Russell Blake - King of Swords

He shifted and glanced at his watch. Four a.m., and his mind was busy turning over the facts of the case instead of allowing his battered body to rest. That figured. He’d long ago grown accustomed to his nearly obsessive approach to problem-solving; once he got hold of something, he’d worry away at it until he’d figured it out. It was his nature, and he supposed he wasn’t going to change now.

One of the biggest question marks for him had been why a cartel boss would want to take out the Mexican president. It was an election year, and he was a lame duck now — he could only serve the one six-year term. There was no re-election bid in Mexico once you’d achieved the highest office; you got your six years, and that was that. So why kill him? To what end? Cruz didn’t buy that it was all just to prove a point.

He thought about the chain of command. If the President died, leadership of the government went to the Mexican equivalent of the Vice President — the Secretary of the Interior. And if the Secretary of the Interior also died, as the recent two had in air crashes, then it went to one of the members of the Supreme Court. Cruz considered that scenario — maybe the goal was to eliminate those who were committed to eradicating the cartels, in favor of a judge who’d been bought off? He was far too experienced and pragmatic to believe that anyone in the system was incorruptible. The question was always just, at what price?

Then again, maybe it was as simple as territories, and controlling the playing field. It was obvious to Cruz that the current administration pursued some cartels with far more vigor than others. Santiago’s region had been particularly hard hit by government troops, while his competitors went virtually unhindered. There was always the chance that the whole scheme was about money and power, and nothing more; that the goal was to remove a thorn in Santiago’s side, and replace it with a politician who would focus on his rivals, rather than his allies.

Cruz knew these were impossible questions to answer, but that didn’t stop him from mulling them over as he drifted in and out of slumber. Now that the morphine was clear of his system, his mental acuity was returning to accompany the pain. Which reminded him — he’d need to commit to some regular physical therapy, per the doctor’s orders, if he was going to escape without a limp. The wound to his leg had narrowly missed shattering the bone, but had done a number on his muscles and ligaments, which would require patience and attention. The thought of it depressed him. Being around other invalids, casualties of a de facto civil war they couldn’t win, wasn’t something he was looking forward to.

The door eased open, allowing a sliver of light into the room, drawing him out of his tentative sleep and to full awareness. Cruz peered through squinted eyes and watched as a female form entered the room, pausing to scrutinize him before wedging a chair against the door handle. Something told him that wasn’t standard operating procedure for caregivers, and his hand slid the few inches to Briones’ pistol still concealed beneath the sheet. The nurse didn’t notice, occupied with blocking entry with the chair. Cruz held his breath as he tried to find where the safety was located on the gun. His thumb slid across the lever, but he held off on flipping it into fire mode lest it make a sound and alert her.

The nurse approached his bedside and hastily removed something from her blouse. A pen. Was she going to try to stab him to death with that puny thing? She fiddled with it, then extracted a syringe from the casing. She was preparing to inject it into the IV bag when Cruz pretended to come to.

“Oh. Hello. Here to adjust the dose?” he murmured in a drugged monotone, eyes hooded and barely open.

“Yes. El doctor wanted to ensure you were comfortable all night and instructed me to check in on you,” his would-be killer dissembled, without missing a beat. Cruz looked up at her, standing a few feet away, the syringe that would end his life clutched in one hand as she beamed love at him. The nurse was a stunning-looking Mexican woman, that was sure, with a body that would have stopped traffic anywhere in town. What a shame.

“He’s very good, isn’t he?” Cruz rasped weakly.

“One of the best. You’re in good hands,” she assured him.

“I’m glad to hear that. Tell me, what’s his name again…?”

Her eyes digested the question, and he watched the split-second it took for her to realize she’d been played. She lunged for him with the needle, only to be slammed in the side of the head with the pistol. Obviously dazed, she fought to maintain her balance, so Cruz whacked her with it again. Her eyes rolled up into her head as she slipped into unconsciousness.

Cruz pushed the red button on his bed control, maintaining an unsteady bead on her as he awaited help. After a few minutes, he heard the staff trying to get the door open, with no success due to the chair. Checking to ensure the woman was still out, he resigned himself to having to do this the hard way. He detached his IV before swinging his legs over the side of the bed, taking a few seconds to get his balance before shuffling his way to the door and removing the chair.

Cruz was almost knocked off his feet by the two Federales who burst in, weapons at the ready, followed by a nurse, who grabbed him as he slumped against her. He noted the blood splattered on the floor from where it had leaked out of his catheter, and was reassured that it looked reasonably viscous; a satisfying shade of crimson.

“She’s got a syringe in her hand. Careful. Don’t let her stick you. It’s poison,” Cruz instructed the two cops.

Then he fainted.

Briones paced the floor around the chair where the spurious nurse who’d tried to kill Cruz was shackled, much as he’d seen the Capitan pace when he’d been conducting interrogations. He smiled inwardly at the impression Cruz had made on him over the last five years. He’d do Cruz proud on this one.

Maria Trigos Gonzalez was twenty-eight years old, with a university degree in mathematics. She was a native of Los Mochis, north of Mazatlan on the coast — a notorious cartel trafficking stop on the route to the border.

“Maria. We tested the syringe. We know you were going to kill him. That’s not in question. Judging by your performance it’s a safe bet this isn’t your first job. So cut the shit, tell me who hired you, and it’ll go better for everyone,” Briones said.

“I told you. I don’t know the man’s name.”

“How did he get into contact with you?” Briones asked.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“You mean you won’t. You won’t tell me that,” Briones corrected. “And that’s the start of our problem, you see?”

“If I tell you who my conduit is, I’ll be dead by tomorrow. That’s how it works,” Maria warned.

“Very melodramatic. But try this,” Briones reasoned. “If you don’t help me, you’ll be dead in the same amount of time, because there’s not a chance in hell your conduit will allow you to remain in custody until you decide it might be worth rolling on him. So your only safe bet is to cooperate now, before he knows anything’s wrong. Your window of opportunity closes after that, and I believe you when you say nobody can keep you safe then…”

He saw a flicker in her eyes and knew he’d scored a major point. Maria was calculating, he could tell, trying to figure a way out. He allowed her time, confident that he had it right. If she rolled, he’d kill her; if she didn’t, he’d kill her. But if she rolled before he knew there was anything wrong, she had a chance.

“You know what I’m saying is true — math degree, right? That’s not for idiots. Maria, I can’t let you walk after you tried to kill a captain in the Federales , but I can figure out a way to have you charged with something less, and incarcerated in a facility that’s lax in its ability to hold determined prisoners. We both know that’s the best deal you’re going to get, but it’s only available today, right now. When I walk out that door the deal walks with me, and you’ll be dead within a matter of hours. Think it through and make the right decision. Either way, your assassin days are over.” Briones studied her face. “You’re a very beautiful woman, Maria. I have a feeling you could figure out a way to have a good life without financing it by killing people. There are probably men lined up to court you.”