“I agree. Put a task force together on this,” Cruz said. “I want to know everything you get, no matter how seemingly inconsequential. There has to be a way to find this El Rey. The key to this will be in neutralizing him. The equation’s simple. No El Rey, no Santiago anymore, equals no threat…”
Ignacio — aka ‘Nacho’ — shook his head and frowned. “Forgive my ignorance, but what is the G-20? Why are both presidents going to be there?”
“It’s a financial summit held every year, where the world’s finance ministers meet to discuss economic issues,” Julio told him.
“So, why is the President going to be there?”
“Because it’s a national honor that it’s being hosted in Mexico,” Julio answered, patiently. “It’s a really big deal. And the American president is planning to show up at the opening ceremony as a sign of solidarity between Mexico and the U.S.. That’s the only event that will bring the U.S. president to Mexico this year that I know of, so it’s a safe bet that if El Rey is going to take a shot, that’s where he’ll do it.”
“Then we have a serious problem,” Nacho said, back in his area of expertise. “El Rey is a ghost. He’s like smoke — you catch a whiff of him, then he’s gone. It’s scary, because he would definitely be the right man for the job — his assassination of El Gallo is still discussed in the-”
“He isn’t a ghost, Nacho,” Cruz corrected. “He’s flesh and blood, which means he can be stopped. He’s not a magician, he doesn’t have superpowers, and he can’t fly. I’m not saying it will be simple, but I’ve taken down enough big swinging dicks to know that no matter how much positive press they’ve gotten, they all bleed just like we do…”
Julio held up his hands. “Fair enough, but it’s not going to be easy. This is a smart, savvy professional, and he’s probably got loads of money from his hits. That means he can hide forever if he wants. But I agree that he has to have a network, which means somebody has to know about it. We should talk to the El Rey taskforce and see what they’ve got, although rumor has it they’re worse than incompetent — my buddy was with them for a year, and said it’s like a game over there to see who can do the least amount of work.”
“Well, I’ve heard the same thing, but you never know. Maybe they cranked up the heat after El Gallo. That was a major blow for the party, and an embarrassment for all concerned,” Cruz admitted.
“Did you see the footage of the shooting? I swear it looked like El Gallo was doing his usual head butt. It was uncanny-”
“We’re all familiar with it,” Cruz cut in. “But the point of this meeting is to ensure the same thing doesn’t happen to the President. And imagine the consequences if the American president was killed on Mexican soil — it could start an invasion…and I’m not exaggerating. At the very least, it would destroy Mexico in the eyes of the world, as well as our relationship with the United States. The more I think about this, the more I believe we need to treat this as a genuine threat and take appropriate steps. I want you to give it top priority, am I clear?”
The men all nodded. The stakes were obvious.
They had to find El Rey at all costs.
Chapter 5
The man reclined in the dilapidated dentist chair as the tattoo artist poured ink into small plastic cups. The walls were painted a lurid burgundy, with swirls of black intermingled to create a gothic effect. Dim lighting was provided by tin pails hanging upside down from the ceiling, with light fixtures mounted within them. On the street outside, a boisterous group of drunk revelers made their way to one of the clubs on the main drag; loud peals of female laughter were punctuated by slurred male Gringo voices shouting, “Tequila!” He caught a glimpse of the group through the shop window — two brunette women in their thirties wearing shorts that were misguidedly optimistic as to how time had favored their physiques, and a younger redhead in a jean mini-skirt accented by a white ‘wife-beater’ undershirt tied provocatively to highlight her pierced navel. The men were universally cut from the same bolt — overweight, red-faced, wearing baseball caps and colored T-shirts with fishing logos on them. All had been out in the sun for far longer than advisable — their skin color varied from salmon to lobster-toned.
The man guessed they’d been fishing all day, given the distinctive pale outline where their sunglasses had rested on their faces. Fishing, of course, being a euphemism for guzzling beer and tequila while going for a boat ride. This was the typical weekend crowd, in town to let their hair down and misbehave like they couldn’t back home.
“Quite a night, huh, Jefe?” the tattoo artist commented in a tone that belied a complete lack of interest in any response. He was just making idle chatter while he prepared the drawing and busied himself removing the sterilized tattoo gun tip from the sealed paper envelope. His Spanish accent placed him as Argentinean. Not unusual in Mexico, because when people emigrated from Argentina, they generally went to countries where Spanish was the native language.
Sinewy muscles rippled under the artist’s gaunt forearms, which were covered from the wrists to his shoulders in vividly-articulated tattoos, as was his neck. His nose was pierced and held a stainless steel horseshoe suspended from the columella, complimented by the rows of studs that adorned both ears from top to bottom, visible because his two feet of dyed black hair was tied back in a ponytail. The squalid ambience of the little place was fortified by the speed-metal of Slayer blasting from the overhead stereo speakers, which was in keeping with the shop’s name: Metal Ink.
“How long will this take?” the man asked impatiently.
“Figure an hour and a half to two hours. Two to be safe. Why, you got somewhere pressing you need to be?” the tattoo artist replied.
“Nah. Just want to know what to expect.”
“It will hurt a little, but shouldn’t be too bad. This area of the chest isn’t nearly as sensitive as a lot of areas I’ve done,” the artist said, with a suggestive leer that revealed decaying teeth and badly receded gums — telltale signs of a chemical romance with methamphetamines.
“I’m not worried about it.”
“You want a shot of meanstreak before I get going?” the artist asked, gesturing with his head at a bottle of Chinaco tequila sitting on the small bar that was part of the establishment’s limited charms. Several shot glasses were aligned next to it, like small glass soldiers standing at the ready.
“No. I’m good,” the man replied.
“Suit yourself.”
The artist sterilized the spot on the man’s bare chest where he’d indicated he wanted the tat and pulled a disposable razor from a drawer in the small stainless steel work table. He thumbed the plastic blade cover into the garbage and quickly shaved the area, then applied some neutral deodorant so the artwork would leave a clear impression. Satisfied with his work, he held up the stencil and placed it carefully on the newly shaved area, just above the left nipple on the pectoral muscle. When he removed it, he tossed it into the wastebasket and applied a film of ointment over the blue outline, humming to himself in time with the incomprehensible noise blaring from the stereo. After inspecting his handiwork with satisfaction, he opened a package of surgical gloves and expertly pulled them over his dexterous fingers. Grinning again, he looked at the man and rubbed his latex-sheathed hands together with anticipation.
“So now we begin,” he said, grasping the tattoo gun and activating it.
The high-pitched hum of the gun droned against the machine-gun bursts of staccato guitar riffs as the artist swiveled his stool and wheeled to the man’s side.