“I need you to get down here – now,” Rodriguez demanded.
Cruz held the handset away from his ear for a moment, staring at it in disbelief.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. We need to talk. Now.”
Cruz took a few deep breaths to calm himself before responding.
“As much as I enjoy eating half my day driving to and from your building, I’m afraid I can’t today. We’ve got a lead on our favorite killer, and it’s time sensitive,” Cruz explained.
There was hesitation on the other end.
“A lead?” Rodriguez couldn’t help himself. CISEN, like every other intelligence agency in the world, was mostly about knowing things. A drive to know things overruled most other concerns, and apparently this was no different.
“Yes. I can’t go into it, but we’re scrambling. Just tell me what is going on over the phone. I don’t have time to take away from this to meet with you face to face.”
Rodriguez paused again. “There’s been a leak on the matter of the top secret lead we gave you, and it had to come from your end,” Rodriguez accused.
Cruz barked out a humorless laugh. “Impossible. I haven’t told anyone, and nobody has access to the report. If there was a leak, it wasn’t from me. But tell me what happened. What’s going on?” Cruz demanded.
Rodriguez didn’t seem to know how to respond, but then cleared his throat.
“Our contact was murdered yesterday. By the Sinaloa cartel. That’s what we were able to glean.”
“So the arms dealer got snuffed by his criminal client. Why does that translate into me giving up top secret information? Do you honestly think I feed information to the largest, most dangerous criminal enterprise in the world? And to what end?” Cruz asked.
“We had listening devices in his office. We heard the execution. A high level enforcer from Aranas’ gang, called Angel Talvez, went into his office and made clear before he killed him that it was because of the information he provided about El Rey,” Rodriguez said.
“Well, that may be, but I haven’t breathed a word about it to anyone, so the leak had to come from somewhere on your side. I’d start turning over rocks internally, or from whoever the contact person was with the dealer, because it wasn’t me,” Cruz repeated with an edge to his voice. He was rapidly tiring of being accused of treason by this smug prick.
“There is no way anyone in my group gave this information to Aranas,” Rodriguez stated flatly.
“Right. So we have a mystery…like virgin birth.” Cruz collected himself. “You guys are in the spy game. I’d suggest you apply some of that craftiness and figure out who in your camp sold you out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go stop the man who is hell bent on killing the president – much as I enjoy our little chats,” Cruz spat.
“This isn’t the las– ”
Cruz hung up, shaking his head. Who did these assholes think they were? He ran the most important police task force group in Mexico. And he wasn’t even sure what the hell Rodriguez did, or what CISEN was working on. It was all too secret to discuss.
Shaking his head, he stabbed at the keypad of the telephone and dialed a number. He needed to coordinate another all-out strike to get El Rey. That took precedence over Rodriguez’s difficulties because a lowlife gun smuggler had gotten killed – hopefully, with one of his own bullets. The line answered.
“Meeting in ten minutes with all the group heads. It’s going to be a late one.”
Chapter 24
Four dilapidated vans with tinted windows encircled the block where El Rey’s building was darkened in the two a.m. gloom. Only three apartments had faint lights on, where insomniac or partying residents burned the midnight oil. The insides of the vans were a marked contrast from their innocuous exteriors – sophisticated electronic eavesdropping equipment sat in racks in the back, feeding visual and audio to headquarters in a real-time stream. Tiny, cutting-edge military cameras were mounted among the cracked fog lights on the roof, and one had a directional microphone pointed at the assassin’s bedroom through a grimy half-lowered passenger side window.
They’d been on watch since six that evening, but hadn’t detected any sign of him. It was possible that he had spent the evening out, or slept in the interior bedroom – Gabriela had drawn a crude blueprint of the layout, and there was a study/guest bedroom that had no ventilation just off the living room. They couldn’t make out anything in the living room or kitchen. Heavy drapes over the windows rendered both permanently dark. They had asked about the curtains, and the woman had told them that they were new – the place hadn’t come with them. El Rey must have valued his privacy enough to install them himself.
Putting a female officer in with Gabriela had been discussed, but Cruz had rejected the idea. He didn’t want anything to spook or warn the assassin, and he was erring on the side of caution. Gabriela had been instructed to go in at her usual time in the morning and to call if she saw him. She was more than willing to play along.
A block away, Cruz and Briones sat in a condo they were using as the command center for the operation. Their field techs had set up the com lines and an auxiliary feed from the vans, and the four screens flickered with an eerie light in the darkened space. Another block beyond, two tactical assault personnel transports waited patiently, the men inside accustomed to hours of wakeful inactivity before they were thrown into the fray.
As the hours ticked by, fatigue set in, and the coffee maker one of Cruz’s subordinates had thoughtfully brought for them got a workout. These sorts of stakeouts were the worst, and Cruz would ordinarily not have been on site, but given the unpredictable nature of their assignment, he and Briones had chosen to stay up and supervise. At three a.m. a soft knock sounded at the door, and two officers entered carrying folding cots; blue canvas supported by aluminum tubular frames.
