Russell Blake - King of Swords

“Your driving is more dangerous than the cartels’,” Cruz observed.

Briones shook his head, jammed the car back into gear and sped down the busy boulevard.

The man pulled into the contractor parking lot, the ancient Toyota Camry groaning as it lurched over the rutted dirt surface. He parked at the far end of the field, all the other spaces already full, even at seven a.m.. The pace had increased as the summit drew nearer, and it seemed like, every day, more new arrivals were thrown at the problem in a bid to meet the deadline.

He’d packed a lunch — a torta , the quintessential Mexican sandwich, prepared on a large square bun and loaded with ham, cheese, chorizo, and a host of other delicacies. He cheerfully swung the plastic bag as he ambled towards the site to get his work orders for the day. The explosive faux light fixtures would be ready in one more week, so now he was actually helping to get the convention center built, which amused him to no end. He was more motivated to get the project completed on time than anyone else on the crew, and so his men were routinely finished with their assignments ahead of schedule. It was a pity he couldn’t direct the whole project. The incompetence was typical, with a lot of tired men going through the motions of a thankless job, uninterested in the quality of their work.

Give him two weeks with the crews, and he’d have had the fucking thing finished. Then again, he had more important matters to attend to.

He approached the trailer where the electrical team gathered every morning, and clomped up the temporary wooden stairs, swinging the door open with his right hand while clutching his sandwich in his left. He adjusted his security badge — numbered, with his photo laminated on it — and said good morning to the group of preoccupied engineers. One of them looked up at him from his workstation and peered at his badge, comparing it to the list.

“I guess you didn’t get the word, huh?” the engineer asked without looking up.

“What word?”

“Your company is off the project. It got terminated,” the engineer said unsympathetically. He finally looked up, and held out his hand. “I’ll take your construction badge, please.”

He stood immobilized for a few moments before collecting himself.

“That’s impossible. Could you check again?” he demanded.

The engineer held up his list, and made an X next to the name of the company he’d joined to get onto the project.

“That’s you, isn’t it? Some sort of a dispute, so they’re history. Sorry about that. Might want to take it up with them. I can’t do anything from this end. Now, if you please, your badge…” the engineer ordered.

He unclipped it slowly and handed it over, his thoughts churning.

“Is anyone else hiring? I…I don’t have any other job. Do you know of anything else on the project? I have a lot of experience…” he tried.

“No. At this point, with only a few weeks left, there’s nothing I know of. It’s a shame. You’ve done good work — I have no issues with you. It’s your employer that’s the problem. Probably trying to shake the builder down for more money. A lot of these guys wait till the project’s nearly done and then stick it to them, figuring they’re irreplaceable or that the builder will cave. Not these guys. They’ve adopted a zero-tolerance policy to that kind of bullshit.”

“So I can’t work as an independent contractor? You’ve seen the quality of my jobs. They’re some of the best here,” he said, now almost pleading.

“Nope. All the hiring takes place out of Monterrey, and I know for a fact that you need to have a company with at least a three year history, and a bond. I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Now, could you move aside? I need to get these work orders distributed,” the engineer finished, dismissing him to his fate.

El Rey descended the shaky stairs and considered his options. He hadn’t foreseen the company he’d weaseled his way into having a dispute with the builder. That had never come up in his contingency planning. He cursed inwardly, then calmed himself — losing his patience would accomplish nothing, and was a luxury he couldn’t afford. What was done was done. But this was a disaster for his plan. There was no way he’d be able to mount the light fixtures now, much less stay on to do maintenance up to the big day, ensuring the detonator was in place and functional. He was screwed. And he only had three weeks to come up with an alternative plan; the blink of an eye in terms of this scope of a hit.

All the work and preparation had just been flushed down the toilet by a larcenous contracting company. He momentarily entertained a vision of the company owner, flayed alive and suspended over a fire, and then dismissed it. Satisfying as it might be to take his frustration out on someone, he needed to spend his time more productively.

Opening the door of the junky, beaten car he’d bought in the barrio for a thousand dollars, he fumed at his ill fortune, and then reconciled himself to plodding forward. It was a setback, but he was used to overcoming adversity. It’s what made him El Rey .

Which was all well and good, but wouldn’t get the job done. He was running out of time, and the clock was ticking even as he sat in the dusty lot cursing his fate. The engine turned over with a puff of alarming-looking black smoke. He wheeled around and headed for the exit, mind working furiously on alternatives.

He needed a plan. And he needed one fast.

That afternoon, two uniformed Federales entered the large administration tent that had been erected to house the hundred or so support staff for the project. They spoke with the project director. After a few minutes, he directed them to a computer terminal and brought over an overweight woman in her forties, who was chartered with keeping track of personnel. They unfolded the sketches of El Rey , with facial hair and without, and began the tedious process of going through sixty-five hundred badge photos on the off-chance they found someone who resembled their target.

The woman was chatty, regaling them with stories of her move to Los Cabos from Durango, where she’d had a travel agency in a past life, before the internet had obviated her business. She seemed singularly incapable of appreciating how little both men cared about her banal history or her opinions of the region’s charms, and how they compared with Durango, which to hear her tell it was the Garden of Eden crossed with Shangri-La.

They listened politely, but soon were exchanging glances of annoyance as she kept up a rapid-fire monologue of excruciatingly dull observations, many of which involved the antics of her beloved cats, which she believed possessed magnetic charms and would surprise and delight anyone within earshot. The older of the two leaned in and whispered to his companion, speculating on the ramifications of shooting her, maybe just to wound.

The hours dragged on as they stared at photo after photo, assembling a group of men that came relatively close. By the time they’d seen all the photos they had thirty-seven possible suspects, which they downloaded to a removable drive for forwarding to Mexico City. It was now two o’clock, and Mexico City was an hour ahead, so the photos probably wouldn’t be looked at until the next day.

The men thanked their new friend for the hospitality and headed for the exit with palpable relief, intent on getting back to the Federales outpost so they could send their findings via e-mail. They stopped at a Burger King on the way to the office, having missed lunch in favor of being regaled with the precocious hijinks of Mister Mittens and Tiger, and wolfed down burgers with air-conditioned relief. It was three before they got to the station and had sent all the photos, and they sat back, exchanging war stories with the local officers while waiting for instructions on what to do next.