King of Swords (Assassin series #1) (32 page)

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
Señor
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.

Chapter 21

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.

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.