Russell Blake - King of Swords

Not today, kids.

The miniature high frequency transmitter-triggered detonator in the pinata was the only problem he’d encountered. He knew everything coming into the area would be x-rayed, and while the carbon fiber would pass through clean, appearing to be nothing more than part of the plaster used to fabricate the creature, and the bearings would resemble the rest of the gumballs, the detonator had to be made out of metal — wires to conduct the necessary electric pulse, a tiny battery to emit it, and an antenna. The nose ring had been the designer’s suggestion, and it had worked like a charm. The pinata was ready for its denouement on stage, and nobody suspected anything.

Overhead, on the trim at the top of the conference center, the sun’s harsh rays gleamed off the black feathers of a silent spectator, its avian eyes coldly appraising the gathered children and the bovine target of their excitement. Nobody noticed the crow in all the pandemonium — it was, after all, only a bird.

A blast of music from the speakers startled it from its position and it took flight, emitting a cry that was lost in the hubbub from the stage below.

El Rey , to all the world just another of the hundreds of soldiers chartered with keeping the world safe from the cartels, cautiously slid his hand into his camouflage pants pocket, preparing to push the button. He’d had a hacker in the Ukraine list his name two days ago on the security force’s roster and had spent the last two nights in the temporary barracks that had been erected to house the troops on the road to the airport. He was just another faceless, anonymous drudge, his appearance altered with a military buzz cut and cotton padding in his cheeks. He’d long since shaved the goatee off. To any observer he would look like a hapless Mexican serviceman from the hinterlands, albeit a sergeant — he needed a suitable cover for his age, given that most of the enlisted men were eighteen to twenty-two; and he also wanted to ensure he would have sufficient rank to be able to roam, rather than being stationed too far from the stage for the transmitter to reach.

Steeling himself for the blast, he winced almost imperceptibly, and pushed the button, waiting for the blinding flash and then the horrified screaming.

Nothing happened.

Unbelievingly, he pushed it again. Same result.

He quickly estimated the distance between himself and the stage and calculated that he was no more than eighty yards away.

Fuck.

He moved closer to the stage, eyes fixed on the bull, and depressed the button again.

More nothing.

It wasn’t going to work .

He momentarily contemplated spraying the presidents with lead from his rifle, then dismissed the idea. The goal was not to get killed today. It was to kill. Trying to shoot them would be suicide.

No, he had to abort.

El Rey pushed the button one last time, and when the stage didn’t vaporize in a blinding flash, he decided to terminate the operation and live to fight another day. All he had to do was wait out the performance.

Except of course, that once the pinata came apart and it became obvious that half the candy was in reality custom-crafted projectiles, everyone in the vicinity would be put under a microscope. Even as good as his cover was, it wasn’t designed to withstand that. No, it was time to pack it in and slip away. Or in this case, run away. He’d been assuming that the scene would be one of chaotic pandemonium, not calm, when he made his getaway.

Which posed a problem. But not too much of one.

He was, after all, El Rey .

Briones listened as the girls finished up their jig and the music terminated. From his position at the rear of the building, he peered into the hills, alert for any threat. His nerves were shot after the incident with the would-be tomato thrower, and he forced himself to take deep breaths to slow the adrenaline rush. He held out his right hand, palm extended down, and considered the tremor, a byproduct of the fight-or-flight reflex he’d triggered when going after the protestor.

Pull yourself together, dammit .

He was chagrined by the end result of his charge into the crowd. Briones had been a split-second away from blowing the man’s head apart — he’d started squeezing the trigger before he’d registered the tomato. Just the memory of it caused the tremor to worsen. He told himself to calm down and focus on the job at hand.

Maybe they’d gotten it wrong. Maybe the entire El Rey thing had been bullshit, just as CISEN had obviously thought. Perhaps the Capitan , wracked by grief over his family and blinded by hatred for Santiago, had invented a new crusade to bring meaning to his life. Briones was starting to doubt the entire hypothesis now, just as he was doubting his instincts after nearly killing the hippy.

Briones wound his way around the structure, noting that the soldiers stationed every thirty feet seemed alert and ready. Soon he was standing by the side of the stage, watching the kids trot out to do a cloyingly cute presentation — or perhaps a badly out-of-tune song, before breaking open the pinata . He wiped his face with the arm of his long-sleeved shirt, blotting sweat, and cursed his fate. There were bound to be repercussions from the tomato incident. He wasn’t looking forward to discovering what they would be; probably a shift in his career to working traffic in the desert or something similarly awful.

Briones noticed movement on the far side of the stage. A soldier had inched towards the dignitaries, probably to get a better view of the kids, and now was moving away again. Briones’ stomach twisted. He watched the man slowly saunter back to his position, and then continue walking easily in the direction of one of the Humvees sitting at the edge of the lot. Two soldiers rested against it, scanning the hills with boredom now that the presentation was winding down.

There was something wrong. He couldn’t place it, but he knew, just as he’d known there was something off about the vagrant in the alley. What was it that Cruz had told him? Trust that instinct.

Casting aside his doubts, he set off in pursuit, cautiously, so as not to arouse suspicion or create a scene if he was wrong yet again. The soldier was three-quarters of the way to the vehicle now, so Briones picked up his pace to a fast walk. As he closed on the man, he called out to him, his hand on his holstered pistol, ready to draw, but not doing so yet, remembering the admonition from Cruz. The man didn’t hear him, so he called out louder.

“ Oye . You. Wait up. Federales . Just a second,” he yelled now that they were far enough from the stage he wouldn’t disrupt anything with his exclamation.

The soldier turned, gun pointed at the ground, his posture relaxed. Briones got within twenty feet of him, then saw the man’s eyes. It was the vagrant — but his face was different somehow, fatter and heavier. He jerked his pistol free and prepared to fire.

El Rey heard the call from behind him but ignored it. Every foot closer to the vehicle was a foot closer to safety, so he kept moving, subtly increasing his speed by lengthening his stride. The call came again, and he turned, resigned that the game was up. There was only one reason someone would be following him, and it couldn’t be good.

He watched as the man in the distinctive blue uniform strode towards him, and then their eyes locked, and he watched the man pull his gun.

Two shots exploded out of his combat jacket pocket, catching the cop in the chest and the shoulder, knocking him off his feet, his gun clattering uselessly beside him. The silenced compact automatic pistol was almost soundless, and he turned and trotted the remaining twenty yards to the two soldiers by the vehicle — thankfully, both privates, and both relatively green.