Russell Blake - King of Swords

“I’m Captain Cruz. I head up the cartel task force for Mexico City. I’m interested in hearing your information, and if it’s of value, I’m prepared to consider some sort of equitable exchange,” Cruz said. “But I won’t discuss any terms until you tell us what you know. I won’t cheat you, but I also don’t have a lot of time to negotiate. Either you talk and then I reward you, assuming your information isn’t complete bullshit, or you go rot in the Culiacan jail — one of the most lethal places in the country, if I’m not mistaken,” he added.

“That’s nothing compared to the streets,” Moreno commented.

“Maybe. But the question is do you want to spend the next few years there, or do you want to deal?”

“Obviously, I want to deal. But how do I know you won’t screw me?” Moreno asked.

“You’ll have to trust that I flew you here, at considerable expense, and am sitting in front of you instead of directing Mexico’s anti-cartel task force’s operations, to hear your account and act honorably if it vets out,” Cruz stated.

Moreno regarded him distrustfully. “Talk’s cheap. If I had a peso for every time someone told me they weren’t going to fuck me, and then did, I’d-”

Cruz pushed back from the table and stood. “Officer Marquez? It was a pleasure meeting you. Sorry to inconvenience you dragging this worthless shit halfway across the country. This meeting’s now over. Make sure your prisoner gets the full incarceration experience back in Culiacan,” Cruz instructed.

Moreno’s face crumbled, and he visibly deflated. He’d played his best hand and lost.

“Wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I accept your proposal. Please…”

Cruz fixed Moreno with a glare. “Let’s be very clear. You don’t dictate terms, or complain, or express anything but gratitude that someone as important as me is sitting here, prepared to entertain what is probably an easily debunked pack of lies — in which case, your jail time will make being gang raped in Calcutta seem like a trip to Rio for the Carnival. So here’s the deal. You talk. I listen. Then I decide what your story’s worth. There’s no other deal. You have five seconds to accept or reject it. Now you have four,” Cruz dictated.

“All right. Fine. I’ll take the deal. Sit down. Please. I promise it’ll be worth your time,” Moreno said.

“Fair enough. Start talking. And it better be good,” Cruz warned.

“Can I have some water?” Moreno asked, chastened from his brush with dismissal.

Marquez handed him a plastic bottle, after twisting the cap open. Moreno lifted it with his shackled hands and drank greedily before setting it, half empty, on the table between them.

“It all started in Tijuana about ten years ago.”

Nine Years Ago, Tijuana, Mexico

A large walled compound perched on a cliff face near the outskirts of the city, looking over the town below, which bustled with activity in the late morning sunlight. It resembled a small prison, with a dozen heavily-armed men clad in civilian clothes patrolling the perimeter. One of the largest homes in the notorious border city of over a million people, it was an imposing presence at the top of the access road.

A Cadillac Escalade pulled to the gates, and after a glance from the guards through the driver window, the reinforced iron grids rolled open. They had been designed to withstand anything other than a tank running through them. The Escalade eased to a stop in front of the main home’s entrance, where three men exited the vehicle. The SUV was heavily armored, a special order from a company in Dallas, Texas that built conveyances for heads of state and corporate bigwigs. It could survive a grenade blast, and gunfire would literally bounce off it. The window glass was a special polymer that could take armor piercing rounds without breaking, and the tires could go twenty miles after having been shot to pieces. All that protection didn’t come cheap — the vehicles cost a hundred and fifty thousand dollars a pop.

The compound had three.

The men approached the front door and the youngest, tallest one, who stood between his two older companions, held his hands above his head while one of several armed men frisked him professionally and then scanned his body with an electronic surveillance wand designed to reveal any listening devices or recording apparatus. They were granted access to the house, and the man who’d frisked the new arrival motioned for them to follow him.

Domestic staff busily cleaned floors and windows as the procession made its way to the great room terrace, where the owner of the property, and one of the most infamous cartel chieftains in Mexico, sat in a white terrycloth bathrobe sipping espresso with a young woman a third his age, also in a bathrobe, though filling it out with considerably more style.

Felix Montanegro eyed the arrivals, then leaned over and murmured something into his young companion’s tousled hair. She smiled, then obligingly rose and moved inside, her bare feet padding silently across the oversized Italian marble flooring. Montanegro gestured with his hand for the young man to sit, and snapped his fingers to the service staff, who waited at a discreet distance, out of earshot. One of the maids hurried off, rematerializing thirty seconds later with a cup of coffee for the guest. A gardener studiously trimmed ivy at one end of the terrace, taking care to stay well away from the small onyx table where the two men sat. The pair of tough-looking escorts moved inside the house, twenty feet from the terrace, where they could reach Montanegro in seconds if he needed them.

Montanegro regarded the young man and leaned back in his chair, withdrawing a cigarette from a gold case on the table. The maid scurried to his side and lit it for him. He appeared not to register her, continuing to study his guest’s face, which betrayed nothing.

“So you’re the miracle man who’s been achieving what everyone said couldn’t be done,” Montanegro started cordially.

The young man nodded, the corners of his mouth almost imperceptibly turning up in a veiled smile.

“It’s impressive. Really impressive. I’ve never seen anything like it. I would have guessed it was impossible to fulfill the last three contracts without being killed yourself, but here you are…and without a scratch on you.” Montanegro flicked ash from his cigarette into a rectangular metal container adorned with highly-stylized skulls, commemorating the Mexican Day of the Dead, Dia De Los Muertos . He took a drag and continued, exhaling the smoke skyward.

“I wanted to meet you. I wanted to see the phantom who’s causing such a stir among the illustrious members of my group, as well as in the population of Tijuana. I understand the restaurants and cantinas are abuzz with talk of your exploits — of the man they call, ‘ El Rey’ .”

“What people gossip about is of no consequence. What matters are results,” the young man reasoned, speaking softly for the first time since he’d gotten into the Escalade.

“Ah. So you do have a tongue. Good. Yes, you are correct, it’s the results that count. Everything else is noise for fools and dullards.” Montanegro sipped his espresso. “But I understand that you’ve increased your price for the next contract, yes? May I ask why? This is a competitive field, so you may be pricing yourself out of the market, at least from my perspective.”

The young man ran a hand over his face, which sported a two day dusting of growth. He adjusted his black long-sleeved shirt. “I’ve shown what I can do. When you hire me you get guaranteed results. That’s worth more than someone who will try, and perhaps fail,” the young man said reasonably.

“Ha! Well, you’re right about that. You have delivered impressively, my young friend. So much so, I’d like to offer you a position with my group. You can name your price,” Montanegro said.