Russell Blake - King of Swords

“I know. I wish I was joking. Oh, wait a second. This might be something on the case,” Briones said, as his phone beeped to alert him he’d received a priority message. He skimmed the contents for a moment, and then re-read it. When he met Cruz’s eyes, all the blood had drained from his face and he looked chastened.

“What? What is it? Did they locate the man, or ID him? Talk to me, Lieutenant.”

Cruz didn’t think the news could get any stranger or any worse than the story about the killer getting away.

He was wrong.

“An American diplomat?” Cruz demanded.

“Yes, sir. The prints matched a set on file for a member of the American embassy in Mexico City. Says his name is Joseph Fitch, and that he’s a commercial attache,” Briones said.

Cruz took a few moments to digest the revelation. “Any theories as to why a member of the U.S. embassy would be hiring contract killers to off me, or cold-bloodedly murder antique shop owners?”

“None, sir. Or at least, none of them good.”

“Maybe he’s working with the cartels? Co-opted? Wouldn’t be the first time…” Cruz mused.

“Could be. But doesn’t really matter. If I’m reading this right, he’s got diplomatic immunity,” Briones said, reading from his phone.

“What? No fucking way. Don’t tell me that immunity applies to hiring hit men or shooting people,” Cruz exclaimed.

“Uh, I don’t think that’s what it’s supposed to cover, but we’ll have to get the Attorney General involved for a definitive…”

“He shot a man while you were recording it on tape.”

“Yes. And assuming he’s still in the country, we could and should go to the Attorney General. Even if he isn’t. Maybe we could extradite him…” Briones trailed off, unconvincing to his own ear.

“We can worry about the details later. Get the Attorney on the line, give him what you’ve got, and then let’s press the Americans to hand him over. If he’s sided with the cartels, he’s the enemy, and our ‘partner’ up north needs to get with the program.”

Cruz was processing furiously. He needed to get out of the hospital and back into the field. “Get the doctor in here. I need to determine when I can be released without killing myself.”

“One more thing. The identification came back on the two shooters who tried to take you out. They’re Knights Templar enforcers. So maybe revenge for Santiago?” Briones tried.

“Maybe. That’s the most likely explanation. But it doesn’t explain why an American diplomat would be paying to finish the job…”

“…unless the diplomat was working on behalf of the cartel,” Briones finished. “I get it. Obviously, if the cartels are penetrating and compromising the U.S. diplomatic corps, the problem just got much, much bigger than just Mexico. Now, we’re talking more of a global problem. Certainly for the Americans.”

Dinah returned at that moment, a can of soda in her hand. She beamed at Cruz again.

Briones shot him an unmistakable look of admiration. “I’ll go get the doctor,” he said, making himself scarce.

“We’re going to analyze the information in your father’s book, and hopefully, it will take us in a productive direction, Dinah. Don’t worry. I’m not going to drop this. Trust me when I say that finding your father’s killer is my top priority,” Cruz assured her.

“I do trust you, and I believe that if anyone can, you can. For now, concentrate on getting better. It’s not every day that you get shot. Thankfully,” she added.

“I don’t recommend it. But I should be out of here soon, and then I’ll be back driving things.”

Briones appeared with the doctor, who did a cursory exam, and assured Cruz that he would be out within twenty-four hours.

“Well, that’s great news, Capitan ,” Dinah enthused. “I bet you’ll be glad to be rid of the hospital.”

“You don’t know how right you are about that,” Cruz assured her. “Briones, let me have one more minute of your time before you leave, if you please.” Cruz looked pointedly at the doctor and Dinah. She got the hint.

“I hope you get better soon. Try not to get any more dog bites,” she said with a wave, and followed the doctor out of the room. Cruz waited until she was gone and the door had closed.

“Get me out of here. Transfer me to another area of the hospital, or to a different hospital, but I want out in the next two hours. I don’t like all the weird crap that’s going on, and until we figure it out, I want to make myself hard to find. Take Dinah home; don’t tell her anything more about me, and send the doctor back in when you leave. Arrange a transfer to a different floor, or a new facility, but I’m not remaining here. I feel like a sitting duck, and I don’t want to wait for someone with diplomatic immunity to show up and shoot me, and then give Mexico the finger.” Cruz had digested the unsavory information about the American diplomat, and didn’t like the implications.

“Absolutely. Will do. And I’m sorry about telling Dinah anything. She just has a way of pulling it out of you…”

“I have no doubt she’s very persuasive. Now get out of here. Get me moved,” Cruz concluded.

“Will do.”

While waiting for Briones, Dinah was innocently enrapturing the doctor — who was just finishing up speaking with her.

“He’s really lucky to be alive. A slightly different angle on the chest wound, or a few more minutes bleeding out on the pavement, and he’d be dead,” he told her.

“I’ll say he’s lucky. Thank you, Doctor. You’re a gentleman,” she cooed; the doctor seemed to gain an inch in stature.

Briones followed after him as he moved to the next room, and had a hurried discussion. The armed Federales sitting in the hall eyed Dinah with curiosity and more than a little interest. She didn’t seem to notice.

Briones returned, and she fixed him with a look that must have petrified seven year olds.

“Dog bites, huh?”

The Citation Ten executive jet touched down at Dulles International Airport and pulled towards the private charter section, where a well-lit hangar awaited its arrival. Even though it was inbound on an international flight, no customs agents were anywhere in evidence. That had been taken care of in advance. This hangar was off the grid as far as niggling details like passports or searches went. Had been for decades.

The plane rolled to a stop and a folding hydraulic stairway descended from the fuselage with a precise hiss as the pistons lowered it into place. The small bald man walked carefully down the steps carrying a hastily-packed overnight bag, and continued to the waiting limo — a long black Lincoln with government plates. The driver, wearing a black suit and tie, opened the rear door for him. The new arrival looked inside the car, smiled, and climbed in to sit across from Kent.

“Welcome home, Joe,” Kent said, holding his hand out to shake.

“Thanks, Kent. And special thanks for arranging the flight. Nice plane,” Joseph said, clasping Kent’s outstretched hand.

“It’s the only way to fly, isn’t it?” Kent agreed.

The car pulled out of the hangar, and soon they were hurtling down the freeway on their way to Virginia.

“So what happened? How did you wind up in Mexican custody?” Kent asked.

“I terminated the conduit, as instructed,” Joseph said. “Turned out it was a setup. The Federales were waiting for me. I had zero options but to allow them to take me in. Good going on the computer hacking, by the way. They let me walk out in the morning, no questions asked. Stupid bastards.”

“Did they get any information from you? Any ID?”

“What, are you kidding? You know I never carry anything on a job. And no, I didn’t say a word to anyone. As far as they’re concerned, I’m a ghost,” Joseph assured him.