Cruz had always hated the field beds, but had to admit they came in handy on all-nighters. The officers in the assault teams weren’t so lucky. He picked up a radio handset and murmured instructions into it – the men could stand down for four hours and grab some shut-eye while they could. He wanted them ready for action at seven.
Gabriela had told them that El Rey usually didn’t go anywhere before ten in the morning, but he didn’t completely trust her judgment. She started work at nine, so for all she knew he could have been out from midnight to six every night at the clubs. She routinely stayed in her little office until ten at night, so he was fairly confident she had his daily schedule down pat.
Although, right now he was seriously questioning the entire affair. He knew it was the boredom and lack of sleep that had him pessimistic, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a non-starter. The discussion with CISEN had come back to nag at him. What if El Rey somehow had eyes and ears in the Federales? In his own squad? It wasn’t impossible. Nothing was impossible, including that CISEN may have been penetrated.
He was a long way from when he’d joined the force, with high hopes and ideas about changing Mexico for the better. After the better part of twenty-five years in the Federal Police, he’d shed any illusions about his fellow man. The country, his country, ran on graft and corruption. As did most, he supposed. Some had civilized veneers and pretensions of honesty, but when it came to money, everywhere was the same. It just was a question of how much. The only difference in Mexico was that it was cheaper than in the U.S. because they’d eliminated the middle men – there were no lobbyists or influence peddlers, just wires to offshore bank accounts or briefcases of cash.
“You want to take the first watch, or should I?” Cruz asked Briones.
“Go ahead and get some rest, sir. I can monitor things until, what, five? That’s two hours of sleep apiece if we’re going to regroup at seven, but it’s better than nothing.”
“Are you sure?” Cruz asked, eyeing the cot.
“Absolutely. Too much coffee,” Briones said, although they both knew that wasn’t the truth.
“All righ
t, then. Wake me if the slightest thing happens,” Cruz said, with a doubtful glance at the monitors.
~
The sun was already heating up the air temperature in Ciudad Juárez, even though it had only been light for fifty-five minutes. Traffic was just starting to pick up for rush hour, which made the congestion caused by the assembled police, military and television vans a major bottleneck on one of the main thoroughfares. The soldiers were visibly agitated, their weapons at the ready as they formed a protective perimeter around the cops and the reporters, who were chatting as though they were at a sporting event, waiting for the big match to begin. Two uniformed officers waved traffic around a roadblock, directing the cars to an alternative route, and the combination of having to loop around, coupled with rubberneckers straining to see what the fuss was about, had caused a vicious snarl.
The captain of the Juárez office of the Federal Police approached the ranking officer of the army detachment, Major Trujillo, carrying a cup of OXXO coffee in a polystyrene cup. The major grinned when he saw his friend, Captain Pompa, up early for once.
“This must be very inconvenient for a late sleeper like you, eh?” he offered by way of hello.
“You have no idea. I was just getting to bed when I got the call,” Pompa fired back.
The men smiled and took in the creeping procession of annoyed motorists. “What do you think it means? Another round of retribution killings going to start?”
“No, I don’t think so. Although this is worrisome. They usually don’t target the press. Then again, why should journalists be any different than us? We all bleed the same,” Pompa observed.
“What’s his name?” Major Trujillo asked.
“Eligio Nerevez. Worked the crime beat at one of the local rags. Seems like he pissed off the wrong people. Dangerous line of work.” Pompa took another sip of coffee. “I don’t have to tell you that nobody saw anything last night. This was called in by someone driving, who didn’t want to identify himself. Imagine that. Wanted to remain anonymous…”
“Nerevez? That’s him? Huh. I recognize the name. He just did that series on the bloggers who were outing politicians on the take. I thought it was an ambitious project, but you’re right. Hazardous…obviously,” Major Trujillo agreed.
“He could have just printed a list of every elected official in the state. That would have saved time,” Pompa said, and both men laughed.
“You want to cut him down, or should we?” the major inquired, eyeing Pompa’s coffee. He wished he’d had the foresight to get a cup before taking up his station. It was too late now, but the smell was intoxicating.
They turned and considered the body of the young man, hanging upside down, suspended from the steel guardrail by a rope around his ankles. The blood on his face was coagulated and brown, already dried. A small amount had stained the road beneath him, its rust-colored puddle a contrast to the filthy gray. His hands were bound behind him, and half his head was gone from where a large caliber round had entered his mouth, blowing the top of his skull off. Next to him, a bed sheet with the distinctive markings of the Juárez cartel hung, issuing a warning to any good citizens who wanted to shorten their lives by focusing on the cartel’s misdeeds. It was a crude, but effective communication tool. Everyone got the point: taking on the cartels was bad for your health.
Pompa shook his head. “Nah. We’ll do it.”
~
At seven o’clock there was still no sign of activity in the apartment. Cruz slurped an oversized mug of coffee and ate an energy bar while watching the feed from the vans, and Briones used the bathroom. They’d just gotten confirmation that the tactical teams were back in place, awaiting instruction, but Cruz was unsure how to proceed. He felt better after the glorified nap, but not nearly at peak performance, and while he wanted this to be over he also didn’t want to blow their only chance at El Rey. He battled internally for a few minutes and then decided to have everyone stand down until they spotted their quarry. Better to keep the surveillance going than to rush in as they had at the machine shop. On that one, in retrospect, they should have hung back and waited for the assassin to exit the building and then taken him. He didn’t want to make a similar miscalculation on this one.
