They rolled to the curb in front of a battered brick building with six metal entry doors, one of which stood with its protective outer grating opened. The owner fidgeted by it jangling a set of keys as he glanced nervously up and down the street. It was late afternoon, but this wasn’t an area you wanted to be in after dark.
“Captain Cruz? Hidalgo Sanchez. Nice to meet you,” the man said, sizing Cruz up as he offered his hand in greeting.
“Likewise. This is Lieutenant Briones,” Cruz said, which prompted the man to shake hands with Briones.
“Have you been inside?” Cruz asked pointedly.
“Of course not. I followed your instructions to the letter. I waited until you got here. I don’t want any trouble from anyone. If a criminal was using one of my workshops, I had no way of knowing. I want it understood I am cooperating with the police,” Sanchez insisted.
“Good. And don’t worry. You’re not suspected of anything.” Cruz hadn’t told him who the criminal was or what he had done. Some things were better left out of the conversation.
Sanchez exhaled a noticeable sigh of relief and then walked back to the door and ceremoniously opened the deadbolt. He turned the knob and swung the steel door open, then gestured to the two officers.
“I’ll just wait out here. Take your time, gentlemen.”
Cruz entered first, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, and then both he and Briones ignited their flashlights – after the incident at the apartment, neither of them was in a mood to try the light switches. A long rectangular work table stood at the far end of the room, near a bank of grimy windows a few feet below the ceiling.
They moved to the table, where Briones began taking photos of the various tools and chemicals. Cruz gave it all a quick glance and then walked over to a black backpack resting against the far wall. He picked it up, but it felt empty. With one eye on Briones carrying out his inventory of the assassin’s wares, he methodically checked the zip-up pockets of the sack and found a crumpled envelope.
Briones continued his inventory and after a few minutes announced he was done.
“Looks like this is where he assembled the bombs and the helicopter. You could rebuild an engine with the number of tools in this place. And there are some traces of plastic explosive in a plastic bag. I think it’s time to call in the crime scene people,” Briones said.
Cruz appeared not to have heard him and then slowly turned to the table.
“Yeah. Call them. Let’s get a crew in here and go over the place with a fine-toothed comb. Maybe there’s something we can use that will lead us to his employer,” Cruz said, his voice tight.
Briones regarded him carefully. “Are you all right?”
He sighed. “Sure I’m all right. I’ve just been battling a cold for the last day. I think it’s wearing me down,” Cruz explained. “Make the call and tell the landlord we’ll probably have people here for at least six to eight hours. I want to get the prints of every person who’s ever been in here, or handled any of the tools or other items.” Cruz tossed the backpack onto the floor.
“Anything in it?” Briones asked, drawing his phone from his shirt pocket.
“No. It was empty.”
~
Cruz arrived home at the condo after midnight, exhausted to his core. He locked the door behind him quietly, taking care not to make noise as he padded through the foyer into the living room. A trail of alcohol vapor lingered in his wake, but he moved with surety, no hint of inebriation.
Dinah was asleep on the couch, a half full glass of white wine sitting on the coffee table next to a stack of homework she had graded. He considered her, slumbering peacefully, looking angelic in her untroubled dream state, and then brushed past to the bedroom.
Ten minutes later, he emerged with one of his small duffle bags and an extra uniform on a hanger. He placed the bag by the front door and laid the uniform on top of it. Returning to the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a can of Modelo beer. When he popped the top open, it snapped with an audible crack, and Dinah jolted awake. She appeared disoriented for a few seconds, punchy from sleep, and she swung her head around until she saw Cruz. She smiled sleepily, and then her mood faded when she registered his expression.
“Corazon. What time is it? God, it’s almost one. Where were you? I tried to wait up, but I couldn’t…” She stopped – he was staring impassively at her. “Amor…what’s wrong? Is everything okay?”
Cruz reached into his shirt pocket with his left hand and withdrew the letter he’d retrieved that afternoon from the backpack. He flipped it at her, the small rectangle slicing a dizzy course through the tense air before it landed at her feet. Her eyes locked on it, and then her face collapsed.
“Amor. Romero. I can explain…”
“Can you? Can you really? That would be good to hear. Tell me why my fiancée is passing detailed information to the world’s most dangerous assassin, and the subject of my task force’s every waking moment of effort. Tell me why the man who killed my men, who wades in blood and lives to murder, benefits from your notes, like a lover sneaking kisses in the night. Explain it to me. Because I’d really like to understand.”
“It’s not what you think. I did it for us…”
“For us? Really. How is that, exactly? How is betraying me, betraying everything I’ve worked for, good for us? Because I’m confused. I don’t get it. I don’t see how my wife-to-be could lie to me every day, and be handing my innermost secrets to my sworn enemy, yet really be doing it for my own good. Christ. Do you know what kind of an animal this man is?” Cruz took a long swig of beer, finishing the can in three swallows. He stared at it, and then tossed it into the garbage before opening the refrigerator and grabbing another. He turned back to her and scowled. “This parasite, this psychopath, has killed hundreds of people – and you have been handing him my game plan. Explain that to me because I’m missing some big pieces.”
