Russell Blake - King of Swords

“I guess that’s a decent excuse to not have those reports done on time,” Cruz observed.

“I think it should suffice, sir,” Briones agreed.

“Do we know who they were?” Cruz asked.

“Not yet. We’ve got the prints in the system, but you know how that goes,” Briones stated.

“Well, whoever it was, the party didn’t swing the way they’d hoped,” Cruz mused.

“I’m sure it didn’t.”

The conversation seemed to wear Cruz out, so the group moved to the door.

“We’ve got an armed guard outside, just in case,” Briones informed him.

“Great. Look, Lieutenant. Don’t bullshit me. How long am I going to be here?”

“Doctor says if you recover quickly, maybe three days. The leg will take some time to heal, and the chest wound tore the muscles up pretty well, but nothing that won’t mend. It’s mainly for observation; to give your system time to rest from the blood loss and shock,” Briones told him.

“Yeah. I feel like a tank ran over me. But I’ll live.”

“Yes, you will. I’ll stop in tomorrow to see you, sir. Do you want anything in the meantime?”

“You got your service piece with you? Do me a favor. Leave it with me. I’ll sleep better.”

Briones removed his pistol, checked the safety to ensure it was on, and chambered a round. He slipped it under the sheets, near Cruz’s right hand. “You’ve got one in the hole. But you won’t need it.”

“I hope you’re right. Just call me paranoid at this point.” Cruz coughed. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Six p.m.. They brought you in last night just before ten.”

“Shit. So I’ve been out all day?” Cruz was visibly agitated.

“You didn’t miss anything. Nothing’s happened. The job can wait a few days. Everything’s on automatic right now. It’ll still be there once you’re up and around, sir,” Briones reassured him.

“I guess I don’t have much choice. Hey…thanks for coming by. I’ll see you manana . Oh — did they get my phone?” Cruz asked.

“It’s in the drawer of the bedside table. I turned it off so your battery wouldn’t die.”

“Thanks again, Lieutenant.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow. Try to get some rest.”

“Will do,” Cruz said, settling back and surrendering to his fatigue.

~ ~ ~

Kent fidgeted with his coffee cup as the men across from him bickered over tactics. After fifteen minutes, with a sense of the discussion going nowhere, he held up his right hand, signaling a pause.

“The cop has been neutralized, right? So he’s not going to be a problem anymore. Early reports are that his car had more bullets in it than a gun store. And he’s in critical condition. I’m not sure what all the hand wringing here is about,” he observed.

“The problem is that we now have a plot to take out the Mexican president, as well as our guy, documented, floating around in the system. That shouldn’t ever have happened,” the oldest of the three others commented.

“Agreed. Nobody could have foreseen it. The fucking dope dealer had a big mouth. It happens. The important thing is that nobody’s taking it seriously,” Kent reasoned.

“It’s a concern, though, because it’s always possible that the President will cancel his appearance,” the older man fired back.

“And miss a trip to Cabo and eighteen holes of golf? Does that sound like our guy? Please. How many legit threats does Secret Service get, per year? Hundreds? Thousands? You really think the ramblings of some taco-breath are going to get any visibility? The Mexicans can’t even figure out how to tie their shoelaces. I’d guess this will receive less than zero scrutiny, other than perhaps a heightened security level at the conference and a few more suits than usual. This is noise. We have nothing to worry about,” Kent pronounced.

“Let’s assume worst case,” the man’s associate said. “Can anything be traced back to your group, if they somehow stop the assassin?”

“That’s the beauty part. Not a chance. The drug dealer’s dead, and he was the point man on this. He’s the one who took out the contract, he’s the one who hired the killer, and he’s the one who’s now six feet under. It all goes back to him. If it’s successful, then the cartels get blamed — and everyone in the world already knows they’re murderous thugs. So it will shock, but not surprise. If it tanks, we can think of something else. We still have plenty of time before the November elections,” Kent assured them.

“And what about if they catch him and interrogate him?”

“Highly unlikely. But just for conversation, let’s go down that road. They capture him somehow, even though they’ve been actively pursuing him for years with no success. What do they have? A contract killer paid in untraceable cash by a cartel boss. That’s it. The end. That’s what made the whole scheme so appealing in the first place. Its complete deniability,” Kent finished.

The men groused and worried more, but it didn’t go anywhere. They discussed some of the finer logistical points, and after another half hour agreed that things seemed back on track after a momentary scare.

Kent was getting tired of having to nursemaid his group of nervous nellies. Like all politicians and power players, they talked big and made bold moves when it was all theoretical, but once hands started to get dirty, they freaked out. The politicians were bad enough, but now he had to act as cheerleader for these second-string wonks, too? He resolved not to let it wear him down. This was a unique chance to achieve their objective in a completely clean manner, with no blood anywhere near their doorstep. It would be a regrettable act of brutality in a savage country run by criminals, and would create exactly the environment they were looking for. He couldn’t have scripted it better if he’d tried.

Sometimes he wondered what the hell these idiots were thinking when they green-lit operations like this and got professionals like Kent involved. Did they think he could just push a button and call everything off whenever someone had a case of nerves?

He’d be glad when this was over. If all played correctly, he’d be in line to make a big move up the ranks, and either get the number two spot in Langley, or perhaps even the number one. Maybe next term, after his position as number two had seasoned some.

Nice problem to have.

Cruz slumbered fitfully, the pain in his chest and legs causing him almost unbearable grief. He’d told the doctor to cut his morphine drip; he preferred to tough out the pain than feel the blanket of numbness restricting his ability to function. When the doctor had last checked in at midnight, he’d remarked to Cruz that his recovery was startling, given the condition he’d been in when he was admitted.

In spite of the pain, Cruz had to admit he felt much stronger than when Briones had stopped by. Apparently, the combination of rest and IV fluids was working — he didn’t want to get his hopes up too soon, but he was thinking he might be ready to get discharged the following evening, if the hospital signed off on it.

Cruz had a long discussion with the kindly physician overseeing his care, and had been adamant about cutting the narcotics, just as he’d instructed the doctor to keep all staff out of his room unless he was dying. No dope, no distractions, just old fashioned bed rest while his body built back its depleted resources. The doctor had shaken his head and warned him that he’d be in a lot of pain, but Cruz didn’t care. If he was feeling pain, it meant he was still alive, and that made it a good day. He knew he’d cheated death by a hair, and maybe wouldn’t be so lucky next time. It put things into perspective.

Cruz was acutely aware of the passage of time. He’d lost a day now, due to the shooting; a day he didn’t feel like he had to burn. El Rey was out there somewhere, not lying about wasting his time. The man was legendary for his meticulously-planned hits so Cruz had little doubt that if he wasn’t already in Los Cabos, he soon would be. The summit would be the crowning triumph of his assassinations — the Oscars, Grammys and Emmys of executions all rolled into one. Cruz could close his eyes and imagine the killer eyeing the building, the airport, the routes into the complex. He’d probably gotten a schedule of events and knew exactly what was planned for the attendees from the time they arrived until their plane wings lifted into the air.