Russell Blake - King of Swords

The young man appeared to consider the proposition, and then reached over and carefully turned the coffee cup, seeming captivated by the pattern in the china. He didn’t speak, and a few seconds turned into an uncomfortable half minute of silence.

“I’m flattered by the proposal, but I’m afraid I can’t accept. I do my best work alone, on a contract basis, and it wouldn’t work for either of us to have me acting exclusively for you. I mean no offense, and if I was considering ending my career as an independent contractor, you would be the first person I’d approach. But no, it would never work, and we’d both be unhappy with the results. So I must respectfully decline.”

Montanegro glared at the young man as he spoke, and when he was finished, slammed his hand down on the table in a gesture of fury.

“You little shit. Do you have any idea who you’re talking to? It wasn’t a suggestion. If I tell you you’re working for me, you’ll work for me, and the correct response will be, ‘Thank you, Don Felix, I’m honored you’d want me.’ I’ve rarely had anyone turn me down, and all those who did are dead. So this is a one time, one-way-trip offer. You either accept, or my men will put a bullet in your brain and feed you to the street dogs. Are you reading me?” Montanegro hissed.

The young man’s expression didn’t change. If anything, he seemed almost angelically serene, untroubled by the turn the discussion had taken. He appeared to consider Montanegro’s words, and then leaned forward, ensuring that only the cartel boss could hear.

“I don’t drink coffee. I don’t like it.”

Montanegro was confused by the statement.

“What the fuck do I care whether you like coffee or not? Did you not hear me?” Montanegro growled.

“No, I heard you. I just wanted you to know I don’t like coffee, mainly because it alters my body chemistry in a way I don’t find useful.” Montanegro looked like his head was going to explode. “But there’s another reason. Last night I slipped into your house, bypassing your laughable security, and treated your coffee grounds with a nerve toxin that will kill you within seven hours of ingesting it, unless I give you the antidote, some of which I’ve already taken in case you force me to drink coffee, too. It will take any laboratory in Tijuana days to figure out what the poison is, or what the antidote is, by which time you’ll be long dead. Even in the U.S., it would take more than seven hours. And my guess is that isn’t your first cup this morning, so you have less time. Maybe six?” the young man estimated, his voice so low that Montanegro had to strain to hear.

Montanegro’s pupils contracted to pinpoints, and his hands started shaking with fury.

“You’re a dead man, you little fuck. Dead.”

“ Don Felix. I took this step because I understood that you might be less than understanding if I refused your offer, which I had heard through the grapevine would be forthcoming. I mean no disrespect. I simply had to ensure I had something to negotiate with.” El Rey leaned in even closer. “I was approached three days ago by one of your enemies, who offered me a half million dollars to kill you. I told him I’d consider it. I haven’t responded yet. My point is that if we reach an accommodation, and I continue to work on your behalf, I’ll decline these sorts of requests. Truthfully, I could have cut your throat last night and pocketed the half million after the fact, but I didn’t. Instead, I came here, listened with respect to your proposal, politely declined, and then things started down an unfortunate road.”

Montanegro said nothing. Merely glared at him. But the young man could see that he was now calculating instead of reacting. That was good.

“I like my work,” El Rey continued. “I enjoy it. I also enjoy clients who pay on time, and who do as they promise. You’re an honorable man and have always paid as agreed, so I enjoy working for you. I don’t want to see anything happen to you.” The young man sighed. “Here’s my counter-proposal. We agree I won’t kill you. I give your men the antidote when they’ve dropped me in a location of my choosing once we’re under way. It will be enough antidote for you, your companion, and whoever else drank your coffee this morning. There will be no ill effects, provided you take it within the next…” the young man checked his watch, “…hour or so. And as a further incentive for you to take a more positive approach, I’ll also terminate your enemy, one of the cartel bosses you’ve been at war with for the last six months, within forty-eight hours, for a contract price of one million dollars; satisfaction guaranteed. The reason the price is a million is because I will be foregoing the half million for your contract, so I’ll expect you to subsidize that.” The young man sat back, eying Montanegro impassively.

Montanegro seemed to fight an internal battle, a struggle in his mind.

“You’re insane.”

The young man’s face took on a smile that chilled Montanegro’s blood — the blood of a man who had killed dozens himself and ordered the execution of hundreds.

“That may well be. But the question is, do you want me on your side, or working against you? If against, you have nothing to do but wait, and you’ll see the result of that choice by two o’clock today, maybe two-thirty. The effects are quite painful, and at that point, irreversible. The Iranian who sold it to me said prisoners they tested it on tore off their own skin in an attempt to reduce the…discomfort.” He fixed the Don with a penetrating stare. “I don’t care whether I see tomorrow or not. The real question is whether you do. From that understanding will flow the correct answer.”

Montanegro now saw him in a new light. The young man imagined that was the way he would regard a cobra poised to strike, coiled on the table. Gone were the anger and the hubris. He already knew what the answer would be — Don Felix was certainly a man who wanted to live.

Montanegro slammed the table with his palm again and threw back his head and laughed; a laugh hollow with nervous relief.

“Fuck you. You really are good, you know that? I’ve sat across from many, and you take the cake. All right then. It’s a deal. One million, he’s dead within forty eight hours. I get the antidote within the hour. Who am I paying to exterminate, as a matter of interest?”

“Antonio Palomino. The head of the Chiapas cartel. I know where he’s staying. Not in Tijuana, by the way, but that’s not your concern. I want half the money now, and half when I close out the contract.” He glanced at his watch again. “I’d be inclined not to waste too much time right now.”

Montanegro rose, and shook the young man’s hand.

“It will take a few minutes to count it.”

Thirty minutes later, the Escalade dropped the young man off in a seedy neighborhood near the infamous wall that divided Mexico from the U.S.. He instructed the driver to cruise around the block, and that he’d meet him on the corner, in front of the small market, in ten minutes. The heavy SUV roared off down the dirt street, and once it was out of sight the young man ducked into one of the squalid little cinderblock houses, emerging a few minutes later with an empty aspirin bottle half-filled with clear fluid. He hefted the shoulder strap of the duffle bag with the cash and ambled to the market, stopping to buy a bottle of water with the few loose pesos jingling in his pants. The Escalade pulled up two minutes later, and he approached it, motioning for the driver to roll down the window.

The blackened inch-thick glass slid down.

“Wait until you see me walk round that corner. When I know I’m safe, I’ll call this phone and tell you where the antidote is. Be careful with it. Don’t drop it. That’s all there is. Tell Don Felix to shake it well, until the white powder in the bottom is completely dissolved, and then to take one tablespoon orally, and to have anyone else who’s affected take one as well. As long as they do so in the next forty minutes they’ll be fine. There are only enough doses to treat eight people, so don’t waste it. Do you understand?” the young man asked.