King of Swords

Chapter 8

General Alejandro Ortega watched the soldiers as they got into position around the club from his vantage point a safe distance from the action. The major who was directing the tactical team was good, a veteran of many similar assaults against the cartels. While one could never know exactly what to expect, it was usually a safe bet that their adversaries wouldn’t surrender easily, and it was understood that lethal force was going to be used.

Spring evenings in Morelia were generally crisp, and this night was no exception. The soldiers wore gray camouflage, fully decked out in combat gear, replete with Kevlar vests, assault rifles, grenades, pistols and combat knives. The squad the general had assembled for this assault comprised fifty men, most equally seasoned as the major. He didn’t want any mistakes. Morelia had seen enough open warfare in its streets to last a lifetime, and he couldn’t afford a lot of military casualties for the papers to rail about. This had to be surgical and over in minutes, or it would get messy, as they always did when events degenerated into a stand-off situation.

The major’s voice murmured over their closed-channel, encrypted radio. His aide handed the general the microphone so that he could speak.

“Yes, Major. I see you’re in position. I have both sides of the street blocked off a block away, but you’ll need to move quickly in case one of their mob sees the roadblock and warns them.”

“Requesting permission to begin the operation, sir.”

“You have a green light, Major. Repeat, you have a green light.”

“Roger that. Commencing assault at twenty-hundred hours on the nose.” The major’s transmission went silent.

A minute later, he watched as the troops moved into the club. He heard the distinctive rapid popping of M-16s, with interspersed small arms fire and the chatter of Kalashnikovs. A grenade sounded, its detonation booming down the street, and then after a few more rounds were fired, quiet returned to the area.

Four minutes went by. Then five. Finally, the major’s voice crackled over the com line again.

“We are in possession of the club. All hostiles are down. We’ve taken fire, and three of our men are dead, two wounded. Nine hostiles terminated. Over.”

“I’ll be in momentarily. Congratulations on a job well done,” Ortega intoned.

The general got out of the command vehicle and strode towards the club, flanked on either side by armed soldiers, weapons brandished lest any unseen assailant decide to pop a few rounds at them; the trio’s heavy combat boots thudded ominously in time on the pavement. Army emergency ambulances screeched to the curb, where they waited as the medics darted in carrying stretchers and triage packs.

The interior of the club was a scene of carnage, with blood pooled where bodies had lain. The cartel members had been left in place for photographs and definitive identification, but the fallen soldiers had been moved to an aid area with their wounded colleagues. It was their blood on the floor and walls. Several of the cocktail waitresses were wounded and two were dead — regrettable yet acceptable collateral damage. This was a war, and sometimes civilians got hurt in wars, especially if they frequented cartel strongholds. That was just the way things rolled.

Battle-frazzled soldiers leaned against the wall and lounged on the red vinyl booth benches, their guns pointed at the floor or resting on the tables. Combat was an odd thing, the general mused. Time compressed and minutes seemed to take an hour to pass. Once the adrenaline rush of being under fire diminished, your body felt like it had run a marathon. He knew the feeling, although it had been over a decade since he’d been in a firefight. A ranking general was far too high-profile and strategically important to take risks of that sort.

Two soldiers stood at attention on either side of the battered office doorway, the walls around which were pocked with bullet holes. He entered the room and the unforgettable smell of blood struck him, along with that of voided bowels. They didn’t feature that in the movies or on TV, but often when a target was gut shot, the bullets tore through the intestines, leaking bowel fluid everywhere. And equally often, a by-product of dying was a complete loss of neuromuscular control, including bowels and bladder. The business of death was a filthy one, he knew.

It was, after all, his chosen career.

Ortega moved to where the major was standing over a little bull of a man, collapsed behind the metal desk, at least six bullet wounds visible. The room was a disaster, the grenade having hurled shrapnel throughout it; the man behind the desk must have taken cover there to escape the explosion. Judging by most of the other bodies in the room, they hadn’t had that foresight.

“It’s the target. Batista,” the major observed. “He was holed up in here with five others, and a group of enforcers. They put up a fight, I’ll give them that, but you saw how long it took to take them down. Stupid fuckers should have surrendered instead of trying to shoot it out with an army unit…”

“When was the last time one of these shit-rats wised up and put a gun down, instead of shooting at us?” General Ortega mused.