He radioed the tactical team and relayed his orders. Remain in place. Next, he contacted the van operators and instructed them to do the same. They were also likely exhausted by now, but that was the job and it came with the territory. At worst, the two man teams could sleep in short shifts, as he had. It wasn’t his problem, but he still felt sorry for the men.
The morning dragged by, and at noon Cruz made a judgment call. They would go in, but stealthily, only three plainclothes officers using a passkey provided by the soon-to-be-wealthy Gabriela. If El Rey was in there, he’d managed to shield the apartment from their best surveillance efforts, but that didn’t surprise Cruz.
Cruz turned to brief the men he had selected, who had arrived a few minutes earlier.
“Guerrero, you, Simon and Roberto do the entry. Use whatever force is necessary. You have my permission. And make sure you have vests on under your jackets. I don’t want to have to call anyone’s family and tell them daddy’s not coming home.”
Guerrero pounded his chest with his fist, thumping the bulletproof vest for emphasis. They were ready.
The men made their way to the apartment complex, scanning the sidewalk reflexively. They stopped in the well-kept lobby and got the key from Gabriela, then took the elevator to the sixth floor. The building was a medium luxury property, where the rent on a two bedroom apartment would run three month’s salary of any of the officers; when they exited the elevator they stepped onto polished marble tiles.
El Rey’s apartment was the last on the left. The officers moved soundlessly on rubber soles, pistols ready, safeties off. Guerrero, as usual, was in the lead, and he moved to the far side of the doorway, with his two partners taking the opposite wall. He gingerly slipped the key into the lock and turned it with the delicacy of a neurosurgeon. Their ears strained for any hint of movement inside, but heard nothing. Guerrero nodded at Simon and Roberto, holding each man’s gaze, and then with a deep breath, he turned the knob and eased the door open. Under Guerrero’s holding fire cover, Simon lunged into the foyer, doing a lightning scan of the small entryway with his weapon but detecting no threat.
Roberto and Guerrero followed him, guns sweeping, and they moved as one into the darkened space beyond the entry. As their eyes adjusted to the paucity of light they could make out a kitchen on the right and a larger area straight ahead. Guerrero moved past them into the living room, his Beretta M9A1 now pointing at the master bedroom doorway, and then he stopped, sniffing the air.
What the hell?
He turned to Roberto, who was reaching for the wall switch to give them some light, and screamed, “Nooo…!”
It was too late.
A blast erupted through the apartment door, blowing out all the windows, showering the street below with glass and debris as the fireball shot through the apertures. The crude five gallon gas can had been augmented by leaving the stove propane running with the pilot light off and the automatic shutoff disabled, creating a massive bomb. Rigging a simple electrically-activated detonator had been laughably simple. The three men were instantly incinerated, the air sucked out of their lungs almost as quickly as their skin melted and their bones seared.
Cruz watched the firestorm erupt through the apartment’s façade on the monitors and realized instantly that somehow, the assassin had trumped them.
He threw back his chair and slammed his coffee cup down against the table, shattering it with a crash. Briones pushed back from his vantage point and moved to help and then thought better of it when he saw the look in the captain’s eyes.
Cruz licked away a rivulet of blood from his hand and wrapped a paper towel from the coffee tray around it, seemingly oblivious to the pain. He collected himself with a shudder and then took another glance at the screens, watching black smoke
belch from the front of the complex. He didn’t need to wait for the report from the team that was rushing towards the building.
That afternoon, he would be making the visits he dreaded to the three spouses.
Chapter 25
Cruz exited the conference room where he’d been meeting with the president’s security people, frustrated at their conviction that El Rey couldn’t get to him. He understood that they believed they were good at their jobs, but he knew that the assassin was better – which wasn’t to say that the president’s detail wasn’t dedicated or good, they just weren’t El Rey. He’d already proved he could get past them once. And not only them, but also the American Secret Service, considered the best in the world.
He’d said as much at their get-together, but met with blank stares and polite assurances, except for the president’s chief of staff, who had seemed to get it. Then again, his career was predicated on his boss continuing to breathe, so he was probably more motivated than the rest. He’d taken Cruz aside on the way out and slipped him his card, and asked him to call whenever he had more information or any breakthrough ideas on how to handle the mess. That had given Cruz hope, even if it was a slim reed upon which to rest optimism.
He walked to his car, waiting in the secure lot, and thought to himself that they were in serious trouble. If it had been him, he would simply cancel any appearance that could create an opportunity to execute the president. He really didn’t understand how these men’s minds worked. They’d blithely told him that they had every confidence in his abilities, had listened politely as he’d detailed the story of the threat, as well as the latest series of miraculous escapes, and then thanked him for his time. It was like everyone was in denial – like El Rey’s existence, if they acknowledged it, challenged their competence, and so it was better to ignore him.
Revenge of the Assassin Page 19