream of cold water struck Cassandra in the face. The men laughed as she screamed in fear and rage at the shock, as well as the vision of her mother’s inert form in the filth on the dank basement floor. Once the vomit had rinsed clean, the large man approached her huddled shape as she shivered, soaked and terrified, and tore her dress off, ripping the thin fabric as though it was tissue. Grunting, he lifted her like a rag doll and threw her onto the stained mattress. Stunned, she cried in panicked horror as the men circled her in preparation for the afternoon’s diversion. The large man fumbled with his belt, and the others smiled in anticipation as Cassandra’s unholy shrieks reverberated off the uncaring walls of her private hell.

  ~ ~ ~

  Two days later, a package arrived at Rosa’s husband’s work with his name written carefully on the label in black felt pen, with a return address in Puebla – that of Rosa’s parents. A local courier brought the box in and the receptionist signed for it, then instructed the mail boy to take it to his office, where he was hosting a staff meeting for his immediate subordinates.

  No one working that day would ever forget the screams of horror and grief that emanated from his office when he opened the special delivery. Inside, wrapped in plastic and surrounded by crushed newspaper, were Cassandra’s and Rosa’s heads, neatly severed at the third cervical vertebrae, with their eyes crudely sewn shut. Each had the brand of a scorpion seared into their foreheads, and the tail of a scorpion protruded from each of their mouths, where the predatory arthropods had been lodged as calling cards.

  ~ ~ ~

  Four Months Ago

  The crowd broke into a rousing cheer as Hector De La Silva took the podium at the rally in Durango. Long one of the more popular governors in Mexican history, his term had passed without him seeking re-election – his aspirations for the presidency as the likely successor to Mexico’s highest office quite obvious. He’d already begun the convoluted and colorful campaigning that made Mexican elections something of a spectacle – the fiery rhetoric and accusations vivid and damning, the promises lofty and inspiring. Nobody actually believed anything the candidates said – history had shown that no matter who was in power, the campaign promises were immediately forgotten as soon as the voting was over, but the process was celebrated for the showmanship and sense of theater.

  Hector, or ‘El Gallo’ as he was known – the rooster – was in his element; a consummate performer from decades of holding political office, he knew how to play to a crowd like a virtuoso. He was famous for slamming his forehead into the podium when his speech reached its climax, underscoring the sacrifice he was prepared to make on behalf of his constituency – the head-banging r
outine was now as popular and expected as the flip off the top rope in the Mexican wrestling matches; the Lucha Libre, where masked wrestlers-cum-gymnasts performed amazing feats of physical dexterity as they pretended to fight each other. Nobody believed that was real, either, and yet it was hugely popular, trailing only soccer for entertainment value.

  The assembled spectators waited in quivering anticipation as El Gallo mounted the stage, clad in an everyman cowboy shirt and sporting a cowboy hat. This was a man of the people, a member of the masses, he assured them, even as his four hundred dollar ostrich-skin boots gleamed in the sunlight. Never mind that his brothers were among the wealthiest landowners in the region, or that his father had been a household name in building low income housing. Forget all that, his demeanor seemed to demand. Here was a humble, simple man, who reluctantly would shoulder the considerable burden of steering the nation back onto the path of righteousness; having somewhat lost its way – though certainly not because of the actions of his political party, which was also the current president’s. No, the country was in mortal peril because of a crisis in morality, exemplified by the surge in popularity and power of the drug cartels.

  He cleared his throat and began to speak, a deep baritone long bent to the artifice of holding an audience’s attention, well modulated, passion and intensity obvious in every syllable without any evidence of stridency. This was a man’s man, a leader and a visionary, a man capable of finally, after centuries of oppression, delivering to the Mexican people the promise of their legacy.