The phone on his desk jangled; he grabbed at it.
“Boss. You have visitors. Angel and a driver,” his number two man alerted him.
He watched as a white Cadillac Platinum package Escalade rolled through the gate leading from the retail yard and pulled to a stop outside his office. A familiar figure climbed out of the passenger side door.
It was Angel Talvez, one of Don Aranas’ lieutenants. He always liked to see Angel. It meant one thing. Another big order.
Carlos moved to the screen door that kept the bugs at bay and opened it, spreading his arms in welcome.
“Angel! It’s been too long. What? Three months, since we hit the clubs in Mazatlán?” Carlos enthused. He was a connoisseur of young strippers, the closer to their teen years, the better. Angel shared the passion for his hobby, and they’d spent many a night sampling the wares a few hours west.
“Compadre. Always good to see you,” Angel replied with a smile.
Carlos motioned to him to enter and take a seat.
“Tequila?” Carlos asked, and then without waiting for an answer, moved to the small bar he had set up in a corner of the expansive office and poured two shots of Don Julio 1942. He turned to face Angel, glass outstretched, and found himself staring down the barrel of a silenced semi-automatic pistol.
Carlos’ eyes grew wide when he saw the look on Angel’s face. Angel shrugged a halfhearted apology for what was to come.
“Why, Carlos? Why did you fuck the Don? You’ve made your money. Why give up information on El Rey? Why do it?” Angel asked, curious as to why his friend would put himself in this position, requiring him to do something as unpleasant as killing him.
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carlos stammered, hands suddenly trembling.
Angel shook his head. They always lied in the end. Human nature. With his free hand, he removed a piece of paper from his pocket and placed it on the desk.
“Sit down and read that. Oh, and best have both of those yourself. It’s good tequila,” Angel said, motioning with the gun.
Carlos did as instructed and swallowed both shots as he stood, and then turned, placing them on the bar. He swung back in a blur of speed, aiming the heavy, tall tequila bottle at Angel’s head.
Angel had anticipated the move and stepped back, easily dodging the blow, and calmly fired a round into Carlos’ skull through his right eye. The .22 target pistol he favored was laughably small in caliber, but he’d never had any problems putting down his victims with it. Carlos proved no different, and his body went rigid as the small slug careened through his brain, tearing the gray matter to a scramble. The arms dealer buckled at the knees and fell forward. Angel moved to the side to avoid any messy splatter, having done this many times before. The tequila bottle crashed to the travertine floor, splintering into shards amidst a splash of precious nectar that pooled next to the slowly spreading blood.
Angel leaned over and put another bullet into the back of Carlos’ skull from three inches away. He paused over his friend’s corpse and inspected his handiwork, and then, satisfied that the job was done, walked to the desk and retrieved the piece of paper, glancing disinterestedly at the Top Secret stamp across the top. He folded it and slipped it into his pants pocket, and then returned the pistol to its place in a custom made shoulder holster as he made his way to the door.
A few moments later, the Escalade roared off in a cloud of dust.
Nobody would report having seen anything. Apparently the granite counter business was a dangerous one in Culiacán, Sinaloa.
Most businesses were.
Chapter 23
Sun streaked through the filthy windows of the workshop; a cloud of dust motes hung lazily in the air like snowflakes frozen on a Christmas calendar. The space was small, twenty by twenty, with a roll-up door and a few electrical outlets – plus the worktable at which El Rey stood, patiently adjusting his project with a toolkit that lay spread across most of the top. A heavy, green vice was mounted to the edge, and he’d wedged two neoprene mouse pad remnants on either side of its jaws, to soften its grip on the metal canister he had just finished fabricating.
He flipped the welding mask up and wiped away the sweat that had accumulated on his brow. He would have loved to open the windows for ventilation, but discretion won out. El Rey glanced up at the row of two-foot-wide glass squares framed by rusting metal, each with iron bars spaced every eight inches, and resigned himself to live with the stifling heat. It came with the territory.
He pulled his T-shirt over his head and absently blotted the defined muscles of his chest, testament to three hour a day workouts that had never ceased, even in retirement. A tattoo of a crow on his left pectoral glistened with perspiration as he leaned over his project, studying the cylinder with satisfaction. He painstakingly threaded a stainless steel plunger into one end, taking care to avoid damaging the spring and, once finished, stretched his lower back by reaching to grab his toes so as to avoid cramping.
The detonator would be armed just before it was show time, but this sort of detailed preparation was essential. As with all things, being meticulous ensured a superior result, and El Rey trusted no one with this work. He wasn’t about to spend months planning a sanction and have something fail at the moment of truth – he’d farmed out the explosives end only once before and that had been the only hit that had been unsuccessful. He had learned his lesson, and he hummed to himself as he patiently filed away the burs from the seam he had created, stopping to brush perspiration out of his eyes every few minutes.
Eventually satisfied with that piece, he unscrewed the vice and moved the metal tube to the side. Pausing for a few minutes to drink a half liter of water, he considered his next task.
