King of Swords (Assassin series #1) (7 page)

“Sorry, sir. I got stuck in traffic on the way back from my house. There was an accident…” Briones offered.

“Forget it. We’ve all been there. Let’s get back to our shit-bag and see what we can shake out of him. You okay? Ready for this?” Cruz asked.

“Perfect. Let’s get to it.”

The guard unlocked the door, and Cruz and Briones entered the cell. Santiago was slumped over in his chair, still unconscious. Cruz paced over to him and jerked back his head by the hair, looking for any trace of fakery, but didn’t see any. He quickly took a pulse, which was faint and uneven.

“Get medical down here immediately,” Cruz told Briones, who hurried to the door and alerted the guards. One of them murmured into his radio for help. Briones came back to help Cruz with Santiago.

They un-cuffed him and lay him on the floor. Cruz walked over to the
picana
and gave Briones a hard look. The lieutenant hastily gathered up the cord and the wand, stuffed it back into the rucksack, and carried it from the cell. The two sentries stood impassively by. Cruz knew he could count on them to have seen and heard nothing. Loyalty was a precious currency in the force, and you watched your peers’ backs if you wanted to go very far. It could be your own ass on the line at any point, so it was always better to be discreet.

After a few minutes, Cruz heard the distinctive sound of a gurney being wheeled down the corridor to the interrogation room. Two paramedics ran a quick check on Santiago’s vital signs, then heaved him onto the gurney like a sack of cement. Cruz ordered the two officers by the door to accompany Santiago to the hospital and stand guard in whatever room he was in –if he needed surgery, they were to take up a station outside of the operating room. He wanted to take absolutely no chances that Santiago could escape, or be broken out of captivity by his mob.

Cruz took the elevator up to his office, accompanied by Briones, and they got their stories straight for the inevitable investigation should Santiago die. It would be a cursory formality, to be sure, given that the captive had participated in gunning down a group of police that morning, but it was better to be prepared in advance. Both men had been with the department long enough to know how the drill worked, so they agreed that it was best not to mention the
picana
or the battering during questioning. Any injuries could be attributed to the assault and gunfight. Nobody was going to look too closely at the rights of a violent, psychopathic drug peddler; as long as they remained on the same page, there shouldn’t be any issues.

Cruz showed the lieutenant his interrogation summary, on the off chance he’d omitted some key element or gotten something wrong or remembered it differently. Briones read it slowly and placed it on the desk between them when he was done.

“Really, the only thing we got from him was that he claims to have been involved in your family’s execution, which is unverifiable, and he also claims to be involved in a plan to assassinate the President, as well as the American president. Which is also unverifiable. Where does that leave us?” Briones asked.

“I think we have to assume, given the circumstances of the interrogation and when and how he blurted it out, that there may be some truth to his claim. Santiago isn’t smart enough to invent a story like that while in extreme pain. Besides, it doesn’t come across on the report, but the way he said it…you heard him – it was like he was bragging. Like he wanted me to know what he’d done, so when it happened, I’d understand the power he wields,” Cruz concluded.

“I know. I got that, too. It’s what makes me nervous about all this. He seemed almost…I don’t know, almost happy with himself. And if he actually did hire
El Rey
, we have a real problem.”

“That’s the understatement of the year. The fucking media has made
El Rey
’s exploits more popular than reality TV, and it will result in an uncontrollable circus if even a hint of this leaks. It has to be just you and I that know about this until I’m able to nose around and see if we can find any corroboration,” Cruz warned the lieutenant.

“The cartels certainly have the money to hire him…” Briones mused.

“I know. That’s what scares me. Who knows what kind of twisted schemes these lunatics can cook up?” Cruz stopped and stared out the window. “But why kill the President? He’s only going to be in office till the end of the year, so why bother?”

“Some kind of a power statement? To show the population who really runs the country?”

“Could be. But I don’t buy Santiago would spend a fortune to prove a point. And it could backfire on him. I don’t know. Who the fuck knows what these animals dream up while they’re high?” Cruz groused.

