King of Swords

“He has a business partner who has been less than candid with him about the profits of one of their businesses, and he’s grown tired of having to wake up every morning, distrustful and angry. So he wants to retire his partner…with prejudice,” Julio explained.

“Ah. I see. Well, there are many discreet professionals who can accommodate that sort of request,” Felipe observed.

“An additional wrinkle is that the partner is his wife’s father, so it’s precarious; he can’t afford the chore to be botched. So he’s willing to hire the very best in the business, no matter what the cost,” Julio elaborated.

“Hmm. That could be very, very expensive. How much is at stake here?”

“They’re involved in a variety of large-scale real estate development projects, domestically, and in Dubai. So it’s a great deal of money, my friend, a very great deal. I don’t get the feeling he’s price sensitive,” Julio said.

Felipe considered Julio with interest.

“And why did he come to you?” he asked.

“He knows me as a fixer — someone who can handle problems. He felt that I might be able to better navigate these difficult waters than he could. And he is very generous with his gratitude. I have a feeling the love on this one could be, well, almost embarrassingly large.”

“How serious is he? When you get to a certain level, the client risks angering the contractor if he isn’t prepared to meet the terms and conditions. And when you’re talking about the best, and I mean the very best, you don’t want to trifle with the contractor. It would be bad for one’s health,” Felipe explained.

“I’m fully aware of what’s required, and I’ve gotten sufficient assurances to be comfortable acting as the client’s representative.”

Felipe leaned back, staring at the ceiling as he thought about the proposal. Julio waited patiently, his anxiety now they were at the tipping point masked by years of experience. Appearing to make a decision, Felipe leaned forward, clasping his hands together as if praying.

“I do have a contact who attends to these sorts of matters. Let me make a call and see what his schedule looks like. But Raphael? Once you go down this road there’s no turning back. Even my friendship won’t do much good if something sours on your end once the contract is made. I would think long and hard about this particular contractor. He’s the best — notorious, actually — but he is very particular about the projects he takes, and he is insanely expensive; as in multiple-seven-figure-American insanely expensive. Is that a problem?” Felipe asked.

“It depends upon who the contractor is. There’s no way that kind of money will change hands unless there’s a reason for the fee to be that high. We both know that. So unless this is, say, El Rey we’re talking, I think I can tell you that he won’t want to play. That’s the level of talent he’s used to dealing with — he had the Black Eyed Peas play for his daughter’s wedding, as an example,” Julio shared.

Felipe sat back, impressed.

“That’s exactly the level of talent I’m referring to. There’s really only one number one in any game, isn’t there? When number two won’t do?” Felipe said.

Julio’s pulse quickened. “And you can make an introduction?”

“Not with the contractor himself, obviously. But I think I could make contact with someone who could speak for him,” Felipe said, lighting a Marlboro with his solid gold Dunhill lighter.

Felipe liked his little luxuries, Julio mused. He wore a platinum Lange amp; Sohne watch, Gucci loafers, an Armani blazer. Business must be good. Then again, both of their businesses were relatively recession proof. And what was the point in having real money if you couldn’t treat yourself to the things you loved?

“I’d be in your debt if you could make that call,” Julio stated, locking eyes with Felipe. “And I would be very generous for your trouble.”

“But take my warning seriously, Raphael. I would hate to see you get yourself into something you couldn’t get out of. Once the call is made, you’re on the road. Do you fully understand?”

“I wouldn’t be imposing if this wasn’t extremely serious. I think we both know that there are dozens of also- rans who would jump at the chance to help my client for a fraction of the numbers you’re tossing around. But if you can afford the best, that’s what you want. And there’s a lot at stake here, Felipe. So I know exactly what I’m getting into, and like I said, I’m completely confident, both in the client’s seriousness as well as his gratitude. A gratitude that I will gladly share,” Julio assured him.

“Spreading the wealth is always best, n’est-ce pas?” Felipe quipped.

“I would have it no other way.”

They toasted, and Felipe called the stunning blond female bartender over and requested a refill of their drinks. She smiled at them both, eyes hinting at possibility.

Julio and Felipe exchanged knowing glances.

“Just bring the bottle, Amanda. And pull up a chair. Do you know my good friend Raphael?”

Chapter 7

Four men in a silver Dodge Durango with stolen plates approached the offices of Gustavo amp; Sons, importers and manufacturers of fine stone products. Anxiety filled the vehicle’s atmosphere with its distinctive buzz, as the men checked and rechecked their weapons — Kalashnikov AK-47s purchased in Guatemala, a residual of the Nicaraguan and El Salvadorian actions. Gun ownership in Mexico was illegal, with very few permits issued for hunting weapons, and yet the country abounded with automatic assault rifles. The cartels never seemed to have any issues getting their hands on guns, so the law was perplexing to many.

Juan Carlos Batista sat in the passenger seat with the air-conditioning blasting in his face, barely denting the perspiration that was a by-product of his preparation for battle, as he thought of it. This was far from his first armed assault, but he always felt a flutter of nerves in the moments before the shooting started. It was his variant of performance anxiety. But once bullets were flying, he was eerily cool and dispassionate. The four lines of cocaine he’d snorted in the parking lot seven minutes before had heightened his awareness, but done nothing to still the butterflies in his stomach.

Batista had come up the ranks of La Familia Michoacana before that cartel had dissolved into several others, including the Knights Templar cartel, in which he was a high ranking lieutenant, commanding dozens of enforcers in addition to hundreds of traffickers. The dissolution of La Familia had been a bloody one, and civilian casualties had been high. Many of the cartel’s foot soldiers had a propensity for shooting before they confirmed a target, and some of the more reckless had taken to tossing grenades into crowds where they suspected their targets were standing. It had been a troubling time until Santiago had asserted his authority as the new leader — a result of a grisly catalog of executions of his foes; other pretenders to the throne from La Familia Michoacana. During the most combative month, beheaded corpses left by the side of the road had been a daily occurrence — one of Santiago’s favored signature flourishes.

His demise had left a gap in the leadership, and that vacuum would be filled. Batista was a natural for the top position. He was as vicious as they came, had proved himself in battle time and time again, was a sociopath who killed without regret, and had good organizational skills. In cartel parlance, he was a born leader who was feared and respected by his subordinates. He had just turned twenty-nine.

Many cartel members never saw their thirties, so on his next birthday he was going to be an old man in that shadow world — a survivor that time had tested with every imaginable obstacle, all of which he’d overcome. He’d been shot twice and had come back to kill his assailants, so he had a reputation for being unusually tough. Most of the time when you shot a man, he stayed shot, but Batista seemed to have the angels on his side.

Batista had grown up watching American movies, and not surprisingly, his favorites had been Scarface and Goodfellas. In an obscene example of life imitating art, he’d aspired to being not only a rich and feared narcotraficante, but also to emulate the fictional characters in his favorite films. There was a part of him that believed real life was supposed to be as portrayed in those films, and so he’d created an environment where it was — to the detriment of society, as well as most of his rivals.

The narcotraficante lifestyle was so celebrated in some segments of popular culture that there were numerous songs glorifying the exploits of the cartels, and a whole generation had grown up believing that an existence involving routine murder was the new normal. Batista was one of them, and he’d long