“Good point. We’d all be out of jobs if human nature changed that much, eh?” the major countered.

“Not likely. Well done, Major. Carry on,” Ortega said, before taking a photo of the dead Batista with his telephone.

The general inspected the other bodies with scant interest and then motioned to his two armed attendants to move out. He had no intentions of sticking around any longer than he had to. The operation was concluded, the target neutralized, the mission accomplished. The rest was just mop up.

They returned to the command vehicle and the driver started the engine of the military edition Humvee H1 — a throaty diesel that would run the vehicle through raging rivers or up the sides of mountains. Ortega donned his reading glasses and fiddled with the buttons on his phone, struggling to make out the menu options. After a few false starts, he located the e-mail function and pushed send, watching in satisfaction as the photograph of the dead Batista winged its way to his rival, El Chavo, the lieutenant favored by his sponsor in the Sinaloa cartel to run the Knights Templar operation now that Santiago had gone to his reward.

Tomorrow, if Poncho Gallermo was still alive, Ortega would be spearheading a drive to eradicate that parasite from the planet as well.

One had to choose one’s battles carefully. It didn’t pay to buck the system. The world was an imperfect place, and if two dangerous homicidal psychopaths could be taken out with a minimum of fuss, that was good for everyone. Of course they’d just be replaced by other predators, but that was the way of the world. He couldn’t stop it, so might as well make a little retirement money while doing his part to keep the world safe.

The Humvee moved ponderously down the road to the checkpoint, where the sentries waved it through and saluted their commander, a legend in the ongoing battle for the safety of the Mexican people.

Julio’s phone rang at ten-thirty p.m.. He answered it, and was greeted by the blaring sound of house music and Felipe’s voice.

“Raphael! Hey, man, glad I caught you.”

“Felipe. How are you? What are you up to?” Julio asked, his heart rate increasing twenty beats per minute and booming in his ears.

“You got a pen? Write this down. The guy we were talking about? He agreed to see you. His name’s Jaime Tortora. He’s got a pawn shop near the main cathedral downtown.” Felipe gave him the address. “He says he’ll see you at ten tomorrow morning, at his place.”

“Felipe. That’s great. I can’t thank you enough. I won’t forget this.”

“Be careful what you wish for, my friend. Like I said, from this point there’s no going back. You’re on your own,” Felipe reminded him.

“I know. No worry, be happy, right?” Julio said, alluding to a reggae song they had gotten drunk to on their first meeting years ago.

“Isn’t that right! Hey, you want to come down to the club and have a drink? May be the last time I see you…” Felipe teased.

“I don’t know. The last time I had a drink with you, your bartender almost sucked the life out of me,” Julio said.

“She’s here tonight. She’s been asking about you. Apparently, once you taste the God of Love, you’re ruined for all other men. You’re an animal, my friend. I’ve never seen her like this,” Felipe reported.

“Yeah. I’ll just bet. No, I think I’ll stay in tonight. I’m still trying to recover from our last little soiree.” Julio’s mind wandered to their spirited tryst. “Tell her I’ll call her.”

“I will. But will you really? If you don’t, you better not come around here until she quits, because she’ll be looking to even the score,” Felipe advised.

“I swear on a stack of bibles as tall as you are, I’ll call. But I can’t do it tonight. I’m beat,” Julio said, omitting that he would be on the phone with Cruz in a few minutes and likely have to meet him early in the morning to finalize a plan of attack and scope out Tortora’s shop.

“Sure, sure. Hey, I’m not sleeping with you no matter how sweet you talk, so save your breath for Monique,” Felipe concluded. Monique was the bartender’s name. As if Julio could ever forget.

The conversation degraded from there into jousting over each others’ claimed prowess, and before long Julio signed off, impatient to share the good news with Cruz.