“What do you think it costs to hire
El Rey
to do something like this?”

“
El Rey
? Probably, oh, I don’t know, five million U.S.? He’s got to be the most expensive killer in the world by now. I’ll say one thing, he knows how to market – now that he’s a celebrity in the press, he can command a lot more. These cartel bosses are just like everyone else. They read the papers, too, and money is no object to them…” Cruz trailed off, considering his last statement. Santiago could easily afford five million – just as easily as he could fifty. The take on trafficking Mexican cocaine was estimated to be in the twenty-five billion dollar-plus range at wholesale prices. That was almost the national budget of North Korea. So money was certainly not an issue.

“So how do we proceed from here?” Briones asked.

Cruz surfaced from his ruminations. “We wait to see what’s wrong with Santiago. And then we try to follow up on any leads, and root around to see if anyone on the street has heard any rumors. A loudmouth like Santiago would never be able to keep quiet about something this big, especially if he was behind it.”

The desk phone rang, and a terse conversation ensued before Cruz slammed the receiver down.

“They took him to Hospital Angeles, in Pedregal.” Cruz let out a sigh. “We’d better get over there and see what the damage is. Santiago would be the best place to start if we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

“Traffic will be hell. It’s going to take forever to get there.”

“Nobody said that police work was all glamour and fun, young man.” Cruz, who was only five years older than Briones, often called the lieutenant ‘young man’ as a subtle reminder of the power structure. “Hope you don’t have any plans for tonight,” he added.

“Not anymore.”

Even with the emergency lights on, it took them fifty minutes to get to the hospital. Dusk had set in as they pulled into the lot by the emergency room. Traffic congestion in Mexico City was infamous, especially during rush hour, and it could take close to forever to cross the city during peak periods.

The pair approached the marble-floored lobby of the pristine edifice and took the elevator down one floor to the operating rooms. Cruz had spoken with one of the officers sent to guard the prisoner, and he’d reported that the doctors had rushed Santiago into surgery after a hurried evaluation. The officer had called for backup, and there were now eight heavily armed tactical squad members lining the hallway to the surgical theater. Cruz walked purposefully to the officers guarding the doors of the OR.

“What are they doing in there?” he demanded.

“Some kind of procedure for his brain,” the officer replied.

“His brain? What’s wrong with it? Did they tell you anything?” Cruz asked.

“No, they just said that his pupils had a problem, so something was wrong with his brain. He never regained consciousness; that’s all we know right now.”

Cruz stalked the hallway, mind racing. A few minutes later, a green-gowned doctor emerged from the room, blood splattered down his front, and removed his surgical mask to speak with Cruz.

“I’m Dr. Consera. I presume you’re running this show?” he asked Cruz.

“Captain Cruz. Yes, this is my prisoner. He shot four of my men this morning and was taken after a considerable struggle,” Cruz informed him, for the record.

“Well, that explains the contusions and bruising…”

“Why are you operating on him? Was he hurt by the blows he sustained?” Cruz asked.

“Not really. We did a CT and an MRI, and this man has an abnormal heart. An area is enlarged, which is typical of victims of chronic atrial fibrillation.” The doctor flexed his hand, trying to get the muscles to relax. “No, what happened is that something, probably the morning’s events, caused a bout of fibrillation, and a clot formed in his heart and then traveled to his brain. Your man had a massive stroke. We went in through his leg and removed as much of it as we could so blood flow could return to the affected area of the brain, but it’s anyone’s guess how much permanent damage he’s experienced. In these cases, you just don’t know,” Dr. Consera explained.

“So he’s in a coma?”

“Precisely. His brain has been deprived of blood for at least an hour and a half, maybe more. Blood carries oxygen. Human tissue requires oxygen to live. If it was totally deprived of blood for that long, or longer, it doesn’t look good for him.”

“Then what’s the prognosis, as we speak?” Cruz asked.

“Poor. It would be a miracle if he ever regained consciousness. But in the end, we’ll just have to wait and see. I’d normally do a positron emission tomography scan of his brain to see what level of activity the area the clot-affected portion retains, if any, but it would be a waste of time at present. Maybe in a few days, but right now, he’s in God’s hands,” the doctor concluded.

