Russell Blake - King of Swords

“I should have known. You’re a magician, as always.” Kent smiled at him. “It’s really good to see you again, buddy. It’s been too long.”

“I agree. Next time don’t send me into any hellholes, okay? Maybe someplace fun, like Prague or Buenos Aires?”

“You got it. Hey, I’m sorry, bud. After four hours in the air, you must be parched. You want some water? A drink? I’ve got scotch and vodka, beer, sodas and H2O. Name your poison,” Kent offered.

“I could use some water.” Joseph adjusted the air-conditioning so that it was blowing on him. “So what do we do now? Where do we go from here?” he asked.

“That’s a tough one, Joe.” Kent handed him a bottle of water, cracking the bottle top for him. “We’re going to have to take you off the board in Mexico for a while, at least. Too high profile. I’m thinking we get you an office for a few months, let you run ops from behind the scene, and then get you back on the ground once this thing has played out,” Kent said.

“Makes sense. I don’t care if I never see Mexico City again. The air sucks, and it’s like living on an anthill. Too many people packed on top of the other,” Joseph complained, downing half the bottle.

“Been a while since I was there. I’m with you on the crowds, though. I hate them,” Kent agreed.

Joseph wiped his forehead and took another swig of water.

“I think I might have picked up a bug in jail. I’m not feeling too…” he said, and then slipped into unconsciousness, the water bottle soundlessly dropping onto the carpet. Twenty seconds later white foam began trickling out of his nose and mouth. Kent retrieved the bottle and screwed the top back on. Amazing what a little superglue could do to create the distinctive crackling sound that mimicked a factory-sealed bottle. Kent pushed a button on the intercom.

“It’s over. Let’s drop him at the base and get rid of any trace. Grind him up into pieces so small he’ll fit through a straw.”

~ ~ ~

Once the hospital had fallen silent, the bustle of daytime replaced by the hush of night, Cruz propelled himself unsteadily down the hall in the wheelchair that had been left for him by an orderly. He’d gotten the okay to disconnect the intravenous drip and plug the catheter, and had done so a few moments before placing a plastic bag containing his wallet, phone and weapon on his lap. He cautiously wheeled himself through the door. The two Federales could have been statues — Briones had briefed them to stay on guard at ‘his’ room and not to allow anyone in, no matter what, and not to discuss his absence under any circumstances.

The doctor had reluctantly agreed to get him a room that he could lock, and had equipped it with a drip so he could stay hydrated. Cruz had been informed of the attendant risks and had bought off on them; they were considerably less than the odds of him being attacked by a cartel bent on killing him, so on balance, he fancied his chances better as a no-name patient in the maternity wing.

His chest hurt like hell from the exertion, but he didn’t mind. He still had decent upper body strength even after the slug had torn through the pectoral muscle. The leg was another matter, but he’d deal with that on a day-by-day basis. If necessary, he could crutch it for a few weeks. He hoped that wouldn’t be required. Maybe some sort of a brace or a soft cast could be fitted. They’d go over options upon his release.

The doctor said he could be discharged the following day, but would prefer if he stayed forty-eight more hours. Cruz wanted out of the hospital in the worst way, but didn’t want to wind up back in a few days because he pushed it. Tomorrow, Briones would bring a laptop so he could link in to the headquarters servers, which would make him feel more productive, so he’d resigned himself to tough it out and spend two more nights there.

He reached his new digs, wheeled himself in and locked the door with the key that hung obligingly from the interior of the dead bolt. Now he was safe, or as safe as he could be in Mexico City. Once he was discharged, he was going to have Briones rent a by-the-week executive apartment in one of the fancy downtown high rises while he recuperated. It was pretty clear he couldn’t return to his house any time soon without risking extermination.

Cruz climbed onto the bed and hit the button that extinguished the lights. The only illumination came from the window; the soft glow from the parking lot lamps provided just enough visibility so he could place the plastic bag on the bedside table and pull out the pistol, cradling it in his hand as he dozed off to sleep, finally able to do so without the worry of being butchered while he slumbered. His last thoughts were about Dinah, hair gleaming in the harsh fluorescent hospital lights, and the dreams, when they came, featured her smile in all its high-voltage glory.

The next day, Briones arrived with the laptop and a bag of clothes to replace the ones that had been shot to bits and sliced off him by the emergency medical team. There were few things as humbling as spending three days with one’s ass hanging out the back of a gauze robe, so the sight of real clothing filled him with an optimism that defied rational explanation. Briones also had a special surprise — a brand new pistol with two spare magazines. Cruz handed back the one Briones had loaned him and hefted the new pistol happily. Only ten a.m., and already it was shaping up to be a good day.

The doctor stopped in to check the dressing on his chest and leg, and promised him he’d be back later to change it and give him another shot of antibiotics. Cruz’s color had returned, signaling that his red blood count was back to normal — the blood tests would confirm that, but his skin told him all he needed to know. The nearly constant infusion of plasma, vitamins and minerals had given his body the necessary materials to rebuild, and he felt stronger by the hour.

Cruz got online and saw that he had hundreds of messages to wade through. That took care of how he’d stay busy for the next ten hours. He turned to Briones, who seemed consumed by something on his phone.

“What is it?” Cruz asked.

“It’s not good. The phone numbers in the final section of Tortora’s book? All but one were cell phones that were registered, used once, and then tossed. Sound familiar?”

“Standard cartel issue. Is there anything we can use at all?” Cruz asked.

“Well, the last number was a Los Cabos number. A pay phone outside of the old bus station in Cabo San Lucas. It’s not much, but if that was being used by our friend El Rey , it means he’s already in Los Cabos, and has been for several weeks, at least.”

“So more circumstantial evidence nobody will want to pay attention to, other than to point out holes in the case,” Cruz muttered bitterly.

“Yes, but it tells us something important, I think — that we need to up our surveillance push in Baja and put more feet on the ground there. That’s where all the action’s going to take place, now that the summit is coming at us, only twenty-five or so days away,” Briones stated.

He was right. El Rey had to be there. No question. But knowing that didn’t do them much good, unless they could pinpoint it a little better. The population across San Jose and Cabo was almost two hundred fifty thousand — not exactly a tiny group to sift through. And as they’d discussed many times, El Rey doubtlessly had ways of changing his appearance, so the sketch might not do them any good. Something as simple as a change of hair color or cut, or facial hair, could radically alter appearance. They’d had Arlen draw in goatees and moustaches, but the more you covered the face, the more generic the drawings got.