The next morning at eight-thirty, Briones, Julio and Cruz were at the same Starbucks as the prior meeting, Briones with a laptop in tow. They ordered coffee while Briones got online, taking a few minutes to log onto the server at headquarters. They had run a full profile on Tortora, and he came back squeaky clean. No prior arrests, no suspicious bank filings, a model citizen with a modest but sustainable pawn shop, all licenses current, no violations or problems ever reported. Tortora hadn’t even had a parking ticket in the last five years, which was as far back as the system went. The man seemed the least likely agent for a contract killer imaginable, much less for El Rey. Julio had a momentary fear that maybe this was Felipe’s twisted kind of a joke, then dismissed it. He hadn’t seemed like he was making a funny when he’d agreed that he could put Julio in touch with the most infamous hit man in the world.

Briones tapped out a series of keystrokes and then brought up a window with satellite coverage of downtown Mexico City.

“All right. The red X is the shop. You can see there’s an alley running alongside of it, and it backs onto another building, so there’s only the back emergency entrance on the alley and the front doors to worry about. At street level are single story shops, with apartments above, but they’re accessed from a separate lobby next door to the shop. According to what information we could get, Tortora leases a one bedroom apartment there, and also owns a home in one of the suburbs. Drives a VW Golf, three years old, paid for,” Briones recited, pointing at the screen for emphasis.

“What else do we know about this guy?” Julio asked.

“He’s fifty-eight, been in the same location for twenty years,” Briones said.

“Where is he originally from? Here?” Cruz asked, his skin subtly darker from discreetly applied base, and his hair slicked straight back under a sheen of pomade. The transformation was subtle, but made him unrecognizable — a tribute to the skill of the theatrical makeup woman they’d hired to alter his appearance. A pair of round stainless steel spectacles completed the disguise, and Cruz had been truly surprised when he’d inspected his made-over profile in the mirror.

“Hmm, no. Sinaloa. Culiacan,” Briones said, switching screens to access the information.

“Drug capital of Mexico. Coincidence?” Julio wondered.

“Yeah, but population well over a million,” Cruz pointed out. “And fifty-eight years ago, the only thing that was going on in Culiacan was tomatoes and a little marijuana. So inconclusive at best if we’re looking to make him the handmaiden to the cartels.”

“Fair enough. I was just making an observation. It’s all just information,” Julio countered.

“Says he’s divorced, ten years. One daughter. Not exactly the profile I would expect for this line of work.” Briones was tapping away, and finished, sat back. “What do you think an agent for a hit man would make, per job?”

“Probably at least ten percent or more, if he’s getting the jobs. But in this case it would be the other way around. So maybe less. Why?” Cruz asked.

“And he’d probably deal with the payments for him, too, right?” Briones ignored the question, obviously driving at something.

“I’d imagine. Where are you going with this?” Cruz demanded.

“What’s he doing with all the money? Even if he passed most of it on to El Rey, if he’s dragging down, what, two to three million a pop, pardon the pun, Tortora should have millions lying around by now, or at least a couple of million, easy. But look at the neighborhood and the business. It’s a zero. And his house? Maybe worth a hundred thousand, maybe two. Very modest. Says here he has a grand total of eighteen thousand dollars in the bank across all his accounts, which is a lot by Mexican standards but nothing in the scale of what we’re looking at. So where’s he keeping the money?” Briones asked.

Cruz finished his coffee with a swallow. “I suppose if he’s sophisticated enough to be money laundering for El Rey, he probably has an offshore bank account, don’t you think? And that wouldn’t show up anywhere. So just treat this like a cartel financier, and you’ll be in the loop. All the money is underground, or in cash. So an absence of money proves nothing, unfortunately.”

They went round and round on Tortora, but in the end, the obvious course was just to meet him and see what he said. They wouldn’t wear a wire, because a pro would have detection equipment and they’d be instantly blown. So the plan, such as it was, involved meeting him, seeing how it played out, and then come down on him like a falling piano.

They finished their coffees and folded up shop, descending the escalators to the parking garage where Julio’s Humvee was parked. They’d agreed they would take two cars and drop Briones off to watch for anything suspicious while they found parking spots — probably one of the most difficult aspects of their foray into that neighborhood.

