Russell Blake - King of Swords

“It tastes better with a little lime. Try it. You’ll see. I recommend two slices to start.”

Cruz reluctantly squeezed two of the cut lime wedges into the soup, and stirred it. Aranas sat expectantly, waiting for him to sample it. He raised the steaming spoon to his lip and took a tentative taste.

“It tastes like shit.” Cruz took another sip.

Aranas laughed with genuine merriment at the comment.

“I see you have a sense of humor. They didn’t tell me that. Unexpected in an anti-drug crusader.”

“I’m full of surprises. Now, what about my family?” Cruz demanded, slurping at the delicious concoction. Frida wagged her stump tail and stared hungry holes into his profile, then sat on the tile floor, hoping for a morsel to come her way. Cruz glanced at her. She was fat, all right. But happy. Definitely happy.

“I had nothing to do with that, like I said. That was probably Santiago. He was a shithead, and he perhaps thought he was being clever. But he was an ally, so we’ll leave it at that. You know I’ve cheerfully ordered hundreds of executions. There’s no reason for me to deny this one. But it wasn’t me.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you?” Cruz waved his spoon. “You kidnapped me. Why?”

Aranas scowled at his now-empty bowl and then dropped his spoon into it.

“I needed to get your attention. I have it. So it worked.” Aranas tapped a finger on the table while watching Cruz. “I want to tell you a story, and then I’ll return you to Mexico City, unharmed. Your job in this is to listen to the story. I talk. You listen. This won’t take long, so indulge an old man, yes?” Aranas reasoned. Without waiting for a response, he continued.

“About three months ago, Santiago approached me for a conference. We did a lot of business together, so I granted his request. He came to this house with a proposal for me.” Aranas took a sip of water from the half-full glass. “A proposal that I declined.”

Cruz waited for more.

“He’d gotten it into his head to do the unthinkable — an action that would polarize the population against the traffickers, and in my opinion, would result in a catastrophic set of events for Mexico. I tried to argue for reason, but he was adamant. He wanted to assassinate our president, in an effort to sway the upcoming elections for a candidate he had clout with.” Aranas sat back. “The frontrunner had been killed recently, so he believed that if he took out the President, his man would have a very good chance.”

Cruz nodded slowly, saying nothing.

“As you know, the Secretary of the Interior had been killed in November, and then El Gallo was executed…all probably related, but I digress. Santiago was convinced he could get his pet politician elected president, and use his position to take on his rivals while turning a blind eye to his traffic. It was naive and dangerous talk. But it was intriguing, I have to admit, and I wouldn’t hesitate to back an idea if I thought it would be effective. But then he came to what I considered to be the deal killer. He said that he also intended to kill the American president at the same time,” Aranas recalled. “I asked him, why on earth he would want to brand Mexico with that, and kill a man who was, at worst, a figurehead? I could see taking out our president, but the American? It made absolutely no sense.”

Cruz put his spoon quietly into his empty bowl, not wanting to interrupt the narrative.

“He couldn’t explain his reasoning coherently. He just wanted to do it. He asked me if I would fund half the contract price. I wanted no part in it. It was lunacy, and I couldn’t see any advantage to be gained by pursuing it. I told him that if he persisted with the idea, our business together could be jeopardized, and later on, he agreed to drop it. Only I think he didn’t. And after recent information reached me, I’m sure of it.” Aranas snapped his fingers, and Frida trotted over to him, her previous resting place a puddle of drool. He broke off a bread crust from the platter beside him, and tossed her a piece. It disappeared with a swallow.

“I have my sources, even in your hallowed halls, Capitan Cruz. I know you’re pursuing El Rey , and believe he’s the hired gun to take down the presidents. This scheme originated with Santiago, or worse, Santiago was fed it. It will be a disaster if it is successful. And that’s why I had you brought to me. I needed you to hear this from my lips. I have no part in any plot to kill the President,” Aranas finished. He’d said what he wanted to say.

“What was the contract price?” Cruz asked.

“Ten million dollars.”

Cruz whistled.

“You think he might have been fed the idea. Why do you say that? Who would want to get him to do this?” Cruz asked.

Aranas stood and delivered a loving scratch to Frida’s ears. She looked up at him with unconditional devotion. Capitulating, he gave her another piece of bread. A large one.

He turned to face Cruz.

“That is part of the puzzle, is it not? What I can offer you is a name that I suspect strongly of instigating. You will need to do your own due diligence. Carefully, would be my advice. The name is Xavier Sorreyo. He had a lot of influence with my recently-departed associate.”

“Sorreyo…I’ve never heard of him. Cartel?”

“Much worse. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to attend to some chores that I put off to meet with you. Our business here is concluded. I got my message across to you, and what you do with it is your affair. But I wish you luck, Capitan . And I really didn’t kill your family. I’m not sure that Santiago did, but it seems like the kind of thing the man would do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run.” Aranas smiled his charming smile again, teeth gleaming beneath his gray moustache. “If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you like an ant. As I expect you would do with me. So now things return to normal, yes? You fight crime, I create it, and the world continues to turn, the spiders eating the flies.” Aranas petted Frida again and walked to the archway that led to the courtyard. “Thanks for coming, and good luck. You’re going to need it.”

Cruz braced himself to rise, only to find himself with the now-familiar rag over his face. He instinctively struggled, then gave in, recognizing the futility.

When he regained consciousness, he was sitting in the passenger seat of his car, the keys in the ignition, the doors locked, ventilation coming from the battery running the air. He checked the time. Two a.m.. He grabbed at his shoulder holster and relaxed when he felt the now familiar bulk of his new Glock nestled there.

Cruz took a few deep breaths, trying to clear the fog from his vision, and registered an unfamiliar sensation in his clenched right hand. He opened it and stared down at the crumpled piece of paper stuck to his palm. On it were scrawled two words. A name.

Xavier Sorreyo.

The next morning, Cruz felt like he’d drunk a bottle of rotgut tequila. The hangover effects of the drugs he’d been knocked out with were substantial. His mouth tasted like lead, his head was pounding, and the body aches were accompanied by a pronounced disequilibrium.

Cruz considered driving to the office, but decided against it. Instead, he called Briones to ask for a ride. Briones had been panicked yesterday by Cruz’s absence, but didn’t know what to do — and in truth, there wasn’t much he could have done.

Briones wanted to know everything that had happened. Cruz promised to fill him in on the way to work.

Once in the car, Cruz recounted the story dispassionately while Briones’ mouth hung ever wider in disbelief. Finished, he laid out their battle plan for the day.

“Obviously, Aranas felt that the name Sorreyo was important enough to warrant snatching me, so I think the priority needs to be getting everything we can on him.”