King of Swords

“No. But he did underscore about a dozen times how fucked I would be if I couldn’t consummate. Apparently El Rey doesn’t approve of tire kickers,” Julio quipped.

“I’ll bet. So how would you propose we proceed once we’re in?” Cruz asked.

“I think you and I go in together to see him after we gel your hair differently and darken your skin a little, and you play the rich industrialist with the multi-million dollar grudge. We try to glean as much as possible, and if we can’t get a meeting with El Rey, we lean on the contact and stick him under the jail. A few nights in the Mexico City Jail can be startlingly effective for bringing clarity to confused folks who are on the fence as to whether to help law enforcement…” Julio said.

“All right, we’ll follow your lead. But the clock is ticking, and we’re stuck running in place right now. What about you, Nacho? Anything to report?” Cruz asked, turning to Ignacio.

“It’s weird. Every time I bring up El Rey’s name, even the desperate cases go cold — and these are guys who would sell their mother for a hit of crack. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The fucker has everyone terrified of him,” Ignacio reported.

“Let’s hope that Julio’s channel works, then. I’d stand down on any other overtures now that we’re in play — we don’t want to spook him, and it would seem a little odd if the streets were suddenly buzzing with clients anxious to throw a few million his way,” Cruz observed.

“Which introduces another potential issue. I think we need to make arrangements to be able to transfer a million dollars, minimum, via wire transfer from a clean account. If the contact delivers, the only way we’ll be able to contrive a meeting is if we’ve dropped some earnest money in his lap,” Julio said.

“I’ll get on it. Shouldn’t be too big a problem. Anything else?” Cruz asked.

“Anybody got a cigarette?” Julio asked.

“I’m trying to quit. Go home and get some sleep. You look like you went nine rounds with a gorilla and lost,” Cruz advised.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

~ ~ ~

Batista swaggered into the nightclub he owned at seven p.m., cocky after having cheated death again. His men were making their way in, and two of his main street operatives were already there, drinking Negro Modelo and smoking as they flirted with the cocktail waitresses, who were arriving in preparation for the night’s partying. Cruz had the club swept for surveillance weekly, and disliked cell phones for communications of any note, preferring in-person meetings to lay down the law. Mexican law enforcement was still light years behind the Americans, but they’d started intercepting cell calls, which had become a game-changer for communications.

Batista high-fived the two men, and then bumped fists in a classic Mexican street greeting. Both of the seated gangsters had garish tattoos running down their arms, and their style of dress emulated that of American rappers, with oversized pants and shirts, shaved heads, and flat-brimmed baseball caps perched precariously askance. These were veterans of the trade, having run their own operations on the streets for years. Both had killed multiple adversaries as a normal course of their business.

Three more of his crew wandered in over the next twenty minutes. The men retired to Batista’s sumptuous office at the back of the club. Most of the cartels were big in the club and bar scene, as well as in the hotel trade, such venues offered the perfect mechanisms to explain huge amounts of cash income. Tourist towns were full of massive nightclubs with nobody in them, but they still managed to take in millions of dollars every month. Tougher banking regulations intended to curb the illicit drug trade had little effect on the industry — there were always plenty of ways around the system for the big guys, just as in every country. The rules mainly served as an inconvenience, at best, for the small time hustlers. Just as the cartel wheelers and dealers had no problems buying tractors for their farms or Escalades and Benzes for their girlfriends, likewise, they had no issues laundering billions in cash every year. The economies of many neighboring countries depended on it, including the U.S., where in spite of protests to the contrary, billions still washed through the system every year — the Miami Federal Reserve saw more hundred dollar bills than any other bank in the world, indicating that either geriatric retirees from the East Coast had virtually infinite numbers of C-notes stuffed under their trailer-park mattresses, or the Mexican and South American connections were still flourishing.

Batista filled the assembled men in on the day’s events and ended with a renewed call for vigilance against attacks from his rivals, now reduced to two — Miguel ‘El Chavo’ Herrera and Paolo ‘Poncho’ Gallermo. Both were equally as dangerous as Batista, and it was not a question of whether they’d be coming for him, but rather a question of when and how. The chances that they’d want to reach some sort of an arrangement or division of power were non-existent, just as the likelihood of Batista compromising with them. That wasn’t how the business worked. You either fought, or died. Like dogs or roosters in a ring, all engagements ended in death. That was the life. And the egos involved prevented any intelligent conversation. Young macho males for whom killing was a daily occurrence, who made millions every month and who ruled with absolute power, were not willing candidates for building bridges or mending fences. Throw in all the free stimulants you could handle, and it was a recipe for bloodshed.

Never more so than in Mexico.

Chapter 8

General Alejandro Ortega watched the soldiers as they got into position around the club from his vantage point a safe distance from the action. The major who was directing the tactical team was good, a veteran of many similar assaults against the cartels. While one could never know exactly what to expect, it was usually a safe bet that their adversaries wouldn’t surrender easily, and it was understood that lethal force was going to be used.

Spring evenings in Morelia were generally crisp, and this night was no exception. The soldiers wore gray camouflage, fully decked out in combat gear, replete with Kevlar vests, assault rifles, grenades, pistols and combat knives. The squad the general had assembled for this assault comprised fifty men, most equally seasoned as the major. He didn’t want any mistakes. Morelia had seen enough open warfare in its streets to last a lifetime, and he couldn’t afford a lot of military casualties for the papers to rail about. This had to be surgical and over in minutes, or it would get messy, as they always did when events degenerated into a stand-off situation.

The major’s voice murmured over their closed-channel, encrypted radio. His aide handed the general the microphone so that he could speak.

“Yes, Major. I see you’re in position. I have both sides of the street blocked off a block away, but you’ll need to move quickly in case one of their mob sees the roadblock and warns them.”

“Requesting permission to begin the operation, sir.”

“You have a green light, Major. Repeat, you have a green light.”

“Roger that. Commencing assault at twenty-hundred hours on the nose.” The major’s transmission went silent.

A minute later, he watched as the troops moved into the club. He heard the distinctive rapid popping of M- 16s, with interspersed small arms fire and the chatter of Kalashnikovs. A grenade sounded, its detonation booming down the street, and then after a few more rounds were fired, quiet returned to the area.

Four minutes went by. Then five. Finally, the major’s voice crackled over the com line again.

“We are in possession of the club. All hostiles are down. We’ve taken fire, and three of our men are dead, two wounded. Nine hostiles terminated. Over.”

“I’ll be in momentarily. Congratulations on a job well done,” Ortega intoned.

The general got out of the command vehicle and strode towards the club, flanked on either side by armed soldiers, weapons brandished lest any unseen assailant decide to pop a few rounds at them; the trio’s heavy combat boots thudded ominously in time on the pavement. Army emergency ambulances screeched to the curb, where they waited as the medics darted in carrying stretchers and triage packs.

The interior of the club was a scene of carnage, with blood pooled where bodies had lain. The cartel members had been left in place for photographs and definitive identification, but the fallen soldiers had been moved to an aid area with their wounded colleagues. It was their blood on the floor and walls. Several of the cocktail waitresses were wounded and two were dead — regrettable yet acceptable collateral damage. This was a war, and sometimes civilians got hurt in wars, especially if they frequented cartel strongholds. That was just the way things