Russell Blake - Revenge of the Assassin

“Have we picked up on any buzz on the streets?” Cruz asked.

They had returned to shaking down every snitch they knew, hoping for a lead. It was a long shot, but they had to turn over every stone. There was no way of knowing which seemingly inconsequential bit of information would prove to be the one that led them to him. That’s how it had been the last time they’d been on El Rey ’s trail, although then, as now, whiffs of him were few and far between.

Eldiarez, a chief in the plainclothes team, shook his head. “Not really. We’ve been circulating his photo in the hopes that something triggers, but for now, nobody knows anything,” he announced glumly.

“What about leaning on our contacts on the periphery of the Sinaloa cartel?”

“Not a whisper,” Eldiarez told him. “If Sinaloa is behind an attempt on the president, it’s the best kept secret they’ve got. Which isn’t surprising given that it would have come straight from Aranas, who probably wouldn’t have broadcast the fact. Every time we arrest one of their men, we give them the third degree, but so far there’s not much to report. That isn’t surprising considering that anyone rolling on Aranas would be a dead man. Even if someone did know something, it’s unlikely they’d volunteer it.”

“We’re also watching every airport and bus station,” Briones offered, “with the photograph being widely circulated, but you know how that goes…”

Cruz did indeed. The likelihood of a professional of El Rey ’s caliber slipping up and getting caught through the rookie mistake of not altering his appearance so that it didn’t match the known photo of him was exceedingly slim, but they didn’t have much else to go on, so it was another checklist item. The whole thing smacked of going through the motions, though. Unless they got some kind of a break, all they were doing was taking the predictable steps El Rey would expect, bringing their possible success chances close to zero.

Cruz scowled at the room. “We need to do better than this. We’re going on five days since the tip came in from CISEN, and we’re no further along than we were then. I know you’re all doing everything you have been asked to do, but we need to push the envelope and be more aggressive. I’m not sure how to move this along, but my sense is that we’re currently dead in the water. Am I wrong?”

Briones tilted his head. “What about the original lead? Can’t we put pressure there? That seems to be our only viable option at the moment.”

“I’m meeting with some people this evening to discuss exactly that, but for now, consider it a dead end. It was picked up as chatter, so there’s nowhere to push. We just have to wait and see if we get anything more,” Cruz warned.

He couldn’t tell anyone about the true nature of the source, or the identity — hell, he couldn’t even hint that there was a source. But Briones had it right — for all CISEN’s reticence, they needed to lean on the arms dealer if they were going to get anywhere. Cruz had a six p.m. meeting scheduled to broach that very topic, although he wasn’t expecting much to come out of it. Still, it couldn’t hurt to tighten the screw on CISEN.

“All right. I need everyone to get creative. If the president gets killed, it will be because we didn’t do enough. That’s the bottom line. I have our friends at CISEN looking at financial transactions involving known Sinaloa entities on the off chance there’s some sort of a money trail, and I have to believe that if we focus enough energy on the two events, we’ll figure out how he’s planning to make his attempt. Bring me anything, no matter how seemingly inconsequential. Even if it’s a gut feel or a hunch. Because, as of now, we’ve only got a few weeks. That’s all I have,” Cruz concluded.

He had a sinking feeling as he scanned the resigned faces of his subordinates. He remembered the last time they’d been hunting El Rey — it had been a needle in a haystack, regardless that they’d been sure he was going to make his move at the financial summit. This time, they didn’t even know when, or even if, he would act.

Cruz shook off the sense of despondency, squaring his shoulders as he stood up. It wouldn’t do for his men to see him in despair. A good leader always projected strength and confidence, even he didn’t feel it.

Briones joined him as he walked back to his office. “Not much, huh? Is there any chance you’ll be able to get CISEN more involved?” he asked.

Cruz shook his head. “I’ve been on the line with the president’s people twice a day, and they feel like they have a good handle on the security aspect, which means nothing to me. And CISEN is being their usual self. They act like we don’t matter, which maybe in their universe we don’t. Cross your fingers because I’m not expecting a lot of further cooperation,” Cruz admitted.

His limp was a little more pronounced today. Even after the physical therapy, when the weather changed it could hurt.

Briones slowed his pace to match Cruz’s. “We need to do something, because as it sits, we’re stalled.”

“Agreed. It seems like this week is going to be a write-off. I’ll let you know if anything positive happens.” Cruz slurped the now-cold coffee he had been nursing and retreated into his office, dreading the meeting that evening with the state’s intelligence service.

Lush fields of coffee plants rolled over the grass-topped hills, their full, leafy finery swaying in gentle time to the caress of the light breeze. Workers dotted the green-hued expanse, harvesting the beans. A smear of white clouds lingered over the mountain top, offering welcome shade for the laborers toiling in the field.

This was one of Aranas’ hideaways, in the mountains on the outskirts of San Salvador — a working coffee plantation well away from prying eyes, in a country distant enough from Mexico for the cartel chief to be safe from attack or capture. He paid off all the local law enforcement groups, including the government functionaries, so El Salvador, as well as Guatemala and Honduras, were safe havens.

The colonial home had breathtaking views, and only one winding approach road, which was heavily guarded by hardened sentries under orders to shoot first and ask questions later — and the locals stayed well away, making it one of the most private areas in the region.

Aranas sat on the expansive patio, watching the laborers go about their backbreaking tasks as he sipped rich brew from a Delft china cup. It was a miraculously beautiful day, and he felt strangely at peace — as he always did when at this home.

A man cautiously approached from inside the house, taking care to close the wooden French doors behind him to keep any bugs out as he stepped onto the veranda. “ Don Aranas, we have more information on the task force that has been set up to hunt El Rey . It’s being headed up by Romero Cruz, and it has committed significant resources to finding our operative. Photos are everywhere, and they’ve stepped up activity.”

Jacinto Felestero was one of Aranas’ trusted deputies, who had been with him for as long as he’d been the head of the cartel — over two decades, now.

“How did they get on to him? Did we ever discover that?” Aranas asked.

“No. Cruz is playing that very close to his chest. All we know is that they’re in a state of high alert and believe he will strike at one of two possible events within the next month.”

“That complicates things. Somehow they now know El Rey is targeting the president, which is unacceptable. There aren’t many places such information could have come from. My inner circle, or El Rey ’s contacts. I can’t believe that one of his people, whoever they are, tipped off the Federales . That leaves my group — a disturbing idea, obviously. There are only four among us who knew. Including you, Jacinto.”