They drove across town and located Tortora’s street using the handheld GPS in the Humvee, and Cruz dropped Briones off a block away so he could meander over and keep an eye on the shop for the ten minutes it would probably take to park. Briones moved into position on the same side of the street as Tortora’s, and bought a churro from a sidewalk vendor, pretending to be engrossed in a text message conversation while eyeing the target. He felt a brief sensation of apprehension, given the stakes involved in this meeting, made worse by the double dose of caffeine over the morning’s briefing. He made a mental note never do that again before a field op.

Briones started, nearly jumping, when he felt a hand on his windbreaker. He spun around and found himself facing one of the city’s transient population — a filthy, disheveled woman, obviously high on something, grabbing at him while muttering a begging mantra incoherently. He shook her off and handed her a few pesos, eager to be rid of her. She didn’t even register the money as she continued down the sidewalk, hands outstretched to accost someone else.

Thankfully, there wasn’t much pedestrian traffic on the street, which made it easier for Briones to eye the pawn shop. If at all possible, he wanted to avoid having to stand conspicuously near Tortora’s to monitor things, preferring a discreet distance. He considered moving across the thoroughfare so he could keep watch on both the deserted alley and the storefront, and then he saw Julio and Cruz, walking together down the sidewalk from the opposite direction. It was game time.

Reassured by the weight of his Sig Sauer in his shoulder holster, he elected to stay on Tortora’s side of the road and move down the block before circling back and eventually taking up a position across from their objective. Briones strolled towards the shop, figuring he would glance down the alley and then jaywalk across to the opposite side when he was fifty yards past it, and almost collided with another vagrant — this time a man emerging from the squalid alley, wearing grubby brown slacks and a tattered sweater. He clutched a satchel that no doubt contained his few worldly possessions. Both men instinctively started when he rounded the corner, and the two haltingly mumbled apologies to each other as they continued on their separate ways.

Momentarily thrown by the near miss, Briones turned and followed the man with his eyes. Great. Now he was jumping at panhandlers and bums. He needed to rein in his caffeine-augmented imagination and focus on the task at hand, before Cruz and Julio reached the front door. Briones was going to be no use to them if he let his nerves distract him. He mentally shook himself and pulled his act together, concentrating on seeming nonchalant as he strolled at a measured pace. Crossing the alley, he took a hard look at the two dumpsters next to the emergency exit side doors, noting they were overflowing with trash uncollected for weeks. The alley was short, which he remembered from the satellite image, and dead-ended into a brick wall covered with graffiti, the filthy ground littered with stinking refuse around the battered receptacles.

Briones brushed past Cruz and Julio without revealing anything, and continued down the block fifty more yards before seeming to change his mind. Waiting for a break in traffic he jogged across the street, where he took up position with a good view of both the shop and the mouth of the alley.

Julio pushed the door open and heard a buzzer sound from the back of the building, behind the barred window that kept intruders at bay. After a few moments, hearing nothing, Julio called out.

“Senor Tortora? Hola. Senor Tortora. Buenos dias. Is there anybody there?”

Nothing.

Cruz studied the shabby merchandise in two tired display cases while they waited, having registered the mirrored half globe on the ceiling that was a surveillance camera.

“Maybe he’s in the bathroom?” Julio suggested.

Cruz pushed a button mounted by the window, and they heard a bell sound in the back, but no ensuing sounds of movement.

They exchanged troubled glances, and Cruz peered through the bars while Julio tried the handle of the heavy steel access door.

“It’s locked,” he said.

“That figures. What do you want to do?” Cruz asked. This was Julio’s show.

“I think we wait a few minutes. Maybe he stepped out to grab a snack or some coffee,” Julio said doubtfully.

Ten minutes later they were still standing in the shop, with no evidence that anyone was ever going to show up.

“All right. This is bullshit. I’m going to go around and try the other door, and if that’s locked, we fold this up and get someone who can open this. Either he’s made us and bolted, or something’s wrong,” Cruz said, moving to the door while withdrawing his cell phone from his pocket. He called Briones.

“There’s a problem. Nobody’s here. I’m going to go around and see if I can get in the back way. If not, I need a locksmith and a tactical team down here fast, so we can tear the place apart. Have you seen anyone exit the building — including the apartments?” Cruz asked.

