King of Swords

Briones’ eyes were drawn to a movement on the periphery of the protestors; something alarming he barely registered. A bearded man had drawn back his arm and was preparing to hurl a projectile. The lieutenant sprang into action, covering the twenty yards to the edge of the barricades in seconds, gun drawn, ready to fire. The soldiers froze, weapons now trained on the crowd rather than pointing at the ground, and for a brief eternity time stood still. Briones’ eyes locked on the man’s face, and he seemed to swivel his head in slow motion to watch the uniformed Federal Policeman racing at him, pistol aimed at his head. A few of the other protestors, sensing a problem, drew back, leaving him fully exposed.

He slowly lowered his arm, and Briones screamed at him to freeze; not to move. The man looked somewhat like the photo, but it was hard to tell with all the facial hair and the knit Rastafarian cap. The soldiers automatically made way for the lieutenant, who pushed the nearest barricade aside as he stalked towards the man, ready to fire. The crowd had gone silent, and a few of the media had turned their attention from the two world leaders walking to the convention center, to the drama playing out between the menacing, pistol wielding policeman and the peacefully-convened protestors.

The soldiers stood nervously, fingers on triggers. There was a very real sense that the situation could devolve into a slaughter in seconds. All it would take was a single case of nerves and the area the crowd was gathered in would become a slaughterhouse. The throng sensed this and backed away, as a group, nobody wanting to be martyrs in a desert backwater a thousand miles from anything.

Briones reached the man, and, holding the gun to the hippy’s head, cautiously reached down and lifted the man’s hand to see what he’d been attempting to launch. He saw a flash of red. A tomato.

Briones removed his cuffs and locked them on the man’s wrists as the crowd, sensing the conflict was over, jeered at him. He pushed the man to the barricade, where two of the soldiers took charge of the dangerous vegetable assailant. Briones marched back to where he’d been standing with Cruz, followed by boos and catcalls of ‘Gestapo’ from the protestors; his face was redder than the tomato. The soldiers relaxed, the fire drill over, and returned their barrels to pointing at the ground, a few of them smiling nervously with relief. The presidents’ security details hadn’t registered the lightning-like scuffle, although Briones’ wooden features would become an infamous symbol of totalitarian abuse of power across most Western television networks that night.

An older uniformed soldier moved over to Cruz from the assembled group of military functionaries, and leaned into him, speaking softly. “You better get your attack dogs on a tight leash, Capitan. That almost turned into a bloodbath over a tomato. Get your shit together, or you’re going to be asked to leave.” General Ortega eyed Briones through eyes like slits. “I do not want any more outbursts, do you read me?”

Cruz’s eyes darted to the imposing officer’s face, and he nodded, once. Message delivered, the general turned and marched back to his position with the other military brass assembled near the stage.

“What the fuck, Briones,” Cruz started, still watching the crowd, painfully aware of the cameras documenting the incident, as well as their every move now.

“I just saw the movement and reacted. I’m…I’m sorry, sir.”

“I think maybe you should take a walk around the perimeter and verify all is in order. Try to stay as far from the cameras as possible, all right? Hopefully they’ll lose interest in a few minutes. And do not, unless El Rey is standing with a bazooka pointed at the President, draw your weapon again. Clear?” Cruz spoke softly, but the steel in his tone was unmistakable.

Briones moved to do as instructed, glad to have the scrutiny shifted back to the gathered functionaries.

The two presidents had taken seats at the front of the raised platform that would serve as the stage, erected that morning and checked and rechecked by the security forces. The gathered delegates surrounded the two men, and cameras clicked and whirred as the moment was captured for posterity. The Mexican president stood to applause from the delegation, and moved to a solitary microphone on the stage, which faced the assembled dignitaries but was also turned sufficiently so that the media were presented with his left side. He had become polished enough to gleam at these types of events over the five and a half years of his term, and he moved and spoke like a veteran statesman.

Cruz listened to the predictably-hackneyed aphorisms about global cooperation and a new era of peace and studied the gathered journalists, eyes scanning restlessly over them before continuing to the roof of the center, where several sentries watched the crowd. He rotated slowly, studying the protesters, and then moved again to the hills. He caught a movement on a far bluff and raised his binoculars, ready to warn everyone to get down.

A baby goat nosed the shoots of a struggling plant at the base of a cactus and was quickly joined by its mother, who scooted it away, back to the others on the far side of the hill.

Cruz lowered the glasses and blinked the sweat from his eyes. The blistering heat wasn’t doing anything for his already-frayed nerves, that was for sure. His only consolation was that at least he hadn’t run in a hobbled trot while brandishing his assault rifle to save the delegation from a baby chiva.

The President finished his speech, and the American president took the stage. Cruz spoke passable English from his university years and so understood most of it. A relationship forged through common goals, a new era, commitment to prosperity. About the same as his president’s. He absently wondered what would have happened if they’d switched speeches; whether anyone would have even noticed. For the first time that day, Cruz smiled.

The American’s rendition was blissfully short. He sat to polite applause. Now there would be half an hour of festivities, including the presentation of the key to the city, some dancing by the local high school girls, and a fiesta with some first graders, and the welcoming event would be over, and everyone could move into the air-conditioned comfort of the new hall.

His trepidation increased with each passing minute. The governor of Baja California Sur made a mercifully brief set of comments and then presented the key to the city to the American president. Once everyone had taken their seats again, music blared out of the speakers that had been brought with the stage, and the dancing began, the girls twirling in native garb while the gathered politicians feigned polite attention. Cruz had personally been involved with checking the speaker cabinets and associate audio gear for any booby-traps, so there was no danger there.

Things were going as planned, but he still had a tingling at the nape of his neck, a premonition of something about to go badly wrong. He tried to shake it off, but it lingered like a bad taste.

He wiped more sweat from his face and prayed it would be over soon.

El Rey watched the presentation with little interest. So far, no surprises, although the security detail did seem to be on a more heightened alert than usual. He’d studied hours of footage of speeches and rallies with both presidents, and knew their procedures cold. They were nervous, that much was clear, likely due to the ruckus the Federal Police captain had raised. No matter. He was within a hundred yards of the targets, and soon they’d be a bloody pulp, and he’d be gone during the confusion.

The girls took the stage, and he watched with a grim smile as they performed their intricate footwork for the leaders of the free world.

Soon to be ex-leaders.

He hummed along with the music, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he held his rifle at the ready, lest anyone try to attack his president.

Inside the tent, the two teachers were having a hell of a time with the kids. Amped on soda and buzzing with anticipation, they were running around their area of the tent like hellions; even the little girls. Normally better behaved, the heat and the large crowd had sent them berserk, and it was all Monica and Letty could do to control them.

Three of the little boys were especially ill-behaved. They kept swatting at the pinata with the pole reserved for that purpose, and Letty was afraid they’d break it apart in the tent, which would spoil the whole ceremony. After hearing a particularly alarming thwack from the enormous suspended papier-mache bull, she turned to see the little bastards smiting it with all their might, not two minutes after she’d punished them for doing so earlier. She was worried they’d knock the sorry creature’s head off and was already mentally calculating where she could get glue to re-affix it if they got away from her again and succeeded in their assault on the candy-stuffed totem.

She grabbed one of the tiny assailants by the hair to get his attention, tweaked another by the ear, and dragged them away amid noisy protests. Once she had them under control, she confiscated the heavy stick so they couldn’t do any more harm to the endangered animal. Monica moved several chairs as an improvised blockade to keep the feisty tikes from doing any more damage. She looked up at the blank bovine stare the artist had created and took a deep breath. It would all be over soon, and then they could return to the classroom and some semblance