El Rey yawned as the girls finished their performance to a smattering of lackluster applause. He was glad it wasn’t him having to dance like a monkey in the sweltering sun for the amusement of a bunch of suits. An elaborate linen tarp had been suspended over the seating area to fend off the worst of the June blaze, and large fans blew ventilation across the seated dignitaries, but even so, whoever had thought it would be a good idea to do this outside had been misguided to the point of delusion.
He studied the overhead white linen billowing in the breeze and imagined what it would look like soaked in the assembled group’s blood. Now that would be something the media would remember. It was all he could do not to detonate the bull now, just to end the misery.
The pinata had cost a fortune to create — a one inch shell of a new explosive three times more powerful than plastique. He’d sourced it from Russia, a half-inch thick coating of carbon fiber etched with grooves so that when the animal blew apart hundreds of razor-sharp shards of half-inch square projectiles were created, effectively shredding everything within the blast range to bloody smithereens. And lest that wasn’t sufficiently destructive, roughly half the candy inside was in reality carbon fiber bearings milled to match the gum balls they’d loaded the creature with, which would also hurtle outward at near the speed of light. They’d even tested a sample of the new explosive with two bomb sniffing dogs from the airport in Manzanillo, and they’d passed by the bull without interest — apparently, they didn’t know what prototypical Russian explosives smelled like.
He’d conceived of the design himself after reading about the claymore mines used by the U.S. military, and the devastation they inflicted. The engineer who’d manufactured it had assured him that nothing would survive for a forty yard radius — and the presidents were seated ten yards away, at most. They’d be hamburger once it detonated, and the resulting carnage would be panoramic — a fitting pinnacle on which to end his already infamous career.
El Rey shifted the M-16 to his left hand as the first grade class, dressed in white peasant pants and shirts, pranced out onto the stage, eyes glued to the pinata like it was made out of chocolate. The Mayor and Governor took the stage again, and together hoisted the bull aloft, having secured it to a wire suspended from the stage framing. They would hoist the pinata provocatively to extend the fun as the children took turns swatting it, waiting eagerly for the payload of candy to come raining down on them.
Not today, kids.
The miniature high frequency transmitter-triggered detonator in the pinata was the only problem he’d encountered. He knew everything coming into the area would be x-rayed, and while the carbon fiber would pass through clean, appearing to be nothing more than part of the plaster used to fabricate the creature, and the bearings would resemble the rest of the gumballs, the detonator had to be made out of metal — wires to conduct the necessary electric pulse, a tiny battery to emit it, and an antenna. The nose ring had been the designer’s suggestion, and it had worked like a charm. The pinata was ready for its denouement on stage, and nobody suspected anything.
Overhead, on the trim at the top of the conference center, the sun’s harsh rays gleamed off the black feathers of a silent spectator, its avian eyes coldly appraising the gathered children and the bovine target of their excitement. Nobody noticed the crow in all the pandemonium — it was, after all, only a bird.
A blast of music from the speakers startled it from its position and it took flight, emitting a cry that was lost in the hubbub from the stage below.
El Rey, to all the world just another of the hundreds of soldiers chartered with keeping the world safe from the cartels, cautiously slid his hand into his camouflage pants pocket, preparing to push the button. He’d had a hacker in the Ukraine list his name two days ago on the security force’s roster and had spent the last two nights in the temporary barracks that had been erected to house the troops on the road to the airport. He was just another faceless, anonymous drudge, his appearance altered with a military buzz cut and cotton padding in his cheeks. He’d long since shaved the goatee off. To any observer he would look like a hapless Mexican serviceman from the hinterlands, albeit a sergeant — he needed a suitable cover for his age, given that most of the enlisted men were eighteen to twenty-two; and he also wanted to ensure he would have sufficient rank to be able to roam, rather than being stationed too far from the stage for the transmitter to reach.
Steeling himself for the blast, he winced almost imperceptibly, and pushed the button, waiting for the blinding flash and then the horrified screaming.
Nothing happened.
Unbelievingly, he pushed it again. Same result.
He quickly estimated the distance between himself and the stage and calculated that he was no more than eighty yards away.
Fuck.
He moved closer to the stage, eyes fixed on the bull, and depressed the button again.
More nothing.
It wasn’t going to work.
He momentarily contemplated spraying the presidents with lead from his rifle, then dismissed the idea. The goal was not to get killed today. It was to kill. Trying to shoot them would be suicide.
No, he had to abort.
El Rey pushed the button one last time, and when the stage didn’t vaporize in a blinding flash, he decided to terminate the operation and live to fight another day. All he had to do was wait out the performance.
Except of course, that once the pinata came apart and it became obvious that half the candy was in reality custom-crafted projectiles, everyone in the vicinity would be put under a microscope. Even as good as his cover was, it wasn’t designed to withstand that. No, it was time to pack it in and slip away. Or in this case, run away. He’d been assuming that the scene would be one of chaotic pandemonium, not calm, when he made his getaway.
Which posed a problem. But not too much of one.
He was, after all, El Rey.
Briones listened as the girls finished up their jig and the music terminated. From his position at the rear of the building, he peered into the hills, alert for any threat. His nerves were shot after the incident with the would-be tomato thrower, and he forced himself to take deep breaths to slow the adrenaline rush. He held out his right hand, palm extended down, and considered the tremor, a byproduct of the fight-or-flight reflex he’d triggered when going after the protestor.
Pull yourself together, dammit.
He was chagrined by the end result of his charge into the crowd. Briones had been a split-second away from blowing the man’s head apart — he’d started squeezing the trigger before he’d registered the tomato. Just the memory of it caused the tremor to worsen. He told himself to calm down and focus on the job at hand.