“And miss a trip to Cabo and eighteen holes of golf? Does that sound like our guy? Please. How many legit threats does Secret Service get, per year? Hundreds? Thousands? You really think the ramblings of some taco-breath are going to get any visibility? The Mexicans can’t even figure out how to tie their shoelaces. I’d guess this will receive less than zero scrutiny, other than perhaps a heightened security level at the conference and a few more suits than usual. This is noise. We have nothing to worry about,” Kent pronounced.
“Let’s assume worst case,” the man’s associate said. “Can anything be traced back to your group, if they somehow stop the assassin?”
“That’s the beauty part. Not a chance. The drug dealer’s dead, and he was the point man on this. He’s the one who took out the contract, he’s the one who hired the killer, and he’s the one who’s now six feet under. It all goes back to him. If it’s successful, then the cartels get blamed — and everyone in the world already knows they’re murderous thugs. So it will shock, but not surprise. If it tanks, we can think of something else. We still have plenty of time before the November elections,” Kent assured them.
“And what about if they catch him and interrogate him?”
“Highly unlikely. But just for conversation, let’s go down that road. They capture him somehow, even though they’ve been actively pursuing him for years with no success. What do they have? A contract killer paid in untraceable cash by a cartel boss. That’s it. The end. That’s what made the whole scheme so appealing in the first place. Its complete deniability,” Kent finished.
The men groused and worried more, but it didn’t go anywhere. They discussed some of the finer logistical points, and after another half hour agreed that things seemed back on track after a momentary scare.
Kent was getting tired of having to nursemaid his group of nervous nellies. Like all politicians and power players, they talked big and made bold moves when it was all theoretical, but once hands started to get dirty, they freaked out. The politicians were bad enough, but now he had to act as cheerleader for these second-string wonks, too? He resolved not to let it wear him down. This was a unique chance to achieve their objective in a completely clean manner, with no blood anywhere near their doorstep. It would be a regrettable act of brutality in a savage country run by criminals, and would create exactly the environment they were looking for. He couldn’t have scripted it better if he’d tried.
Sometimes he wondered what the hell these idiots were thinking when they green-lit operations like this and got professionals like Kent involved. Did they think he could just push a button and call everything off whenever someone had a case of nerves?
He’d be glad when this was over. If all played correctly, he’d be in line to make a big move up the ranks, and either get the number two spot in Langley, or perhaps even the number one. Maybe next term, after his position as number two had seasoned some.
Nice problem to have.
Cruz slumbered fitfully, the pain in his chest and legs causing him almost unbearable grief. He’d told the doctor to cut his morphine drip; he preferred to tough out the pain than feel the blanket of numbness restricting his ability to function. When the doctor had last checked in at midnight, he’d remarked to Cruz that his recovery was startling, given the condition he’d been in when he was admitted.
In spite of the pain, Cruz had to admit he felt much stronger than when Briones had stopped by. Apparently, the combination of rest and IV fluids was working — he didn’t want to get his hopes up too soon, but he was thinking he might be ready to get discharged the following evening, if the hospital signed off on it.
Cruz had a long discussion with the kindly physician overseeing his care, and had been adamant about cutting the narcotics, just as he’d instructed the doctor to keep all staff out of his room unless he was dying. No dope, no distractions, just old fashioned bed rest while his body built back its depleted resources. The doctor had shaken his head and warned him that he’d be in a lot of pain, but Cruz didn’t care. If he was feeling pain, it meant he was still alive, and that made it a good day. He knew he’d cheated death by a hair, and maybe wouldn’t be so lucky next time. It put things into perspective.
Cruz was acutely aware of the passage of time. He’d lost a day now, due to the shooting; a day he didn’t feel like he had to burn. El Rey was out there somewhere, not lying about wasting his time. The man was legendary for his meticulously-planned hits so Cruz had little doubt that if he wasn’t already in Los Cabos, he soon would be. The summit would be the crowning triumph of his assassinations — the Oscars, Grammys and Emmys of executions all rolled into one. Cruz could close his eyes and imagine the killer eyeing the building, the airport, the routes into the complex. He’d probably gotten a schedule of events and knew exactly what was planned for the attendees from the time they arrived until their plane wings lifted into the air.
He shifted and glanced at his watch. Four a.m., and his mind was busy turning over the facts of the case instead of allowing his battered body to rest. That figured. He’d long ago grown accustomed to his nearly obsessive approach to problem-solving; once he got hold of something, he’d worry away at it until he’d figured it out. It was his nature, and he supposed he wasn’t going to change now.
One of the biggest question marks for him had been why a cartel boss would want to take out the Mexican president. It was an election year, and he was a lame duck now — he could only serve the one six-year term. There was no re-election bid in Mexico once you’d achieved the highest office; you got your six years, and that was that. So why kill him? To what end? Cruz didn’t buy that it was all just to prove a point.
He thought about the chain of command. If the President died, leadership of the government went to the Mexican equivalent of the Vice President — the Secretary of the Interior. And if the Secretary of the Interior also died, as the recent two had in air crashes, then it went to one of the members of the Supreme Court. Cruz considered that scenario — maybe the goal was to eliminate those who were committed to eradicating the cartels, in favor of a judge who’d been bought off? He was far too experienced and pragmatic to believe that anyone in the system was incorruptible. The question was always just, at what price?
Then again, maybe it was as simple as territories, and controlling the playing field. It was obvious to Cruz that the current administration pursued some cartels with far more vigor than others. Santiago’s region had been particularly hard hit by government troops, while his competitors went virtually unhindered. There was always the chance that the whole scheme was about money and power, and nothing more; that the goal was to remove a thorn in Santiago’s side, and replace it with a politician who would focus on his rivals, rather than his allies.
Cruz knew these were impossible questions to answer, but that didn’t stop him from mulling them over as he drifted in and out of slumber. Now that the morphine was clear of his system, his mental acuity was returning to accompany the pain. Which reminded him — he’d need to commit to some regular physical therapy, per the doctor’s orders, if he was going to escape without a limp. The wound to his leg had narrowly missed shattering the bone, but had done a number on his muscles and ligaments, which would require patience and attention. The thought of it depressed him. Being around other invalids, casualties of a de facto civil war they couldn’t win, wasn’t something he was looking forward to.
The door eased open, allowing a sliver of light into the room, drawing him out of his tentative sleep and to full awareness. Cruz peered through squinted eyes and watched as a female form entered the room, pausing to scrutinize him before wedging a chair against the door handle. Something told him that wasn’t standard operating procedure for caregivers, and his hand slid the few inches to Briones’ pistol still concealed beneath the sheet. The nurse didn’t notice, occupied with blocking entry with the chair. Cruz held his breath as he tried to find where the safety was located on the gun. His thumb slid across the lever, but he held off on flipping it into fire mode lest it make a sound and alert her.