“No, although I did…never mind,” Briones said, feeling stupid for even bringing it up.

“What?”

“I almost ran into a homeless guy. He was coming out of the alley you’re about to head down,” Briones explained.

“When? How old was he?”

“I don’t know. Younger than me…” Briones guessed.

“Then it wasn’t Tortora. He’s older. And he isn’t a vagrant, as far as we know.”

“Right.”

“Okay. Keep your eyes peeled. I’m walking out the front door right now, and I’m going to try the alley entrance. Stay on the line, but watch the surroundings,” Cruz instructed, moving down the grim little dead-end street to Tortora’s rear door. He tried the knob, and it, too, was locked.

“Shit. Okay, call a tactical team in, stat, and get someone who can pick this lock.”

“All right, boss. I’m on it.”

Cruz fumed at how close they’d gotten, only to be stymied at the one yard line. He returned to the shop and briefed Julio. The pair settled in to wait for the tactical team. That could take a while.

“Looks like we got made somehow,” Cruz said.

“I don’t see how, though. Really. It makes no sense,” Julio answered.

Cruz paced back and forth. This wasn’t how the day was supposed to go. His phone began ringing, but before he could answer it both Julio and he were startled by a figure opening the front door of the shop. A young woman entered, as surprised to see them as they clearly were to see her.

“Oh. I’m sorry…I…you surprised me. May I help you?” she asked them.

Cruz took her in. Medium height, maybe early thirties at most, huge brown eyes and wavy black hair. A face that was unconventionally beautiful. Conservatively dressed. Counterfeit Dolce and Gabbana purse and sunglasses, he noted — one of the many occupational habits of being a cop.

Julio spoke first.

“What do you mean, can you help us? We’re waiting to see Senor Tortora,” he said with what probably passed in his mind as a charming smile.

“Oh, well, he should be here. Let me go back and see,” she said, returning the smile with considerably less enthusiasm. She eyed Cruz and shot him a smile, too, then moved past them to the door. She fiddled with her keys, and turned to face them.

“Uh, do you mind? Could you move over by the front door? I’m feeling a little crowded here, and I don’t want to open this with you standing beside me. Security and all. No offense,” she apologized, holding her keys at the ready.

Julio glanced at Cruz.

“Of course. I’m terribly sorry. It was thoughtless of us. Please. We’ll just be right here.” Julio motioned at the area by the front door and moved there, pulling Cruz’s sleeve. He stepped over as well.

“Will that work for you?” Cruz asked.

“Thank you. I’ll see where he is.” She slipped through the door as she spoke.

They waited patiently, Julio tapping his foot, Cruz cleaning his nails. She returned to the little showroom area a few moments later, puzzled.

“That’s strange. He’s not here. He’s always here. Hmm. I wish he would carry his cell phone; then I could call him. He leaves it in his apartment upstairs, or in the car. He’s lousy with things like that,” she explained. “I didn’t get your names…”

“I’m sorry. Very rude of us. This is Senor Albon, and I am Raphael Contreras. And you are?” Julio extended his hand.

“I’m his daughter. Dinah Tortora. Pleased to meet you both. Is there something I can help you with since my father has, erm, disappeared for a few minutes?” she asked, shaking their hands in turn.

“We were really hoping to speak to him in person. A delicate matter he was helping us with,” Julio said.

Dinah looked confused.

“Delicate matter? Hmm, okay…you know, if you don’t mind, I’ll run upstairs and check on him. Now I’m a little worried. Maybe he slipped and hurt himself or something,” Dinah said, and made for the front door. Both men stepped aside, Julio making a courtly mini bow. They watched as she left the shop and made a right, going to the apartments.

“What’s with the Don Juan act?” Cruz chided.

“Are you kidding? She’s gorgeous. What, are you blind?”

“Her father is El Rey’s agent. We’re working. Does that ring any bells?” Cruz reminded.

“Party pooper. I didn’t get the hit man vibe from her. Did you? I don’t think she knows anything. That’s where my money’s at.” Julio winked.

“Maybe. But there’s no way to be sure-”

They were cut off by a scream of horror from the apartments.