El Rey set down the Iranian surface-to-air shoulder-fire missile and flipped the laser guide closed. It had performed as advertised. He was a satisfied customer. Maybe he should have taken the purveyor up on his double-discount offer.
Perhaps next time.
Knowing that the helicopter crash would draw more scrutiny within minutes, he pulled the ATV into the garage and shut the doors. Now it was just another multi-million dollar house on the beach.
And what a nice beach it was. White sand, medium drop off, some submerged rocks, little undertow.
El Rey quickly stripped and donned the waiting neoprene wetsuit. He retrieved his dual tank scuba harness and mask from the corner of the garage and after strapping it on, carefully walked down the beach, a pair of flippers in hand. Once in the mild surf, chest deep in the water, he donned the flippers and went under, checking the waterproof compass he’d strapped to his wrist. He swam out forty yards in search of a yellow nylon line with a float on it at the thirty-five foot depth. Submerging until he could grab it, he pulled himself down until he was on the bottom, next to the two Torpedo 3500 scuba propulsion units he’d anchored there the previous day. He unclipped them both from the chain and activated one, clipping the other onto the rear of the first. Each unit would run for roughly forty-five minutes, giving him an effective range underwater. And because he’d just be pulled along he wouldn’t use much air, so he’d make it to the waiting shrimp boat, out in the Sea of Cortez, no sweat. Two miles offshore, within an hour and a half, it would be stationed, waiting for his arrival.
Worst case, he could swim it. But the Torpedoes were worth their weight in gold.
He pointed the unit out into the open sea and got under way.
It was a good day for a boat ride.
Chapter 23
Kent hated his life sometimes. Most of the time he was master of the universe, moving the earth and exerting power over life and death, a kingmaker, a demigod of sorts. But sometimes he was bitch-slapped by fate and had to grovel and mewl to the real powers that be, who were predictably less intelligent or visionary than he.
This was one of those times.
He pushed the door open to the club, and the perennial, discreet, ageless man in black tie motioned for him to follow without uttering a syllable. They proceeded to a different room than the last time — this one slightly larger and equally ostentatious. Inside, the Speaker of the House and three other older men sat scowling their discontent.
“What the fuck, Kent? Explain to me what happened, and where we go from here…” the Speaker of the House blurted.
Kent studied each of their faces in turn, before replying. He sat down and sipped from the water glass at the side of his place serving.
“We lost this round. Everything was going perfectly, and then at the last minute, something went wrong. It happens. I haven’t gotten a full briefing yet, but I expect details will creep in over time. It appears that the assassin who can never fail…did exactly that.”
“Are we exposed in any way?” a concerned voice asked.
“No. By using a straw man, in this case the drug lord, Santiago, we created a Chinese wall. Total deniability. It was a Mexican, trying to kill the Mexican president, for reasons only known to Mexicans. End of story. They kill each other all the time. This time, it didn’t happen. And everyone goes on to fight another day.”
“Well, this sucks. I’m not sure we’ll get another chance before the elections,” the Speaker of the House complained.
“Probably not,” Kent agreed. “A domestic assassination won’t fly. This was perfect — our beloved President executed by slack-jawed madmen, our Vice President stepping bravely into the breach…shit, it had Lyndon Johnson written all over it. The VP would have been a landslide victory, and we would have been guaranteed another four, or even possibly eight, years. Now, we have to go with the cards we’ve been dealt, namely an unpopular candidate fighting headwinds.”
Another man chimed in — in his seventies, almost completely bald, with rodent-like features and darting eyes.
“What if his plane or helicopter went down? Wouldn’t that stoke the sympathy fires?”
“Not nearly the same. In the first scenario, you have somebody else to blame — in this case, a group that many Americans have been coached to hate. Evil Mexicans. Satan’s foot soldiers, killing our beloved leader as he heralded a message of peace and hope. With a domestic assassination, it’s not so easy or clear, and you can’t harness the fury factor. Let’s learn from the whole war-on-terror gambit. Give the country someone with different cultural mores or skin color or language, and it’s easy to characterize them as the enemy. But if it happens domestically, even by Muslims or whatever, it’s not so clear-cut, especially after the last administration’s flubs, invading other countries. For these things to really work, you need an undeniable, larger-than-life bad guy. That doesn’t work so well if it’s domestic.” Kent paused to let the reality of the situation sink in. “This would have been perfect, but it’s over and done with. We got close enough to kiss, but no sex. It happens. We just have to move on.”
The Speaker of the House pondered his words. “All right. Kent’s talking sense. We need to shift gears and get into campaign support mode. It would have been nice, but hey, we gave it our all and lost in overtime. Next time, maybe we win.” The speaker looked around, trying to collect a consensus. “Are you with me? And Kent. You did a remarkable job. We just had some bad luck. We’re not holding it against you, and I want you to know you’re still a valued member of the team.”
A chill ran up Kent’s spine. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve worked very hard to keep everyone’s confidences, and I hope I get to continue doing so for a long time,” he volleyed. Let them suck on that. There was no way he was going to wind up trying to swim with an engine block chained to his feet. If they had any bright ideas about taking him out, that would give them pause.
The speaker held up his wine glass, toasting Kent.
“To another day.”
~ ~ ~
Cruz stood at the foot of Briones’ bed, Dinah next to him, watching the monitor track the steady beating of his heart. It hadn’t been too long ago that Cruz had been the one in this position. The view from the ambulatory side was better.
“The doctor says you’ll be fine. A week living in the lap of luxury, waited on hand and foot by beautiful young nurses, enjoying the fine dining of the hospital commissary, and then you’ll be playing tennis and cross-country skiing again in no time,” Cruz assured him.
“You might want to get your skull checked while you’re here. You sound delusional, Capitan,” Briones warned.
“Seriously. How are you feeling?” Dinah asked.
“I’ve been better. But all things considered, this could be a lot worse. The blood loss was the main problem; the actual wound wasn’t a big deal. If it hadn’t hit an artery, I could have walked into the doctor under my own power,” Briones assured her.
“Well, it seems you’re going to get a commendation. And you managed to duck all the flack that came from you manhandling that poor innocent tomato-guy. It was hard for anyone in management to bitch when you’d taken a bullet keeping the presidents alive,” Cruz reflected. He turned to Dinah. “Would you give us a few minutes? There are a few work things we need to discuss…”
“I still remember where the soda machine is.” She appraised Briones, and then Cruz. “I’ll see you in a few, Capitan,” she said, before shimmying through the door. Both men watched the show admiringly.
“You’re in real trouble there, Capitan,” Briones warned.