King of Swords (Assassin series #1) (28 page)

“Dog bites, huh?”

~ ~ ~

The Citation Ten executive jet touched down at Dulles International Airport and pulled towards the private charter section, where a well-lit hangar awaited its arrival. Even though it was inbound on an international flight, no customs agents were anywhere in evidence. That had been taken care of in advance. This hangar was off the grid as far as niggling details like passports or searches went. Had been for decades.

The plane rolled to a stop and a folding hydraulic stairway descended from the fuselage with a precise hiss as the pistons lowered it into place. The small bald man walked carefully down the steps carrying a hastily-packed overnight bag, and continued to the waiting limo – a long black Lincoln with government plates. The driver, wearing a black suit and tie, opened the rear door for him. The new arrival looked inside the car, smiled, and climbed in to sit across from Kent.

“Welcome home, Joe,” Kent said, holding his hand out to shake.

“Thanks, Kent. And special thanks for arranging the flight. Nice plane,” Joseph said, clasping Kent’s outstretched hand.

“It’s the only way to fly, isn’t it?” Kent agreed.

The car pulled out of the hangar, and soon they were hurtling down the freeway on their way to Virginia.

“So what happened? How did you wind up in Mexican custody?” Kent asked.

“I terminated the conduit, as instructed,” Joseph said. “Turned out it was a setup. The
Federales
were waiting for me. I had zero options but to allow them to take me in. Good going on the computer hacking, by the way. They let me walk out in the morning, no questions asked. Stupid bastards.”

“Did they get any information from you? Any ID?”

“What, are you kidding? You know I never carry anything on a job. And no, I didn’t say a word to anyone. As far as they’re concerned, I’m a ghost,” Joseph assured him.

“I should have known. You’re a magician, as always.” Kent smiled at him. “It’s really good to see you again, buddy. It’s been too long.”

“I agree. Next time don’t send me into any hellholes, okay? Maybe someplace fun, like Prague or Buenos Aires?”

“You got it. Hey, I’m sorry, bud. After four hours in the air, you must be parched. You want some water? A drink? I’ve got scotch and vodka, beer, sodas and H2O. Name your poison,” Kent offered.

“I could use some water.” Joseph adjusted the air-conditioning so that it was blowing on him. “So what do we do now? Where do we go from here?” he asked.

“That’s a tough one, Joe.” Kent handed him a bottle of water, cracking the bottle top for him. “We’re going to have to take you off the board in Mexico for a while, at least. Too high profile. I’m thinking we get you an office for a few months, let you run ops from behind the scene, and then get you back on the ground once this thing has played out,” Kent said.

“Makes sense. I don’t care if I never see Mexico City again. The air sucks, and it’s like living on an anthill. Too many people packed on top of the other,” Joseph complained, downing half the bottle.

“Been a while since I was there. I’m with you on the crowds, though. I hate them,” Kent agreed.

Joseph wiped his forehead and took another swig of water.

“I think I might have picked up a bug in jail. I’m not feeling too…” he said, and then slipped into unconsciousness, the water bottle soundlessly dropping onto the carpet. Twenty seconds later white foam began trickling out of his nose and mouth. Kent retrieved the bottle and screwed the top back on. Amazing what a little superglue could do to create the distinctive crackling sound that mimicked a factory-sealed bottle. Kent pushed a button on the intercom.

“It’s over. Let’s drop him at the base and get rid of any trace. Grind him up into pieces so small he’ll fit through a straw.”

~ ~ ~

Once the hospital had fallen silent, the bustle of daytime replaced by the hush of night, Cruz propelled himself unsteadily down the hall in the wheelchair that had been left for him by an orderly. He’d gotten the okay to disconnect the intravenous drip and plug the catheter, and had done so a few moments before placing a plastic bag containing his wallet, phone and weapon on his lap. He cautiously wheeled himself through the door. The two
Federales
could have been statues – Briones had briefed them to stay on guard at ‘his’ room and not to allow anyone in, no matter what, and not to discuss his absence under any circumstances.