“Or the devil’s. The man is a major
narcotraficante
, Doctor, and probably snorted kilos of cocaine every week.”

“That would make the chronic heart condition much worse, of course. It would explain a lot.”

“One thing I don’t understand. How does the clot form – from his heart beating, what, faster?” Cruz asked, genuinely curious.

“Atrial fibrillation isn’t necessarily tachycardia – a racing heartbeat. It can also be where the heart skips a beat, sometimes a lot of beats, which has a tendency to allow blood to pool in the enlarged heart chamber instead of pumping through. A little sticks to the valve, and then a little more, and pretty soon you have a clot the size of a pencil eraser headed for your brain, and, game over. Once it lodges, more blood begins to clot behind and in front of it, so it’s a downward spiral from there. We went in through the femoral artery into the brain and sucked out as much as we could get, and pumped blood thinners through him to get the remaining clotting to dissolve, but the damage already done after such a long period without oxygen…well…”

“Then there’s nothing that could have prevented this?” Cruz asked, seeking to clarify how the stroke would be reported by the doctor.

“Not really. If he was on medication, and he didn’t take it, that could have caused problems as his blood thickened over time. Of course, the shock of being in a gun battle and being captured and, er, questioned…my official position is that this was just an unfortunate occurrence that was the result of an underlying medical condition, and couldn’t have been realistically prevented.” The doctor assessed Cruz frankly. “Although you might want to avoid putting cigarettes out on prisoners, or bludgeoning them,” the doctor said quietly, glancing at the guards to ensure they hadn’t heard him.

“Thank you for all your help and explanation. What happens to him now?”

“We’ll transfer him to a private room in the intensive care wing, and watch and wait. That’s all we can do.”

Cruz joined Briones, who stood talking quietly with several of the other officers.

“He’s in a coma. Probably forever. But I still want a guard on him in case there’s some kind of divine intervention and he comes to. I do not want this asshole having a miracle escape on our watch, do you read me?” Cruz ordered.

“Loud and clear, sir.” Briones stepped away from his companions, and they wandered a few feet down the hall. “Do they know what caused it?”

“He’s got a bad heart, and it shot a blood clot to his brain. He stroked out. Nothing we could have done about it, the doctor tells me,” Cruz said, holding Briones’ gaze.

“He seems awfully young to have a bad heart,” Briones observed.

“Santiago’s two years older than I am. But this was a congenital condition. So it’s not the same as a heart attack, or coronary artery disease. It’s a combination of Hoovering coke, and God knows what else, and inheriting lousy genetic material.”

“So yo – we’re in the clear.”

“Yes. But I want him guarded twenty-four-seven for the duration. He’s too high profile, and he’s got nine lives. I don’t want him strolling out because he beat the odds yet again.”

“I’ll schedule a detail. What are his chances?” Briones asked.

“About the same as Shakira being at my house when I get home.”

“So don’t hold my breath,” Briones concluded.

“I think we’ll be okay if we station four men at the hospital in eight hour shifts. I want one outside his door, and another at the entry to ICU, and then two more downstairs outside the lobby doors. The last thing we need is his gang trying to break him out. We know he’s a vegetable, but they don’t, so I could see one of their bright young bulls thinking it would be a great idea to come into the hospital shooting. These pricks have no fear, and even less sense, so anything could happen,” Cruz warned him.

The stainless steel double doors of the OR opened, and two nurses wheeled Santiago down the hall, an IV drip attached to his inert arm. Cruz motioned to them to stop.

He approached Santiago’s bruised and battered face, now deathly pale.

Cruz leaned over his head and whispered into his blood-caked ear, “Looks like you didn’t win this one, did you, you piece of shit? I hope you come out of the coma, and live a very long life in excruciating pain. Consider it my promise to you that I will make that happen. Now, get well soon…” He straightened, smiled at the nurses, and allowed the gurney to continue its journey along the antiseptic halls.

Chapter 3