King of Swords

doctor out of the room. Cruz waited until she was gone and the door had closed.

“Get me out of here. Transfer me to another area of the hospital, or to a different hospital, but I want out in the next two hours. I don’t like all the weird crap that’s going on, and until we figure it out, I want to make myself hard to find. Take Dinah home; don’t tell her anything more about me, and send the doctor back in when you leave. Arrange a transfer to a different floor, or a new facility, but I’m not remaining here. I feel like a sitting duck, and I don’t want to wait for someone with diplomatic immunity to show up and shoot me, and then give Mexico the finger.” Cruz had digested the unsavory information about the American diplomat, and didn’t like the implications.

“Absolutely. Will do. And I’m sorry about telling Dinah anything. She just has a way of pulling it out of you…”

“I have no doubt she’s very persuasive. Now get out of here. Get me moved,” Cruz concluded.

“Will do.”

While waiting for Briones, Dinah was innocently enrapturing the doctor — who was just finishing up speaking with her.

“He’s really lucky to be alive. A slightly different angle on the chest wound, or a few more minutes bleeding out on the pavement, and he’d be dead,” he told her.

“I’ll say he’s lucky. Thank you, Doctor. You’re a gentleman,” she cooed; the doctor seemed to gain an inch in stature.

Briones followed after him as he moved to the next room, and had a hurried discussion. The armed Federales sitting in the hall eyed Dinah with curiosity and more than a little interest. She didn’t seem to notice.

Briones returned, and she fixed him with a look that must have petrified seven year olds.

“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