Revenge of the Assassin (Assassin Series 2) (27 page)

He’d called the head of security and suggested that the president give his speech from the much easier to protect inner courtyard of the building, but had been shut down. Even when he’d pressed and pointed out that a motivated sniper could pick the president off if he was able to be accurate from over eight hundred yards, his advice had been greeted with disinterest. They’d found the bomb. That was that.

At precisely five p.m. the sound of the president’s arrival drowned out the sound of traffic and the crowd that was being held at bay by barricades. The presidential helicopter set down on the large yellow circle designated for it in the long rectangular parking lot at the southern side of the building. As the spinning blades slowed, the alert level of the sentries noticeably increased, and they shifted restlessly. Cruz watched as the door swung open and the plainclothes equivalent of the Secret Service got out of the aircraft, forming a loose protective half ring around the aircraft door, and then the president’s distinctive form stepped onto the asphalt. He waved at the crowd and the gathered media, then proceeded with his entourage up the steps to the building, where he was scheduled to move to the east side and give his speech in front of the huge stone mural that was the emblem of national pride.

Cruz scanned the surrounding buildings for any sign of danger, but spotted nothing. Snipers watched for anything unusual from their perch on the roof of the congress, their field of vision constantly moving, looking for telltales. The structures within range of a shooter had all been searched and cleared. Traffic had been diverted to streets that posed no possible problems. Even the metro trains had been paused during the scheduled time for the speech so they wouldn’t drown out the president’s words. Everything appeared to be under control.

The president moved to the podium and cleared his throat. The assembled dignitaries sat down in unison after a round of lackluster applause. Nobody was expecting anything groundbreaking from a head of state that had only been on the job a few short months, other than the inevitable retraction of the campaign promises he’d made to win the vote. It was almost an obligatory formality – the admission that things were more complicated than he’d thought when he’d been on the election trail, and that it would be foolish to make any hasty moves while things were in such a delicate state of flux, and so on. Every president was forced to abandon his pre-election commitments. It was a rite of passage. The only mildly interesting part would be whether he blamed fate, the opposition party, or the economy. Perhaps today would be all three.

In the end, not much changed but the name on the door. Everyone knew the game. It was the same everywhere.

El Rey
watched the proceedings with interest. The security was close to comprehensive, unlike the customary routine he’d studied, no doubt due to the bomb that had been found. That had been a masterstroke of misdirection, well worth the two days of drudgery at the landscaping company as a flunky. The hardest part had actually been poisoning the existing plants so they would need to be replaced – the neighborhood wasn’t the best in town, and he’d had to do it at three in the morning, dodging the patrols of guards who kept the building free of graffiti and vandalism.

Part of him was annoyed that they’d found the bomb, and another was happy. His alternative plan was so much more innovative. Not that he wouldn’t have gladly pushed the button and terminated his target while making the speech. That would have been good. But in his experience few things worth doing were ever easy, and the truth was that it had always been likely that the congress bomb would be spotted, given the heightened threat awareness. Now that it had been neutralized, the hope was that everyone would breathe a sigh of relief, and underestimate him. Just a little.

He switched off the television and put his feet up on the sofa of his new digs. There was nothing more to see, unless he really felt like hearing a speech filled with lies and recriminations. He had better things to do.

With any luck, all the president’s men would relax and make his job easier.

If not, no matter.

The president was still as good as dead.

As the sun dipped deeper into the horizon, heat waves rippled off the scorched earth, distorting geometry and creating an otherworldly impression of the whitewashed buildings. Eighteen-foot-high concrete walls enclosed the compound, with a twelve-foot-high chain link fence outside that, topped with gleaming razor wire. Guards sat in the turrets that jutted high above, watching the massive interior courtyard where prisoners roamed, some congregating in cliques at the farthest reaches. Duty at the prison was a plum posting due to the under-the-table payments virtually every guard saw from the cartels to allow access for contraband, as well as to turn a blind eye when called upon.