He’d never built one of these before. The instructions had seemed straightforward, if a little convoluted, and he estimated it would take about thirty hours to completely assemble it. Then he’d need to test it and get comfortable with the technology, and calculate effective blast radiuses and ranges.
Leaning across the table, he unfolded the schematic for the device and moved the epoxy containers and paint off to the far end of the table, where they wouldn’t get in his way as he undertook the mechanical and electrical part of the job. Reconciled to a long afternoon, he slid a high stool to the work area and sat down, pulling the larger pieces of his contrivance towards him. The main body was simple enough, but he could already see that the necessary modifications would take some time. And he would have to adjust for the trigger and create space for it without throwing the balance off. Perhaps with a small amount of weight on the opposite end to offset the explosive charge.
Three hours later, the first piece was assembled, and he took a lunch break, unwrapping a sandwich he’d bought at one of the family-operated shops by his apartment. Mexico City made the best tortas, hands down. It was one of the things he’d missed while out of the country. Argentina had brilliant beef and Italian food, but if you wanted a good old-fashioned torta with everything on it, there was only one place to go.
He absently thumbed the ridges of his abdomen, where the muscles could have been the model for photos of washboard abs. His exercise regimen included three hundred chin ups and three hundred sit ups per day, in addition to the same number of pushups, a weight training course, an hour of martial arts stretches and drills, and an hour of hard cardio. He’d been addicted to his routine since a teenager and was Spartan in his existence. Other than tortas.
Finished with his break, he studied his project, and then nodded to himself. It was perfect. Now he would need to create a foolproof cavity for the detonator to fit. He plugged a digital scale into the wall, and then set the triggering device he’d made earlier on it. Five ounces. He’d weighed the explosive earlier, and it had come in at nine ounces. He’d considered more explosive, but based on his research into the material, that would be enough to ensure a death zone of twenty feet. More than enough for what he had in mind.
Next, he set the first pa
rt of the contraption he’d built on the scale, and then set to creating a cavity for the trigger. It was slow going, but eventually he was done, and he placed it back on the scale. Five ounces eliminated, for a net addition of nine ounces once the explosive and trigger were in place. He returned to reading the specifications, and soon concluded that the new, improved device would work. He’d know soon enough.
He moved to the far end of the workbench and set about assembling the specialized electronics for the unit, which occupied much of the rest of the day. By the time he was finished, it was getting dark, and after swigging his third liter of water, he moved his work and re-packed his tools. He would be back tomorrow, and in a few more days would start experimenting. But the hard part was done. He’d built the hardest part of his president-killer.
El Rey donned his shirt and rubbed his hand over the two day stubble on his head. He’d opted for a new look and had shaved his head and facial hair to the same length. The difference was remarkable. He looked more like a Latin rap star now than a laborer, which was immaterial to him – aesthetics had never been important. It was all about the final result, which was invariably more about planning than looks. That, and execution.
He smiled to himself.
Execution, indeed.
~
Briones knocked twice but entered the office without waiting for a response. Cruz looked up from his computer screen, where he was going over budget and personnel requests. The task force was burning money on the El Rey hunt, but it couldn’t be helped. Just the payments to informants in the hopes of securing a meaningful lead were now up over a hundred thousand dollars – with nothing to show for it. That was a lot of petty cash in a month. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the following month they wouldn’t have that burn. The most dangerous public presidential appearances would be over. If they were successful in stopping El Rey, the money was noise. If not, Cruz wouldn’t have to worry about it. He’d be out of a job.
“Yes, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?” he asked.
“We’ve got a lead. An anonymous call came in yesterday asking about the reward – wanting to know more details about it. We’ve had our share of these, but this one seemed genuine. One of the desk guys fielded it and talked the caller into coming in to headquarters. She’ll be here in twenty minutes,” Briones reported.
Cruz looked at his watch. Twelve fifteen. “She? Who is she? What do we know about her?”
“Not much. She was guarded on the line. Wanted to understand how the payment would be paid, and whether it would be subject to tax,” Briones said.
“Tax? Interesting. That’s someone who believes she’s going to be collecting…” Cruz smiled.
“That’s what I was thinking. Which is why I’m excited.”
“What’s her name?”
“All she would give us was a first name. Gabriela,” Briones said.
“Put her in one of the interrogation rooms on the main floor when she arrives. I want to tape our discussion.”
Cruz’s building had two floors of interrogation rooms. The main floor was for friendly questioning of low priority suspects. The basement chambers were more discreet, and there were no recorders or observation rooms – only drains in the floor and electric outlets.
Briones nodded and left, a noticeable spring in his step. He’d taken the hunt for El Rey personally ever since the assassin had given them the slip on the rooftop. Truthfully, he’d been emotionally invested before that – El Rey had, after all, shot and almost killed him ten months earlier. So the lieutenant had skin in the game, as well as blood. The prospect of information leading to his capture had noticeably improved his disposition.
Half an hour later, Cruz’s phone rang. The woman, Gabriela, was waiting downstairs.