“He…he found me three weeks ago…after the kidnapping, he came into my room at the hospital, and he threatened to kill me. To kill you. To murder us both…” Dinah hesitated, and then told him everything. The dead drops in the store. El Rey’s demands. The threats.
Cruz listened wordlessly, taking occasional swallows of his beer, and waited for her to finish. When she had, he shook his head, and walked around the breakfast bar to retrieve the envelope before returning to the kitchen. He took his time in formulating his response and fought to keep the anger out of his voice.
“You could have come to me. Told me. I could have helped. I could have saved you.”
“No, you couldn’t. The man is a monster, capable of anything. And he’s beaten everyone he’s ever gone up against.”
“All but one. Me. I beat him. He’s in custody because of me. So you were wrong. You could have…” he slammed his beer down on the tile counter, “you should have come to me. But you didn’t. Instead, you passed information that cost people their lives to this killer. A murderer. A thug. The man who killed your father.” Cruz regretted saying it even as the words left his mouth, and he instantly registered the shock and pain in Dinah’s eyes. And then a part of him didn’t care. Screw it – let her live with the truth.
She was speechless as she processed what he had just revealed. Finally, she spoke in a quiet voice.
“He killed my father? And you knew? All this time, you knew?”
He put his almost empty second beer down on the counter and shook his head.
“Your father was his agent – he handled the money for him. He killed your dad when he planned his retirement. It was a loose end.”
Dinah had nothing to say to that.
“You gave him a top secret document that could get me put into prison if it had been discovered. You committed treason. It’s much more serious than a lover’s quarrel. You betrayed me, destroyed our trust, and committed a high crime that carries a horrible penalty,” he said, and then turned his back on her, walking towards the front door. “The penalty for treason, for doing wh
at you did, is life in prison. It’s that serious. This isn’t a joke or a game.”
Dinah sprang to her feet and followed, but stopped at the kitchen, standing with her arms down, palms outstretched, taking in the bag and uniform in a split second.
“Romero. Please. What are you doing?”
“I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m leaving.” He turned towards the door and leaned down, shouldering his bag and holding the uniform while he reached for the knob with his free hand.
Dinah’s eyes suddenly flashed with fury. “And was it the right thing to send your ill-prepared men up against such a dangerous man? Would Lupita Guerrero deem it right?”
Cruz blinked back at her. What the hell was she talking about?
“Lupita who?”
“Lupita is a pupil of mine – you sent her father up to that apartment to tackle El Rey – now she doesn’t have one. Can’t you see, Romero…you couldn’t even safeguard your own men against such a force and yet you expected me–”
“I expected you to trust me. To have faith in me, Dinah…” he said, twisting the lock.
Her anger faded as quickly as it had flared to the surface. Her voice became quiet as she read his face.
“But…Romero. What are you going to do?”
He held up the envelope with her notes and the top secret document in it, then put it into his shirt pocket. With a twist, he opened the door, and then looked at the tears rolling down her cheeks as she sobbed, heartbroken and afraid. He fixed her with a gaze that spoke of sadness, and fatigue, and broken dreams, and then he turned, stepping over the threshold into the long hall.
“The right thing, Dinah.” He sighed wearily. “I’m going to do the right thing.”
<<<<<>>>>>
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Excerpts from two Russell Blake novels follow this page
Excerpt from KING OF SWORDS
A novel by Russell Blake
©2011
King of Swords is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters and real people, living or dead, is coincidental. Having said that, the backdrop and historical context of the novel is based in fact. The drug war in Mexico has been an ongoing confrontation between government forces and the ever-strengthening cartels – now the largest illegal drug trafficking network in the world, whose primary target market is the United States.
Thousands of police and soldiers have been killed over the last ten years, as the war has intensified due to a crackdown by pro-U.S. administrations. Cartel members slaughter one another by the thousands each year, as well as huge numbers of innocent bystanders. The brutality of the turf wars that are a constant and ongoing facet of the trade is stunning; well over a thousand children have been butchered during the last decade, as have countless family members of traffickers, killed in retribution or as a deterrent.
The last two Secretaries of the Interior for Mexico died in suspicious air crashes. The Mexican cartels are now the largest narcotics distribution entities in the world, with revenues that exceed those of many nation states. Roughly ten thousand people per year die as a direct result of cartel violence in Mexico.
The Sinaloa cartel is real. The Knights Templar cartel is also real, as is the Gulf cartel, the Tijuana cartel, and the Zeta cartel. New cartels pop up when the heads of the old groups die, and the names change with some frequency. The only constant is the bloodshed; the natural consequence of the economics of trafficking in an illegal substance that generates in excess of fifty billion dollars a year, wholesale, for the cartels in Mexico; a country where the average person makes a hundred and sixty dollars a month.
A Description of the Tarot Card, ‘The King of Swords’
In full regalia, the King of Swords sits proudly on his throne – with a long, upward-pointing, double-edged sword clutched in his right hand, and his left hand resting lightly on his lap. A ring adorns his left Saturn finger – representing power and commitment to responsibility. The King’s blue tunic symbolizes a desire for spiritual enlightenment; his purple cape symbolizes empathy, compassion and intellect. The backrest of his throne is embellished with butterflies, signifying transformation, and crescent moons orbit around an angel situated by his left ear, positioned, perhaps, to lend a delicate guidance. The backdrop of the sky has very few clouds, signifying pragmatic mental clarity. The trees dotting the landscape stand still, with not a rustle – reflecting the King of Swords’ stern judgment.
