The last few times he’d needed something special he couldn’t get in Culiacan or Mexico City, this contact had arranged for the goods to come into Manzanillo, the main port on the Pacific side, yet another dangerous town in the trafficking chain that ran up the coast. All shipments from South America that came up the west coast offloaded at Manzanillo, so it was a natural hub for criminality and violence. The customs officers there were legendary for their corruption, and it was considered foolhardy to ship into the port without an established connection, which the contact clearly did.
El Rey assumed that this shipment would traverse the coastline via shrimp boat or small freighter before changing craft somewhere off Manzanillo, and then move north into the Sea of Cortez from there. The logistics of the smuggling didn’t interest him, as long as the items arrived in time, which is why he was willing to pay this source double the price asked by less-established providers.
A Toyota Sequoia with a bank of spotlights across its roof pulled around the corner and rolled to a stop at the curb in front of the warehouse. Four men got out, surveying their surroundings before approaching the building and unlocking the multiple locks on the heavy steel entrance door. Two of the men took up a position on either side of the entry and stood with their hands in their loose sweatshirt pockets, the bulges of their pistols obvious.
El Rey waited to ensure that was the total welcoming party, and then pulled up the street with his lights out until he was twenty yards away. He opened his door and stepped onto the pavement, slick from a cloudburst a few minutes earlier.
The synthetic soles of his Doc Marten boots gripped the surface securely. He walked confidently towards the two men, the bag and his free hand clearly visible so as to avoid any accidental bouts of nervous shooting. After a brief confirmatory discussion, one of the men made a cell call, and a few moments later, the door opened and his source welcomed him into the dank interior.
“Greetings, my old friend. Glad to see you. You found the place with no complications?” Gerzain, the vendor, asked.
“No problems.”
Pleasantries concluded, they walked through the depths of the cavernous expanse until they arrived at a set of wooden crates. Another man waited nearby. Gerzain gestured to him. He approached with a crowbar and wedged it between the crate and the sealed top, then expertly pried it loose. Gerzain reached in and brushed aside the straw packing material, and stood back so his favorite client could inspect the goods. El Rey moved to the crate and crouched down, rubbing his hands along the cold smooth surface of the contents. He stood and nodded to Gerzain, who smiled with pride.
“Nice,” El Rey said.
“You only need the one? I’m having a double-discount sale tonight…” Gerzain offered.
El Rey considered the proposition, but then shook his head.
“And the rest?” El Rey asked.
“Being manufactured. It’s a very unusual request, and will take every bit of the two weeks I quoted you.”
“No problem delivering everything to Cabo?”
“Nope. On time and on budget. Guaranteed,” Gerzain assured him.
El Rey tossed him the bag of money. Gerzain smiled and began walking to the door. “Can I get you anything else? Hand grenades? Machine-guns? A tank?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Not tonight. You going to count it?”
Gerzain turned to face him, grinning, a happy man indeed.
“No need. I trust you.”
Cruz could now walk without crutches, using only the stainless steel cane that Briones had acquired for him, and following his doctor’s orders, he walked as much as possible. He’d been driving into the office every day now, after going stir-crazy in the apartment for the first week. He was feeling increasingly fit as time went by.
He’d commandeered another Dodge Charger, and had the doors reinforced with half-inch steel plates at a local body shop — he’d learned a valuable lesson from his OXXO shoot-out, namely that having something that would stop all but armor-piercing rounds could be a life-saver. It still hurt him to operate the gas and brake pedals, but he was willing to suffer in order to regain his lost mobility.
The hunt for El Rey had gone exactly nowhere, and as the pages of the calendar turned and the summit raced towards them, Cruz’s agitation level increased further still. He knew his hunch was right — the photo had proved it in his mind, even if the other agencies downplayed it. When he’d tried CISEN one final time they’d actually laughed at him when he’d shown them the photo and the sketch. His pride still stung from that one, but he wasn’t in this for ego. They had the photo now, and hopefully would distribute it to their personnel leading up to the event. All he could do was push. The director had mocked his efforts, pointing out that the photo looked like a generic Mexican male under thirty-five, especially given the goatee. Not to Cruz, though, but perhaps he was too close to this now. He’d done his best, and would continue the hunt even if CISEN thought he’d lost it.
Cruz forced himself out of the office every night at eight, and was awake by six. One advantage of residing in downtown Mexico City was that he could walk out his front door, turn right, and arrive at a really great coffee shop within a hundred yards. It had quickly become a favorite way to start the day, and the stroll was good for him.
This morning, he was making plans to vacate the apartment at the end of the week and ship out to Los Cabos for the final five days before the summit. He could be of more immediate use there than languishing at the headquarters in Mexico City, armchair quarterbacking from seven hundred and fifty miles away. Cruz would fly over with Briones and ten of his top men, and hopefully, catch a break. If nothing else, he could review the security for gaps and become conversant with the lay of the land — something that would be critical to blocking any attempt in advance.
Finished with his phone calls, he took the elevator downstairs and hobbled out of the lobby, squinting at the sun’s already bright light. He made his way down the block, thinking to himself that living downtown wasn’t so bad, when an iron grip clutched both his arms while a reeking rag was held over his face from behind. He fought against inhaling as long as he could while he struggled against his assailants, but succumbed to the urge and quickly blacked out.
Chapter 20
When Cruz came to it was getting dark out. He slowly rotated his head, trying to orient himself. He was lying on a plush bed in a room with high ceilings; heavy wood beams supported large, flat roof tile slabs above him. Groaning, he stretched his arms to his side, then automatically reached for his weapon. Gone, of course. His skull was splitting, and he felt extremely thirsty, no doubt a byproduct of the drug his kidnappers had used to knock him out. Ether? Chloroform? He couldn’t be sure. It probably didn’t matter.
He sat up and spied an en-suite bathroom, the mottled marble vessel sink visible through the partially-opened door. Cruz cautiously rose to his feet and moved to the faucet, slaking his thirst with several glasses of water. He noticed a needle stick on his left arm — so it hadn’t just been the rag that had taken him down. He’d been drugged. He shook his head in an attempt to clear the fuzziness. Peering at his watch, he noted that it was six o’clock. He’d been out at least ten hours.