He strode to the restroom and ran cold water over his face, using some to smooth his hair, then dried himself with a paper towel. His eyes stared back at him, and he couldn’t help but notice the shadows beneath them. The hunt for the super-assassin was taking a toll on everyone but El Rey, apparently.
Briones waited outside of meeting room two, his hip holster empty. Cruz wasn’t wearing a gun – it was locked in his office. He didn’t plan on going outside.
“What have we got here?” he asked perfunctorily.
“Fifty-eight, anxious, greedy eyes. I gave her a soda and told her I couldn’t answer any questions, that the leader of the task force would be with her in a few minutes.”
Cruz smiled. Briones was learning.
“Let’s go meet our mystery woman, shall we? Gabriela, right?”
Briones nodded and opened the door. Cruz strode in with all the self-importance he could muster, Briones trailing him before closing the door. The two Federales took seats next to each other, facing the woman, who seemed nervous and fidgety. Behind them, a one-way mirror reflected the harsh fluorescent lighting.
“I’m Captain Romero Cruz, the director of the DF anti-cartel and El Rey task force. I understand you’ve come with some information for us?” Cruz asked in as official a voice as he could summon.
Gabriela seemed suitably impressed. She looked like she’d had a harsh existence and was clearly not from the wealthy side of the tracks. She was missing several teeth, and her hands were gnarled from a lifetime of manual labor.
“I’m here to find out about the money,” she announced with a voice ravaged by hardship.
“Ah, yes. The money. The reward. For information leading to the apprehension of the suspect.”
“I saw his photo on the television. It looked different, but it was him. I’m sure of it.”
“Yes? Why don’t you tell us about it?” Cruz suggested.
“How do I collect the money? Is it in cash? Will I have to pay taxes on it?” she demanded guardedly.
Cruz sat back, allowing a moment of impatience to flash across his face.
“Good questions. It will be paid by check following the successful capture of our quarry. And no, you won’t have to pay taxes. But you don’t need to worry about any of this if you don’t have information that results in us finding him,” Cruz explained.
“How long after you capture him?”
Cruz was now very interested in whatever information the woman had. She obviously already believed the money was hers. The only impediment would be logistical. You could almost see the hunger for it on her face.
“We would have the check ready within forty-eight hours. Payable to whoever you like.”
“And how do I know you won’t go back on it once you have him?” she asked, the distrust evident in her eyes, borne from years of being screwed by authority.
“We would execute a contract. You get a copy. It would lay out the conditions clearly, and I would sign it,” Cruz said. “But again. To collect, you would need to tell us what you know. And it assumes that we catch him. The chances of which go down the longer we sit here…”
Gabriela fixed him with an intent stare and then grunted.
“Get the contract.”
Ten minutes later, Briones returned with two single-spaced pages the district attorney had prepared at their request when they’d offered the reward, which Cruz signed with a theatrical flourish in duplicate, handing both copies to her for signature. She pored over the document, obviously struggling with the reading, and then signed it with a scrawl that was almost childlike, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth from the effort of making her mark.
“You keep one copy. The other is for me,” Cruz said. “Now tell me everything you have so we can catch this bastard and make you rich.”
Both Gabriela and Cruz smiled at that, and her eyes twinkled for a brief moment.
She sat back in her chair and sipped her soda.
“I’m the caretaker – the custodian – of an apartment building near the main cathedral, seven blocks from the square. Anyway, there’s a new tenant, moved in a month ago, who’s your man. I’m sure of it. He looks different, with a beard…and the face is a little longer and thinner – but
it’s him. The eyes are the same.” She took another swig and continued. “I’ve been like that ever since I was a child. I can remember anything. It’s like taking a picture with your brain. I can do it with calendars and phone numbers, but especially with faces. And your man now lives in my building.”
Cruz and Briones exchanged glances.
“In your building?” Cruz said quietly.
She nodded decisively. “Unit 6C.”
“How big is your building, Gabriela?”
“Forty-two units. Seven stories.”
“And when did you last see him there?” Briones asked, speaking for the first time.
“Yesterday morning. I see everyone that comes and goes from my office downstairs off the lobby, except at night. He goes out every morning at around ten, and then comes back in the evening around nine. The rest of the time he’s in.”
“But you didn’t see him today?” Cruz asked.
“That would be kind of hard since I’m here and had to take the bus to get here. I took the day off today to do this because it’s easier to call in sick for a full day than to leave early. But I saw him yesterday. That’s why I called. I figured it out after seeing the photo on the news. Took me a little while, but I’m sure.”
After a few more minutes of questioning, Cruz was sure, too. Fate had smiled on them. They had another shot at nailing El Rey, and this time they wouldn’t let him get away.
~
When Cruz returned to his office, he had three messages, all from Rodriguez at CISEN, asking him to call immediately. He really didn’t have time for this, but in the interests of maintaining the fragile political equilibrium between the agencies, he reluctantly dialed the number. His secretary answered, and after keeping him waiting for three minutes, his voice came on the line.
Revenge of the Assassin Page 18