The Nuevo Laredo Detention Center housed some of the most violent criminals in Mexico – every type of psychopathic killer and miscreant imaginable. Not surprisingly, a substantial portion of the prison population was cartel members, and it had long been rumored that the Los Zetas were the de facto operators of the place. Located just south of the Texas border in the troubled region of Tamaulipas, a state widely regarded as out of government control and under the rule of the cartels, the prison was considered to be a veritable vacation getaway for Los Zetas members sentenced to spend their lives there.

Los Zetas had originally started as the armed wing of the tremendously powerful Gulf cartel, when a group of thirty former Special Forces commandos and police deserted and took up employment with that syndicate. Over time, Los Zetas grew to dwarf the Gulf cartel, and after a split several years back became a feared rival, its power having eclipsed that of its parent. Los Zetas was notorious even by the ultra-violent and brutal cartel standards, and had earned a reputation as the most vicious criminal group in the world. That had been underscored countless times, with massacres a routine part of its operations.

In 2011, one hundred and ninety-three people were killed in what became infamous as the Tamaulipas massacre, and that same year, two hundred and forty-nine people were slaughtered in the Durango massacre. And the burgeoning organized crime syndicate’s operations were now international in scope, as illustrated by the slaughter of thirty in Guatemala, where the group had partnered with paramilitary groups for personnel and specialized weapons training.

Federal troops had been moved to the troubled Mexican border region in an effort to maintain control, but the violence continued, and over time intensified in ferocity. This ongoing state of war resulted in a high number of cartel casualties, placing strain on the Los Zetas organization for skilled hands, even as it simultaneously battled its adversary, the Sinaloa cartel. Over the last two years, it had succeeded in taking territory away from its enemy, but at a high cost. Concurrent wars with the Gulf cartel, Sinaloa and the Mexican military had taken their toll, and even as its power grew, Los Zetas began experiencing a manpower shortage. Unskilled labor in the form of deserting police and regular army troops swelled the ranks, but the specialized training offered to the marines and commando squads was prized. Due to the attrition, skilled soldiers who had the requisite experience had been in short supply of late. Even the most hardened and avaricious thought twice about taking the high paying, but lethal, duty.

Once it was dark, the prison population was called to dinner with the clamor of a bell, which prompted the surly men to form ragged lines outside the commissary. Only, tonight was different than most evenings. Tonight would be when a carefully planned escape took place, hopefully freeing a large number of Zetas. Word had circulated among the group, and they were ready. But before leaving, there were errands to attend to.

Manuel Ortiz was a lieutenant in the Gulf cartel, sentenced to forty years for organized crime charges relating to murder, drug trafficking, kidnapping and assault. His heavy features belied a peasant lineage, and his squat physique was accentuated by hours of prison weight training, which served to make him seem shorter than his five-foot-seven height. He had a large entourage of bodyguards in the facility – his vast fortune from being a key component of the cartel’s Texas trafficking route enabled him to afford the best. Every day in the facility was a potential bloodbath for him, with Los Zetas just on the far side of the prison yard, and Ortiz lived in a constant state of readiness.

When the attack came, it was sudden and brutal. Scores of inmates ran at his contingent and began stabbing them with homemade shanks – sharpened metal shards or pieces of rebar, patiently honed to razor sharp points over countless hours in darkened cells. His men fought back, but they were no match for the overwhelming number of attackers. The entire skirmish occurred in a muted silence, the only noise the wet thwacking of the blades stabbing into flesh, again and again, and the thudding of bodies falling to the ground, blood spreading beneath them. Forty seconds after it started, Ortiz and his seven Gulf cartel brethren lay dead or dying, and another fifteen bodyguards were wounded, as well as twelve of the attackers.