The doctor had reluctantly agreed to get him a room that he could lock, and had equipped it with a drip so he could stay hydrated. Cruz had been informed of the attendant risks and had bought off on them; they were considerably less than the odds of him being attacked by a cartel bent on killing him, so on balance, he fancied his chances better as a no-name patient in the maternity wing.

His chest hurt like hell from the exertion, but he didn’t mind. He still had decent upper body strength even after the slug had torn through the pectoral muscle. The leg was another matter, but he’d deal with that on a day-by-day basis. If necessary, he could crutch it for a few weeks. He hoped that wouldn’t be required. Maybe some sort of a brace or a soft cast could be fitted. They’d go over options upon his release.

The doctor said he could be discharged the following day, but would prefer if he stayed forty-eight more hours. Cruz wanted out of the hospital in the worst way, but didn’t want to wind up back in a few days because he pushed it. Tomorrow, Briones would bring a laptop so he could link in to the headquarters servers, which would make him feel more productive, so he’d resigned himself to tough it out and spend two more nights there.

He reached his new digs, wheeled himself in and locked the door with the key that hung obligingly from the interior of the dead bolt. Now he was safe, or as safe as he could be in Mexico City. Once he was discharged, he was going to have Briones rent a by-the-week executive apartment in one of the fancy downtown high rises while he recuperated. It was pretty clear he couldn’t return to his house any time soon without risking extermination.

Cruz climbed onto the bed and hit the button that extinguished the lights. The only illumination came from the window; the soft glow from the parking lot lamps provided just enough visibility so he could place the plastic bag on the bedside table and pull out the pistol, cradling it in his hand as he dozed off to sleep, finally able to do so without the worry of being butchered while he slumbered. His last thoughts were about Dinah, hair gleaming in the harsh fluorescent hospital lights, and the dreams, when they came, featured her smile in all its high-voltage glory.

~ ~ ~

The next day, Briones arrived with the laptop and a bag of clothes to replace the ones that had been shot to bits and sliced off him by the emergency medical team. There were few things as humbling as spending three days with one’s ass hanging out the back of a gauze robe, so the sight of real clothing filled him with an optimism that defied rational explanation. Briones also had a special surprise – a brand new pistol with two spare magazines. Cruz handed back the one Briones had loaned him and hefted the new pistol happily. Only ten a.m., and already it was shaping up to be a good day.

The doctor stopped in to check the dressing on his chest and leg, and promised him he’d be back later to change it and give him another shot of antibiotics. Cruz’s color had returned, signaling that his red blood count was back to normal – the blood tests would confirm that, but his skin told him all he needed to know. The nearly constant infusion of plasma, vitamins and minerals had given his body the necessary materials to rebuild, and he felt stronger by the hour.

Cruz got online and saw that he had hundreds of messages to wade through. That took care of how he’d stay busy for the next ten hours. He turned to Briones, who seemed consumed by something on his phone.

“What is it?” Cruz asked.

“It’s not good. The phone numbers in the final section of Tortora’s book? All but one were cell phones that were registered, used once, and then tossed. Sound familiar?”

“Standard cartel issue. Is there anything we can use at all?” Cruz asked.

“Well, the last number was a Los Cabos number. A pay phone outside of the old bus station in Cabo San Lucas. It’s not much, but if that was being used by our friend
El Rey
, it means he’s already in Los Cabos, and has been for several weeks, at least.”

“So more circumstantial evidence nobody will want to pay attention to, other than to point out holes in the case,” Cruz muttered bitterly.

“Yes, but it tells us something important, I think – that we need to up our surveillance push in Baja and put more feet on the ground there. That’s where all the action’s going to take place, now that the summit is coming at us, only twenty-five or so days away,” Briones stated.

He was right.
El Rey
had to be there. No question. But knowing that didn’t do them much good, unless they could pinpoint it a little better. The population across San José and Cabo was almost two hundred fifty thousand – not exactly a tiny group to sift through. And as they’d discussed many times,
El Rey
doubtlessly had ways of changing his appearance, so the sketch might not do them any good. Something as simple as a change of hair color or cut, or facial hair, could radically alter appearance. They’d had Arlen draw in goatees and moustaches, but the more you covered the face, the more generic the drawings got.

