Russell Blake - King of Swords

“I still can’t believe they did it. I mean, I know they’re powerful, but that…it makes you kind of want to reconsider being a cop.” Briones vocalized what Cruz had been thinking.

“He could have killed me at any point. And still could. I think that was the other part of the message — to clarify how things really stand,” Cruz agreed.

“Why do you think he didn’t?”

“Honestly? I believe Aranas wants El Rey stopped as badly as we do. He’s afraid it will be bad for business, and he’s right. It would. Especially if the Americans decide to help us in the war against the cartels by sending in a hundred thousand soldiers, which isn’t out of the question if their president is killed. Can you imagine the outcry? It would be the end of the cartels, and also of Mexico as an independent nation. Aranas is no patriot — he’s a killer, and a businessman who doesn’t see a benefit in killing the U.S. president. So…he’s on our side, for once,” Cruz mused. “And I think he understands there will always be someone in my job, so it might as well be me — the devil he knows, if you like. That’s the plain truth. We’ve been so unsuccessful against the cartels, he’s not worried.”

On that depressing note, they arrived at headquarters, and within a few minutes were entering Xavier Sorreyo’s name into the system. Moments of processing later, a screen popped up informing them that the file was classified.

“Classified? By who? We’re the fucking cops. How can it be classified?” Cruz fumed. He smelled the hand of CISEN in this — and whenever an intelligence service was involved, it was never good. He remembered what Aranas had said when he’d asked whether the man was cartel: “No, much worse.” Cruz had forgotten that part of the discussion up until now, no doubt an effect of the drugs. What could be much worse than murdering drug traffickers? And be classified?

He’d tried the front-door route enough times and been humiliated out of the building, so now he’d do it the old fashioned way. His cousin, Laura, worked at CISEN, and occasionally did him favors, as he had done for her. Cruz called her cell, and gave her Sorreyo’s name, explaining the problem. She committed to getting information within a few hours, and told him she’d call him back when she had it.

Cruz worked with Briones on the logistics of setting up a functional remote command center in Baja, and before they knew it, the morning had flown by and it was one o’clock. Cruz’s cell rang. It was Laura, wanting a meeting in thirty minutes at a restaurant they both liked.

He made it in twenty.

Laura entered ten minutes late. Cruz rose and kissed her. She was a handsome woman, three years older than he and almost as tall, with a full head of curly black hair going gracefully to gray. They sat, and after ordering, she slipped a single folded piece of paper to him.

He read it and stared off into space, puzzled. Then the pieces clicked into place. In a single burst, he understood that this was far bigger than a cartel boss wanting to off the President. Three little letters, and it all came together for him, or at least a chunk of it did.

Cruz would never be able to interrogate Senor Sorreyo. He’d been the victim of a hit and run accident in Monterrey a week earlier. Then again, Cruz didn’t feel as though he needed to ask him much, or think a meeting would have even been a good idea. There was little chance Sorreyo would have told the truth, about anything.

Xavier Sorreyo had been a CIA asset.

The hills around the conference center basked in the bright warm glow of the morning sun, a few lonely saguaro cactus stood like sentries, silently watching the unfolding events. The parking area and grounds were crawling with soldiers and security details, as the American Secret Service coordinated with its Mexican counterparts. Over a hundred army personnel formed a protective perimeter around the sprawling building, their M-16 rifles ready to combat any threat. Two army helicopters sat at the far end of the field, and an area nearer to the convention center had been cleared and was ringed off by police for the president’s helicopter to land. Armored military Humvees were poised like predatory jungle cats around the edges of the property as sentries patrolled from station to station.

A crowd of protestors thronged behind barricades as the soldiers stood by impassively, sweat trickling down their necks from the already ninety-four degree heat. Signs in a dozen languages berated inequality, U.S. imperialism, poverty, banking syndicates, and the general unfairness of life. The protestors were a mixed bag — everything from hippies and college students to angry retirees. It was an unruly bunch, made more so by instigators who roused them into chanting every few minutes. The Mexican forces seemed uncertain how to deal with them, and were keenly aware of the phalanx of cameras from the global media cabal capturing the event for posterity.

The commander of the crowd control team had radioed for more backup, and two army trucks filled with yet more soldiers barreled up to the staging area. Fifty men leapt down from the backs, many now armed with shotguns loaded with bean bags for non-lethal stopping power. Several carried larger tear gas launchers, and two men moved towards the crowd with a case of pepper spray. The tension was thick as fog as a confrontation loomed and, perhaps sensing that the Mexicans weren’t going to be as concerned with PR niceties as some of the prior years’ hosting countries, the demonstrators grew more timid. Nobody wanted to catch a bullet or be incarcerated in a Mexican prison for months while a worried family back home paid through the nose to lubricate their release. This wasn’t the U.S. or Europe — Mexico’s patience was thin and its tolerance for civil disturbance limited in the extreme.

Cruz stalked the area by the building with his team of Federales , looking for signs of anything suspicious. With the hundreds of men moving around — soldiers, police, marines, American and Mexican security forces, CISEN, Federales — a sense of subdued chaos reigned as the hour for the opening ceremonies drew near and the arrival of the participants drew imminent. All attendees and workers who approached the massive structure’s entry were forced to pass through metal detectors, and two airport x-ray machines had been brought in from Mexico City to scan every item that would get within a hundred yards of the opening ceremonies. Bomb-finding dogs had sniffed their way through every area twice, and the earnest pooches found nothing amiss.

American Secret Service bodyguards were salted throughout the presentation area, conspicuous due to their pale skin and the suits they wore in the simmering heat, and their protocols had been integrated into the event. The U.S. Secret Service was considered the best of the best, so there could be no more comprehensive protection for the attendees. They murmured into their palms and their eyes roved over the crowd and surroundings, clinically evaluating for possible danger. Between the Mexican special forces commando group, the regular army troops, the Federales , and the Gringo team, the delegates were safer than in their own living rooms.

Every possible security precaution had been taken, and yet Cruz was agitated. El Rey specialized in defeating the best efforts of those trying to stop him. This kind of circus was his specialty. Cruz didn’t buy for a second that any of it would prevent the assassin from moving forward with his plan, whatever it was — although he couldn’t for the life of him see how he could pull anything off, given the battalion of armed men guarding the event. And nobody could make it to or from the building alive if anything went wrong. All roads for a mile were blocked by armed soldiers, and traffic had been diverted so only the delegation vehicles would be on the road to the site.