Revenge of the Assassin

Cruz exited the conference room where he’d been meeting with the president’s security people, frustrated at their conviction that El Rey couldn’t get to him. He understood that they believed they were good at their jobs, but he knew that the assassin was better — which wasn’t to say that the president’s detail wasn’t dedicated or good, they just weren’t El Rey. He’d already proved he could get past them once. And not only them, but also the American Secret Service, considered the best in the world.

He’d said as much at their get-together, but met with blank stares and polite assurances, except for the president’s chief of staff, who had seemed to get it. Then again, his career was predicated on his boss continuing to breathe, so he was probably more motivated than the rest. He’d taken Cruz aside on the way out and slipped him his card, and asked him to call whenever he had more information or any breakthrough ideas on how to handle the mess. That had given Cruz hope, even if it was a slim reed upon which to rest optimism.

He walked to his car, waiting in the secure lot, and thought to himself that they were in serious trouble. If it had been him, he would simply cancel any appearance that could create an opportunity to execute the president. He really didn’t understand how these men’s minds worked. They’d blithely told him that they had every confidence in his abilities, had listened politely as he’d detailed the story of the threat, as well as the latest series of miraculous escapes, and then thanked him for his time. It was like everyone was in denial — like El Rey’s existence, if they acknowledged it, challenged their competence, and so it was better to ignore him.

And there was the question of how the assassin had escaped, which still lingered in Cruz’s mind — as well as how the Sinaloans had known that the arms dealer had been the leak.

Cruz mentally went down the list of everyone who had been privy to the task force’s moves and dismissed them one at a time as potential traitors. Briones had proved his loyalty with blood, as had many of his group chiefs. They put their lives on the line every day to combat the cartels and had all lost more than their fair share of men to the bastards. There was no way they would sell him out for money. Even if some of them were corruptible, and he didn’t deceive himself that they were altar boys, passing information to El Rey went beyond anything they would risk. It was high treason, especially if it resulted in the death of the president. Even the most larcenous and greedy man drew the line somewhere, and that was not a line — it was a twenty-meter-high wall.

His driver opened his door for him, and he gratefully sank into the seat, feeling exhausted by the presentation as well as the course of the last few days. He’d attended a memorial service for the men he’d lost at the apartment — there was literally nothing left of them after the explosion, so it was the best they could do — and had tried to comfort the wives and children of men he’d known only in a professional sense, and even then, not particularly well. His words had sounded hollow to him even as he’d uttered all the usual cliches. It was disheartening — the assassin was winning every round. Which meant that the trend wasn’t Cruz’s friend.

As much as it pained him, he would need to begin a quiet investigation into his group leaders, to see if anyone had recently come into some inexplicable money or had bought a car or home outside of their pay range. He couldn’t just discount the possibility someone had rolled, as improbable as it was to him. Harsh experience had long ago taught him to expect the worst, and then be happy if the outcome turned out anything less than horrible. While he was now happy with his new life with Dinah, there were still nights where he awoke in a cold sweat, dreaming of his family’s final moments, or reliving the day he’d opened the special delivery box to find the heads of his wife and young daughter in it, with a scorpion in each of their mouths. He hoped that eventually he could keep the horror at bay, but during times of stress their ghosts came back to haunt him.

Thank God for Dinah. They were building a life from nothing, and she was a perfect partner. He felt guilty talking shop with her — he’d never told her that El Rey had been responsible for her father’s death, preferring to leave the fiction in place that it had been some sort of crazy, or a robbery gone horribly wrong. Better to let the dead slumber in peace than allow them to ruin the lives of the living. Knowing the truth wouldn’t have helped Dinah get over the heartbreak of a murdered parent, so there was no point to sharing it with her.

As the car wound its way through traffic on the way back to headquarters, Cruz remained silent, lost in his thoughts. They only had a few days to go until the president’s speech, and he didn’t like their chances. Barring a miracle, Cruz dejectedly realized that he wouldn’t be able to catch the assassin in time, which meant that the only thing that stood in the way of El Rey murdering the president was his security detail.

That wouldn’t end well.

El Rey put the final touches on the device he had so painstakingly assembled and smiled at the thought of the seemingly near escape from his apartment. He’d caught the cleaning woman paying just a little too much attention to him, and she’d been a hair too quick to avert her gaze when he’d noticed her. The effort to appear uninterested had appeared almost comical to him, and he’d quickly determined that his days in the apartment were over. That night he’d moved his few belongings out under cover of darkness and had rigged things to provide a nasty surprise for anyone breaking into his place. Which he had no doubt would be the police.

He’d seen the news coverage of his old photo and had thought that he’d sufficiently altered his appearance to be in the clear, but the woman had somehow matched him. It happened, occasionally, and rather than dwell on it he’d cleared out. But he wasn’t worried. It had been a fluke, plain and simple.

He stepped back from the work table and inspected his project with pride of craftsmanship. It would do.

Now all that remained was to get it within range of the president, and the rest would be history in the making. Then he could go back into retirement and savor the life of a rich man in South America — a future that in no way seemed bad. It would all be concluded soon enough, and then he would disappear, never to be heard from again.

Don Aranas greeted his guest, Estaban Mareli, and offered him a seat at a small table in the open air of the courtyard. This particular home was built in a typical hacienda fashion, around a private central court with a fountain, with Saltillo tile underfoot and rustic sponge painting in bright orange and purple hues splashing color on the walls. The water tinkled in a pleasing way, creating a kind of Latin Zen effect.

“Coffee?” Aranas offered to Mareli, gesturing at the white clad man waiting in the wings by the dark alder and stained glass French doors.

“Please.”

Aranas held up two fingers; the man nodded before turning to enter the house.

Mareli studied Aranas’ face for a few moments. “How are you, my friend?” he asked.

“Ah, you know. Things could be better. We’ve lost a number of shipments on the Mexican side of the border over the last few months. An irritant, although in the end, not material,” Aranas replied.

“Yes, I’ve seen the numbers. I agree it’s unfortunate. But sometimes a necessary cost of doing business, eh?”

“Perhaps. But I liked our luck better under the last two regimes. This one seems to be favoring groups that aren’t aligned with our interests, and that is causing complications.” Aranas rubbed his chin. “I thought we had it taken care of, but it appears not.”

“Well, the only thing that is sure is that nothing will remain the same. Change is everywhere. We adapt or we perish,” Mareli offered.

The coffee arrived, and neither man spoke until the steward was out of earshot again.

“Yes. Change. Speaking of which, we had another regrettable occurrence recently. Our mutual acquaintance, Carlos Herreira, was passing information to the Mexican authorities. Steps had to be taken,” Aranas said.

Mareli feigned surprise. “The authorities? Jesus. What are people thinking these days? I don’t understand it. He was always dependable, and then one day he goes and does something like this…?” He put one hand on the table and studied his nails, as if for guidance. “What is there to say? When a dog goes rabid, you have to put him down, even if you love him. I’m sure you only did what was necessary.”

Mareli had known this was going to be the subject of the discussion, but figured a show of indignation was obligatory. He lifted his fine china cup and took an appreciative sip of the rich brew.

“You introduced us.”