Once the massacre was over, two uniformed guards appeared near the security offices and signaled to the waiting Los Zetas prisoners. They moved as a unit into the interior, the double security doors wedged open thoughtfully for maximum traffic flow. Inside, three more guards unlocked the multiple barred doors designed to keep prisoners contained, and within minutes the stream of killers made its way out to the street, where the men quickly dispersed to the surrounding side streets and climbed into pickup trucks and vans that sat with engines running. None of the guards in the turrets noticed anything, preferring to occupy their time on more healthy pursuits than getting in the middle of a cartel-organized prison break. The vehicles sped off in a cloud of exhaust and dust, and in moments the area was empty.

Ten minutes later, the alarm was sounded, and within an hour the streets around the prison were filled with soldiers, police and media. One hundred and sixty prisoners, each a hardened murderer in the enforcement wing of the Los Zetas syndicate, had escaped. Nobody could explain why the federal troops who had been stationed outside the prison to prevent exactly this kind of breakout had been called away, nor by whom, but they had been. A regrettable incident that would be investigated at some future point. Like so many that seemed to occur when money and power were in play.

Likewise, nobody could explain how the dozens of guards on duty in the towers had missed a mass exodus of prisoners after a pitched battle and mass slaughter near the commissary. Nobody recalled having seen anything. It was one of the many commonplace miracles at the prison – three other mass escapes had taken place over the last two years, each a complete surprise to the warden and his staff. The running joke was that the Zetas used the prison as an inexpensive hotel where the guards and army were there to ensure nobody could get in to harm them. Stories abounded of inmates who disappeared for a day, then reappeared like magic, one of their rivals in town mysteriously gone missing. It was hard not to see the punch line, even if the humor was of a black variety.

The five guards who had disappeared were never heard from again. The rumor was that each man had seen five hundred thousand dollars for his role in the debacle – more than enough to live a full and untroubled life of leisure in one of the many small fishing hamlets along the coast.

Newspaper and television coverage expressed outrage at the escape, and the president ordered more troops to the region, effectively closing the barn door after the mare had bolted. The prior administration had warned the prison system to tighten its security numerous times, and yet Tamaulipas saw more prison breaks per year than many restaurants saw customers. It was further evidence that the state was a rogue one, much like the fifty percent of Colombia that was under rebel or paramilitary control – where the government dared not go and had no effective jurisdiction.

On the U.S. side of the border, local law enforcement warned the federal government that the cartel-driven violence and lawlessness was spilling over into the U.S., but the Feds took the stance that all was well. Speeches were made about how the borders were safe, in spite of the easily observable fact that countless tons of marijuana, cocaine, meth and heroin made it through every week, along with a steady stream of undocumented immigrants, many of them fleeing from the violence in their border states in Mexico, and some of them cartel soldiers bringing the criminality north.

The American government reassured its population that no emergency existed, even as police and state government demanded National Guard troops to bolster what was obvious to them as a porous border.

As far as the Feds were concerned, there was no problem.

~

Cruz’s meeting with the president’s chief of staff had gone better than he’d expected. The man had seemed very interested in the recommendations he’d made for safeguarding the president’s safety. The head of the security detail had been there with them, and then, towards the end, to Cruz’s considerable surprise, after a hushed discussion on a cell phone, the president had stepped into the conference room to hear a synopsis.

Cruz had recited the entire story, including his experiences on the last assassination attempt, his impressions on this one, and the myriad times
El Rey
had outfoxed them. All three men had listened intently, but the real fireworks had started when he’d finished with his presentation and the president had asked him for his recommendation. The head of security’s mouth had literally dropped open when he’d told them what he thought was the prudent course of action, even as the chief of staff had nodded. The president’s normally impassive expression had broken, just for a moment, and the trace of a smile had played at the corners of his mouth.

Now that it was over, he wondered whether it had all been an episode of temporary insanity. He’d met the last president briefly after the G-20 Summit and had shaken hands with him as he’d thanked Cruz for his efforts, but that was different than sitting in a room across from the seat of power itself and arguing for an unthinkable course of action.