They spent most of the day going through strategy, and at six, Briones begged off on any more work. He needed to secure an apartment for Cruz, and break the news to the additional officers they’d be shipping out for Baja, so he’d be lucky to be done by nine p.m..

Cruz was grateful Briones had stepped in and picked up the slack while he’d been down for the count. He truly didn’t know what he would have done without his help, and was glad he hadn’t cut him out of the loop when he’d had his doubts about Julio and Ignacio.

~ ~ ~

Kent hated phone conversations for anything of importance, but he couldn’t just hang up on the Speaker of the House, tempting as it was. At least he was calling from a landline. Cells were fraught with eavesdropping problems, and even though there was virtually nobody wishing to have him under surveillance, force of habit told Kent that discussing anything on the phone was a bad idea.

“You told me there was no way we could be connected to the events, and now you tell me that you had to pull an asset and terminate him? What about the locals? You think they’re not going to go crazy when they discover he’s gone?” The Speaker sounded far more concerned than the situation warranted, in Kent’s opinion.

“He was turned by the cartels, a black sheep, and disappeared. That’s the explanation. We can’t produce someone who doesn’t exist anymore.”

“My point is, this is already unraveling. First the DEA memo, now a manhunt for embassy personnel. I don’t like it. I don’t think you have as solid a hold on this as you pretend,” the Speaker said.

So there it was. The anxiety needed somewhere to land, and so they’d gotten out the shit-gun and spackled Kent with it. He’d put a fast end to that.

“Nothing significant has happened. On any complicated plan, you expect a few random variables. These were ours. But they’ve been manageable. Have you heard anything more about the memo? No. It’s already buried and forgotten. Same as Joe. He was a rogue low-level staffer who apparently was lining his pockets doing the bidding of the cartels. Guess what? Regrettable as it is, sometimes good men go bad. That’s the surprised explanation we’ll eventually give – and we’ll waive diplomatic immunity for him should they locate him, as a symbol of our goodwill. The end. Nothing further to discuss. That’s why I’m not worried.”

Kent had good points. It was a closed loop. The cop was out of circulation, Joe was sludge at the bottom of a drainage ditch in Vermont, the memo was one of thousands of informational bulletins read and then forgotten; the cartel boss was worm food.

After a few more platitudes Kent hung up, satisfied that for now he’d talked the great man’s nerves down. As the big day approached, he knew there would be more of these displays, but as long as they got no worse, it was water off a duck’s back.

All part of the job nobody else wanted, or had the guts to do.

Chapter 18

A group of heavily armed men in the distinctive blue uniforms of the
Federales
formed a defensive arc around the hospital’s rear emergency room entrance. The afternoon haze from pollution and dust hung over the valley like a shroud, obscuring the outlines of tall buildings only a few miles away. A black Ford Explorer pulled up to the blue wheelchair ramp, and an officer emerged, pushing a seated figure wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap, a blanket draped around his shoulders and down his front. The men closed ranks, and the figure was helped into the SUV before it tore off, followed by several police vehicles.

Cruz watched the charade from his window. Anyone waiting for his departure had just gotten a nice show, and would now be tracking a motorcade that would drive around the city for an hour before making its way back to headquarters. He gingerly pulled on the loose pants Briones had brought for him and considered his reflection in the mirror. Considering what he’d been through, not so bad. He tucked his new weapon into his waistband; a Glock 21 that fired .45 caliber ACP bullets. It was light, accurate and held thirteen rounds with an additional one in the chamber – a lot of stopping power unless you were being charged by a rhino. He’d need to get a nylon shoulder holster for it, but for now the improvisation worked.

Taking a final gaze around the parking lot and seeing nothing suspicious, he wheeled his chair to the front entrance and called Briones, who was waiting at the far end of the lot. He pulled up to the ramp, and an attendant assisted Cruz into the little Ford Focus.

“That went well, I think,” Cruz said, shaking Briones’ hand.