Requiem for the Assassin (8 page)

“As far as we can tell.”

Rodriguez turned to the next section head. “Gabriel, tell us how we’re going to stop the flow of guns from the U.S.”

The meeting continued for another hour, and when it broke up, Rodriguez left without comment, his head pounding from another long night with little sleep. Once in his office, he dry swallowed two painkillers and poured himself his sixth cup of coffee of the day and, after taking a seat behind his desk, reached for the phone.

~ ~ ~

El Rey
smiled at the ticket agent behind the Aeroméxico counter at Benito Juárez airport as she glanced at his driver’s license and printed out his boarding pass. He’d been outfitted with several identities by CISEN and now carried both a set of new Mexican papers as well as a passport and American green card identifying him as an El Salvadorian cleared to work in the United States. That ID would come into play after he’d dispatched the archbishop.

The flight from Mexico City to Tijuana was smooth, and as the plane completed its final approach, he peered through his window at the border city’s gray-brown sprawl. Shantytowns, little more than collections of pallets with tar paper nailed over them, clung to the sides of the hills within shouting distance of the United States’ prosperity and boundless opportunity. The infamous wall stretched to the Pacific Ocean, with green and white Border Patrol trucks cruising along dirt tracks that ran along the no-man’s-land between the state of California’s southernmost reach and Baja California’s northernmost.

A pall of smog hung over Tijuana as the plane dropped toward the airport, and
El Rey
contrasted the distant gleam of San Diego’s chrome and glass skyline with the impoverished
barrios
that comprised most of Tijuana. It wasn’t hard for him to understand the frustration the poor felt gazing at the riches only a few miles away from their shacks, where rudiments like potable water were a luxury and rivulets of sewage coursed down dirt streets, souring the atmosphere as toddlers played in the toxic dirt.

El Rey
exited the terminal and eyed the border fence across the boulevard. Scores of multicolored coffins and crosses mounted to the steel siding commemorated the thousands who’d died attempting crossings. He waited in line for a taxi as vehicles raced by on the frontage artery, junkers that were more Bondo than metal jockeying for position between Mercedes and Audis. The trip to the district where the archdiocese was located took fifteen minutes in traffic, and
El Rey
had the driver drop him off near the municipal government building a block away from the church.

He ambled along the avenue, pausing to admire the bronze effigy of Miguel Hidalgo jutting from the roundabout at the junction of Avenida Independencia and Paseo Centenario Tijuana, and then settled in for lunch at a small sidewalk café across from the archdiocese, its tables deserted post-lunch hour. CISEN had provided blueprints of the cathedral and associated buildings, and
El Rey
had already decided on his preferred method of entry to the bishop’s quarters. He had everything he required in his bag and now wanted to soak up the local environment – often, blueprints didn’t capture important nuances about a target, and he’d learned to spend time at the sites of his missions before taking action.

His leisurely lunch took over an hour, and once he’d paid and walked around the block to verify the position of the traffic cameras, he walked to a moderately priced hotel a quarter mile from the archdiocese that catered to tourists. After suffering through an elevator ride with three American men in town for a bachelor party, their corpulent forms stinking of beer, tequila, and cigarettes, he made his way to his room, where he spent the late afternoon catching up on his sleep in preparation for a preliminary prowl around the archdiocese that evening.

Chapter 12

Mexico City, Mexico

Cruz rolled over and groped for his screeching cell phone on the night table next to the bed. Dinah groaned as he rose and padded to the bathroom, muted the ring, and answered as he pulled the door closed behind him.

“Yes?”

“
Capitan
, it’s Briones.”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I recognize your number. What can I do for you at…3:47 in the morning?”

“I’m sorry to call at this hour, but you wanted to be notified if there was another high-profile kidnapping.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“It’s bad, but could have been worse. This time there was a gun battle between the bodyguards and the kidnappers. The kidnappers were all killed except for the getaway driver, who crashed as he was leaving the scene. The bodyguards held him until the metropolitan police arrived, and then we got the call.”

Cruz was wide awake now. “Where did all this transpire?”

“Club Vampiro. It’s down on–”

“I know where it is,” Cruz snapped. “Where are you?”

