Russell Blake - King of Swords

Cruz studied the huge structure. Remarkable that they’d completed it in time. He’d been in town for a week, and right up until the final seconds, crews of frantic workers had rushed to complete final details and repair systems that were already beginning to fail. He checked his watch — the delegation would be arriving in a few minutes. The anxious buzz in his stomach increased its strident alarm, but there was nothing obvious he could do now. Everyone had the photos of the man Cruz believed to be El Rey , and the convention center was more fortified than a maximum security prison. He’d done all he could.

He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the surrounding hills, the bases of which were over six hundred yards away. The conference center was surrounded by slopes on three sides, covered almost entirely by short, brownish scrub that had been grazed to the nub by a herd of wild goats — escapees from the small petting zoo belonging to the school at the bottom of the hill. He scrutinized every cranny. There was no place for a man to hide. And the distance, even had there been, would have made a shot tricky; there was a considerable breeze, with gusts whipping at the semi-circle of flags fluttering above the facility’s entrance.

A buzz rose from the packed group of media and protestors as a line of limousines drew up the newly-paved road. The moment everyone had been waiting for had arrived. The cars pulled past the crowd and began moving to the entrance, where the opening ceremony was going to begin. A large blue and white striped marquee stood to one side, where the performers and presenters nervously awaited their turn in the spotlight.

The crowd’s eyes rose to the beating of rotor blades, as two more helicopters approached and then hovered over the field, finally coming to rest on the designated area of tarmac. The aircraft doors opened simultaneously, and a group of men in dark suits stepped briskly from them both, forming a protective barrier as the presidents of Mexico and the U.S. stepped out, waving at the crowd before moving to glad-hand each other in a staged symbol of friendly solidarity. The crowd of protestors booed and shook their handheld signs while the press corps filmed the arrival.

Cruz eyed the group of journalists nervously. All of their equipment had been searched and scanned, but he still suspected a trick. Briones stood by his side, similarly engaged by the sight of all the cameras pointed at the two great men. They exchanged glances, and Briones unconsciously fidgeted with his sidearm. A persistent fly buzzed around his head, and he swatted at it angrily before wiping his brow. On the parking lot, the heat was blazing, the sun’s energy baking the grayish-black surface, multiplying its effects as it radiated heat.

Briones’ eyes were drawn to a movement on the periphery of the protestors; something alarming he barely registered. A bearded man had drawn back his arm and was preparing to hurl a projectile. The lieutenant sprang into action, covering the twenty yards to the edge of the barricades in seconds, gun drawn, ready to fire. The soldiers froze, weapons now trained on the crowd rather than pointing at the ground, and for a brief eternity time stood still. Briones’ eyes locked on the man’s face, and he seemed to swivel his head in slow motion to watch the uniformed Federal Policeman racing at him, pistol aimed at his head. A few of the other protestors, sensing a problem, drew back, leaving him fully exposed.

He slowly lowered his arm, and Briones screamed at him to freeze; not to move. The man looked somewhat like the photo, but it was hard to tell with all the facial hair and the knit Rastafarian cap. The soldiers automatically made way for the lieutenant, who pushed the nearest barricade aside as he stalked towards the man, ready to fire. The crowd had gone silent, and a few of the media had turned their attention from the two world leaders walking to the convention center, to the drama playing out between the menacing, pistol wielding policeman and the peacefully-convened protestors.

The soldiers stood nervously, fingers on triggers. There was a very real sense that the situation could devolve into a slaughter in seconds. All it would take was a single case of nerves and the area the crowd was gathered in would become a slaughterhouse. The throng sensed this and backed away, as a group, nobody wanting to be martyrs in a desert backwater a thousand miles from anything.

Briones reached the man, and, holding the gun to the hippy’s head, cautiously reached down and lifted the man’s hand to see what he’d been attempting to launch. He saw a flash of red. A tomato.

Briones removed his cuffs and locked them on the man’s wrists as the crowd, sensing the conflict was over, jeered at him. He pushed the man to the barricade, where two of the soldiers took charge of the dangerous vegetable assailant. Briones marched back to where he’d been standing with Cruz, followed by boos and catcalls of ‘Gestapo’ from the protestors; his face was redder than the tomato. The soldiers relaxed, the fire drill over, and returned their barrels to pointing at the ground, a few of them smiling nervously with relief. The presidents’ security details hadn’t registered the lightning-like scuffle, although Briones’ wooden features would become an infamous symbol of totalitarian abuse of power across most Western television networks that night.

An older uniformed soldier moved over to Cruz from the assembled group of military functionaries, and leaned into him, speaking softly. “You better get your attack dogs on a tight leash, Capitan . That almost turned into a bloodbath over a tomato. Get your shit together, or you’re going to be asked to leave.” General Ortega eyed Briones through eyes like slits. “I do not want any more outbursts, do you read me?”

Cruz’s eyes darted to the imposing officer’s face, and he nodded, once. Message delivered, the general turned and marched back to his position with the other military brass assembled near the stage.

“What the fuck, Briones,” Cruz started, still watching the crowd, painfully aware of the cameras documenting the incident, as well as their every move now.

“I just saw the movement and reacted. I’m…I’m sorry, sir.”

“I think maybe you should take a walk around the perimeter and verify all is in order. Try to stay as far from the cameras as possible, all right? Hopefully they’ll lose interest in a few minutes. And do not, unless El Rey is standing with a bazooka pointed at the President, draw your weapon again. Clear?” Cruz spoke softly, but the steel in his tone was unmistakable.

Briones moved to do as instructed, glad to have the scrutiny shifted back to the gathered functionaries.

The two presidents had taken seats at the front of the raised platform that would serve as the stage, erected that morning and checked and rechecked by the security forces. The gathered delegates surrounded the two men, and cameras clicked and whirred as the moment was captured for posterity. The Mexican president stood to applause from the delegation, and moved to a solitary microphone on the stage, which faced the assembled dignitaries but was also turned sufficiently so that the media were presented with his left side. He had become polished enough to gleam at these types of events over the five and a half years of his term, and he moved and spoke like a veteran statesman.

Cruz listened to the predictably-hackneyed aphorisms about global cooperation and a new era of peace and studied the gathered journalists, eyes scanning restlessly over them before continuing to the roof of the center, where several sentries watched the crowd. He rotated slowly, studying the protesters, and then moved again to the hills. He caught a movement on a far bluff and raised his binoculars, ready to warn everyone to get down.