King of Swords Reversed
The reversed King of Swords depicts a man who is ruthless or excessively judgmental; when reversed, the King of Swords suggests the misuse of mental power, authority and drive. The reversed King of Swords can represent manipulation and persuasion in order to achieve selfish ends. He is a very intelligent character who likes to demonstrate to others his superiority, either verbally or through actions. It is best to be wary of this type of person because, although he may be charming and intelligent, he is remorseless and can do only harm. He has only his personal interests in mind and will do whatever necessary to achieve those interests, even if it means destroying others.
Introduction
Three Years Ago
Armed men lined the perimeter of the large contemporary home on the secluded stretch of seashore just above Punta Mita, twenty-three miles north of Puerto Vallarta. The stunning single-level example of modern Mexican architecture sat on a cove, where the heavy surf from the Pacific Ocean flattened out over the shallow offshore reef a hundred yards from the beach. Nine foot high concrete walls ringed the compound, protecting the occupants from prying eyes and would-be intruders. Not that any were in evidence. The property and the coastline for a quarter mile in each direction belonged to the house’s secretive owner – Julio Guzman Salazar, the Jalisco cartel’s chief and the eighth richest man in Mexico, although his name didn’t appear on any roster other than the government’s most wanted list.
The building’s Ricardo Legorreta design boasted thirty-eight thousand feet of interior space, with nine bedrooms in the main house, separate servant’s quarters adjacent to the twelve car air-conditioned garage, a full sized movie theater with a floating floor, its own solar and wind power generation system, and a full time domestic staff of eleven. An Olympic-sized swimming pool with an infinity edge finished in indigo mirrored glass tile created the illusion of water spilling into the deep blue ocean.
The white cantera stone pool-area deck took on a pale cosmic glow as the last sliver of sun sank into the watery horizon, making way for the dark of a late-November night. The armed men encircling the house were hardened and efficient, exuding a palpable air of menace as they roamed the grounds, alert for threats. The security detail, which traveled with Salazar everywhere he went, consisted of eighteen seasoned mercenaries who were proficient with the Uzis they held with nonchalant ease.
Motion detectors provided an early warning system outside of the walls, where infrared beams crisscrossed the expanse between the beach and the house, ensuring that nothing could penetrate the elaborate defenses undetected. Salazar could afford the best security money could buy, and his private army comprised not only Mexicans and Nicaraguans and Colombians, but also two South Africans and a Croatian. All had seen more than their share of combat, either of the civilian variety in the ongoing drug skirmishes between rival cartels, or in full-scale armed conflict in the Balkans or Africa.
At seven p.m. precisely, the bright halogen headlights of expensive vehicles began making their way down the long road from the coastal highway that connected Puerto Vallarta with Mazatlan, and through the enormous gates of the opulent home. Each car was allowed inside to drop off its passengers after undergoing scrutiny from the men charged with Salazar’s protection, who inspected the SUVs inside and out. During the next hour, seven Humvees and Escalades discharged their loads before pulling back out of the compound and parking in a brightly-lit area designated for the purpose. Two armed guards patrolled the flat expanse, guns loaded and cocked.
In the constant drug wars that were the norm on mainland Mexico, every minute held the possibility of instant death for those in the trade, and so the men on the security team were in a constant state of readiness for attack. Their vigilance had paid off many times over the past decade, when rival factions had attempted to challenge Salazar’s stranglehold on the Jalisco trafficking corridor. He’d emerged victorious from that series of ever-escalating brutal engagements, the last of which had culminated in nineteen corpses beheaded or shot execution-style in Culiacan over a three month period.
The Sinaloa cartel was the most powerful in the world, and for some time had nurtured its aspirations of expanding its lethal tentacles into Jalisco, the neighboring state to the south – Salazar’s home turf. The Sinaloa cartel controlled much of the marijuana produced in Mexico and had grown to be the largest cocaine and heroin trafficking entity in the world, handling over seventy percent of all Colombian product that made it into the U.S.. Salazar’s operation was considerably smaller, but the brutality of his tactics made him a difficult adversary to encroach upon; after ten years of unsuccessful attempts to execute him, an uneasy truce now held sway.
The lush, planted areas of the compound were lavishly appointed. The beachside pool deck’s verdant landscaping was circled with the flicker of tiki torches – placed there for the big event that was just getting underway. An eighteen-piece mariachi band in full regalia had assembled by the massive palapa over the hotel-sized outdoor pool bar. They aired their traditional music for the guests, who were almost exclusively children and their mothers. It was Salazar’s oldest son’s seventh birthday; the party was an important event. Attendees had come from as far as Mexico City to honor Julio junior’s big day. There was a giddy sense of privilege and wealth in the festivities – the boy had been presented with a pony, along with every imaginable video game and technological miracle a young man could wish for.
Revenge of the Assassin Page 24