“On my way there right now.”

“Can you pick me up in…ten minutes?”

“That’s one of the reasons I’m calling.”

“I’ll see you downstairs. Oh, what about the driver? Where was he taken?”

“The local police turned him over to us. He’s at headquarters in a holding cell. A doctor’s with him right now – apparently he’s got some bruises and contusions, but the airbag and his seat belt saved him from worse.”

“I’ll see you shortly,” Cruz said and hung up. He dressed quickly and whispered to Dinah as he was opening the bedroom door.

“I’m sorry,
mi amor
. I have to go.”

Dinah grunted, pulled the covers over herself, waved a limp hand, and was asleep again before Cruz made it to the condo entry. He struggled into his shoulder holster, donned a black windbreaker, and slipped his badge and wallet into a pocket before making his way downstairs. Two uniformed
Federales
sat in the lobby, his round-the-clock security team, a mandatory precaution ever since he’d been kidnapped by the head of the Sinaloa cartel for an impromptu meeting. The men stiffened when Cruz emerged from the elevator, and then scrambled to their feet.

Cruz exited the building and waited on the deserted sidewalk, framed by his security men, only the distant rumble of a car passing on the main boulevard for company.

Briones’ Dodge Charger rolled to the curb a minute later, and Cruz got in. Briones handed him a cup of coffee and pulled back onto the street, cheerfully ignoring the speed limit as he accelerated and blew through a red light.

“Maybe you should hit the emergency lights,” Cruz suggested, and Briones flipped a dashboard switch. Flashing blue illuminated the car interior from the bar bolted across the upper windshield. “Fill me in on what you know.”

“The shoot-out occurred an hour ago. The target of the kidnapping was Romeo Saldado, the son of the beer magnate. He was at the club with several friends and two ex-marine bodyguards. When he left the club, four masked gunmen jumped out of a nearby van and tried to force him into the vehicle, but he fought them, which bought enough time for the guards to get their guns out. The kidnappers were armed with pistols, and there was a shoot-out. One of the guards took bullets in the chest and leg, but between the two of them they killed all the kidnappers. The unharmed guard emptied his weapon into the van as it took off, and a delivery truck slammed into it as it was crossing the intersection.”

“Sounds like the same MO as the other recent attacks, doesn’t it? Van, four men, a nightclub…”

“You’d think these kids would figure out that getting laid isn’t worth the risk of being snatched, or worse,” Briones said, ignoring that he was only five or six years older than the youths he was castigating.

“Any ID on the perps?” Cruz asked.

“Negative, but three of the four had tattoos that looked military. We’re running prints.”

“Military?”

“You know the kind. Flags, crossed rifles, that sort of thing. Oh, and one of the men had a scar from a gunshot wound. Not recent, but it might help get a fix on him.”

“Anyone besides the bodyguard hurt?”

“No, by the grace of God. There were some close calls, but everyone ran inside once the shooting started. We got lucky.”

“Sounds like it. A survivor, and the kidnappers didn’t open up with AKs and spray the street.” Cruz took a cautious sip from his cup. “And the coffee isn’t bad, either. Thanks, by the way.”

Briones smiled. “OXXO,” he said, mentioning the ubiquitous convenience stores that had spread like cancer recently. “What did we ever do before there was one on every corner?”

Cruz eyed him. “How much sleep did you get?”

“Four hours. I’m fine.”

“Are you up for the interrogation after we see the crime scene?”

“Try keeping me away.”

“That’s the spirit.” Cruz gave him a tired grin. “You see, even if you’re a desk jockey, you’ll still get hauled into the field in the dead of night. So it’s not all reports and meetings – there’s a little excitement to be had.”

“Nice to know.”

The club was chaos, with almost a thousand partygoers emptying out in waves through side doors as police vehicles blocked the street. A coroner’s van sat near the entrance, where a dozen uniformed police were standing around, exchanging jokes or complaints as they waited for the cleanup to conclude.

Cruz and Briones approached the area where the forensics technicians were working on the corpses. Cruz shook hands with the metropolitan police sergeant in charge of the scene, who gave them the rundown on what had transpired, finishing with his estimation that the techs would need another hour to finish their job and haul the dead away.

