King of Swords

and following his doctor’s orders, he walked as much as possible. He’d been driving into the office every day now, after going stir-crazy in the apartment for the first week. He was feeling increasingly fit as time went by.

He’d commandeered another Dodge Charger, and had the doors reinforced with half-inch steel plates at a local body shop — he’d learned a valuable lesson from his OXXO shoot-out, namely that having something that would stop all but armor-piercing rounds could be a life-saver. It still hurt him to operate the gas and brake pedals, but he was willing to suffer in order to regain his lost mobility.

The hunt for El Rey had gone exactly nowhere, and as the pages of the calendar turned and the summit raced towards them, Cruz’s agitation level increased further still. He knew his hunch was right — the photo had proved it in his mind, even if the other agencies downplayed it. When he’d tried CISEN one final time they’d actually laughed at him when he’d shown them the photo and the sketch. His pride still stung from that one, but he wasn’t in this for ego. They had the photo now, and hopefully would distribute it to their personnel leading up to the event. All he could do was push. The director had mocked his efforts, pointing out that the photo looked like a generic Mexican male under thirty-five, especially given the goatee. Not to Cruz, though, but perhaps he was too close to this now. He’d done his best, and would continue the hunt even if CISEN thought he’d lost it.

Cruz forced himself out of the office every night at eight, and was awake by six. One advantage of residing in downtown Mexico City was that he could walk out his front door, turn right, and arrive at a really great coffee shop within a hundred yards. It had quickly become a favorite way to start the day, and the stroll was good for him.

This morning, he was making plans to vacate the apartment at the end of the week and ship out to Los Cabos for the final five days before the summit. He could be of more immediate use there than languishing at the headquarters in Mexico City, armchair quarterbacking from seven hundred and fifty miles away. Cruz would fly over with Briones and ten of his top men, and hopefully, catch a break. If nothing else, he could review the security for gaps and become conversant with the lay of the land — something that would be critical to blocking any attempt in advance.

Finished with his phone calls, he took the elevator downstairs and hobbled out of the lobby, squinting at the sun’s already bright light. He made his way down the block, thinking to himself that living downtown wasn’t so bad, when an iron grip clutched both his arms while a reeking rag was held over his face from behind. He fought against inhaling as long as he could while he struggled against his assailants, but succumbed to the urge and quickly blacked out.

Chapter 20

When Cruz came to it was getting dark out. He slowly rotated his head, trying to orient himself. He was lying on a plush bed in a room with high ceilings; heavy wood beams supported large, flat roof tile slabs above him. Groaning, he stretched his arms to his side, then automatically reached for his weapon. Gone, of course. His skull was splitting, and he felt extremely thirsty, no doubt a byproduct of the drug his kidnappers had used to knock him out. Ether? Chloroform? He couldn’t be sure. It probably didn’t matter.

He sat up and spied an en-suite bathroom, the mottled marble vessel sink visible through the partially-opened door. Cruz cautiously rose to his feet and moved to the faucet, slaking his thirst with several glasses of water. He noticed a needle stick on his left arm — so it hadn’t just been the rag that had taken him down. He’d been drugged. He shook his head in an attempt to clear the fuzziness. Peering at his watch, he noted that it was six o’clock. He’d been out at least ten hours.

Cruz spun around at the sound of the bedroom door being unlocked. It swung open and two muscular men entered. Cruz was largely recovered from his injuries but he was in no condition to fight these two bulls, so he figured he’d wait for a better opportunity to escape. Besides, he had no idea where he was, so it would be hard to break free unless he could get his bearings.

The uglier of the two hulking men regarded him.

“Come with us.”

The trio walked into the hallway of what he now gathered was a large hacienda-style house, the floors finished in three foot square saltillo tile and the walls sponge painted with a heavy hand. The furniture in the seemingly endless hall was rustic and dark, hewn from weathered wood, many of the pieces appearing to be hundreds of years old.

The passageway opened onto a courtyard, and the men led him to a veranda overlooking lush green hills, unspoiled by any other houses. Where the hell was he? This wasn’t Mexico City, that was for sure. Maybe Guadalajara area?

A man in his sixties sat at a massive circular dining table, easily twelve feet circumference, eating soup from a lava bowl. Cruz did a double take and felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He stiffened automatically, causing the man on his right to grip his arm before forcing him into the seat opposite the man.

“I see you recognize me from my fan photos…” the man said.

“I’d know you anywhere,” Cruz acknowledged. “Carlos Aranas. One of the most powerful men in Mexico, and head of the Sinaloa cartel.”

“One of the most? You might want to rethink that. Try the most.” Aranas grinned, dabbing at his moustache with a multicolored cloth napkin. “Want some soup? It’s really incredible. The best tortilla soup you’ll ever taste. From a recipe that’s been in the family for generations.”

“My last meal?” Cruz spat.

“Please. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be sitting here. I’ve gone to considerable trouble to get you here in one piece for this discussion. So don’t insult me with idiotic assumptions. Now, do you want some of the finest tortilla soup in the world, or not?” Aranas asked equitably.

“I’m not going to dine with my family’s murderer.”

“Again with the idiocies. For the record, I didn’t have any hand in the death of your family. If I wanted to send a message to you, I wouldn’t do it that way. I’d chop your dick off and make you eat it. Much more direct. So last time, soup or no? You haven’t eaten all day so I know you must be starving. Tell you what, since you’re stubborn, I’ll just assume the answer is yes.” Aranas looked over Cruz’s shoulder at one of the men standing silently behind him. “Cacho, have Yolanda prepare our guest a bowl of soup.”

Cruz was startled by something wet pushing against his right hand. He jerked it away, looking down to see a boxer snuffling at him.

“I see you’ve met Frida. Don’t worry. She doesn’t bite. Probably wants to see if you’ve got a treat for her. It’s why she’s so fat. Always on the prowl for food…” Aranas said.

In spite of the surreal circumstances, Cruz slowly lowered his hand and stroked her head. She licked him appreciatively.

“There. You see? She likes you. Just don’t let her get up anywhere near your soup. She’s a glutton, and she’ll drain it if you drop your guard.” Aranas smiled, and slurped another large spoonful.

“What do you mean you had no hand in my family’s execution? They had your scorpions in their mouths. That’s your signature,” Cruz accused.

Aranas sighed, and then his face lit up. One of the weightlifters set a massive black lava bowl of thick brown soup in front of Cruz, then set a spoon and colorful cloth napkin next to it. Aranas scooted a plate towards him on the slick mesquite table surface. It slid almost to the edge, by Cruz’s napkin.

“It tastes better with a little lime. Try it. You’ll see. I recommend two slices to start.”

Cruz reluctantly squeezed two of the cut lime wedges into the soup, and stirred it. Aranas sat expectantly, waiting for him to sample it. He raised the steaming spoon to his lip and took a tentative taste.

“It tastes like shit.” Cruz took another sip.

Aranas laughed with genuine merriment at the comment.

“I see you have a sense of humor. They didn’t tell me that. Unexpected in an anti-drug crusader.”

“I’m full of surprises. Now, what about my family?” Cruz demanded, slurping at the delicious concoction. Frida wagged her stump tail and stared hungry holes into his profile, then sat on the tile floor, hoping for a morsel to come her way. Cruz glanced at her. She was fat, all right. But happy. Definitely happy.