“We got statements from the two guards, the victim, and his girlfriends.”

“Plural?” Cruz said, an eyebrow raised.

“It’s a different world than I grew up in,” the sergeant observed. “As to the witnesses, everyone’s story is the same. It’s a classic grab that would have gone perfectly if the abductee hadn’t kneed one of them in the groin and kicked another in the stomach.”

“Really? That was aggressive.”

“He told me he does martial arts. I guess even half in the bag, the practice came to good use.”

“It could have gone the other way.”

“I know,” the sergeant agreed. “He’s very lucky he didn’t get a bullet to the head for his trouble. I told him.”

“Where is he?”

“Sitting in that Suburban with his bodyguard and the two girls.” The sergeant indicated a dark gray SUV with several police officers leaning against it. “The ambulance already took the other bodyguard to the hospital.”

Briones went to see what he could glean from the victims as Cruz inspected the bodies and asked a pointed question here and there. After fifteen minutes it was obvious that their presence at the scene wasn’t yielding any new information, so they thanked the sergeant and then made their way to headquarters.

The interrogation didn’t provide any breakthroughs. The driver knew very little, other than that he’d been hired by one of the dead men, who he believed was cartel-related. He’d been paid five thousand pesos for the night – the equivalent of three hundred and fifty dollars – with another five thousand promised upon the successful completion of the abduction. Cruz shook his head at the stupidity of the transaction. The man would spend at least ten years in prison for a total possible payday of seven hundred dollars.

Only one thing the driver said gave them pause: that the man who’d hired him had indicated that if he did a good job on this one, there would be plenty more work, because they were targeting more rich kids, the next grab to occur at a rave the following weekend outside of Mexico City. The driver had gotten the impression that the kidnapping ring was larger than the four dead men, but who else was involved he couldn’t guess, nor did he know any details about the coming attempt. He’d been picked up outside his tenement earlier that night, and he had no idea whether the kidnappers had a headquarters or, if so, where it was.

Briones accompanied Cruz to the elevators that led from the basement holding cell, moving slowly, fatigue obvious in his stride.

“What an idiot. His whole life thrown away…for what?”

“Not our problem. He chose his future,” Cruz said, his tone glum.

“I’m not sure what we do with the information about the rave. I’ll check to see what we have on upcoming events, but those are underground deals, with invitations strictly word of mouth.”

“We might think about leaking it to the papers.”

“True, but then what? The bad guys just change their plan, and we’ve accomplished nothing,” Briones said, frustration in his every syllable.

They waited for the elevator to arrive in silence, and Cruz turned to Briones. “Sounds like a big group, doesn’t it? Not a backyard outfit.”

Briones nodded. “It definitely has cartel written all over it. Way too organized for one of the local gangs.”

“I agree. Hopefully one of the dead men can be identified and we’ll better understand who we’re dealing with.” He paused. “The girl still hasn’t been returned. They paid the ransom last night, but so far, nothing.”

“You think it’s the same group?”

“Too early to say. But the fact that she hasn’t shown up yet is troubling. You know we’ll take the heat if they kill her.”

“But we weren’t involved. The parents deliberately kept us out of it.”

“I know. But that won’t matter if she shows up dead. There’ll be press conferences and angry demands by the media. They’ll be looking for someone to fry, and we’re it.” Cruz sighed. “Go home and get a couple of hours of sleep. That’s an order.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“And I told you to go rest. Be back at ten. No arguments.”

The door slid open, and they stepped into the elevator, Briones silently grateful for being ordered home in spite of his protestations, Cruz could tell. Between the prior night’s mission at the airfield and now this, he was running on empty.

The elevator stopped at the main floor, and Briones got out. “Ten o’clock,” he confirmed, and Cruz watched with a trace of envy for his relative youth and resilience as he signed out at the security desk. Cruz considered taking his own advice, but knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he resigned himself to another long slog through the never-ending river of paperwork while he waited for the computers to cough out names to put with the kidnappers’ faces. He swallowed the acid that rose in his gorge, a combination of anxiety and coffee, and offered a silent prayer that at least the kidnapped girl would be returned alive.