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Authors: Russell Blake
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doubt.”
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to plan this out. When did the route and the schedule get formalized, and who knew about it?” Cruz inquired.
“Too many. The staff at the court, at the prison, and everyone connected with arranging the vans and the guards, including within the Federales . Easier to ask at this point who didn’t know about it. As to the schedule, it was inked yesterday.”
“Why was he being taken to court?”
“The lead judge wanted to see him in person before making a final determination on his sentence. It’s his prerogative.”
“Are you kidding me? The man is the most infamous killer in Mexico. What would staring at him do that the record of countless assassinations doesn’t? That makes absolutely no sense,” Cruz fumed.
“Agreed, but you know judges. They’re like demi-gods, living in ivory towers while we worker ants clean up the messes. And what they say, goes.”
Cruz shook his head. The system was crazy. They’d worked for years to put this animal behind bars, only to have him handed an opportunity to escape before he was even formally sentenced.
Sometimes Cruz really hated the whole bureaucracy. He should have just shot the assassin when he’d had the chance. He could still remember the temptation upon seeing his nemesis spread-eagled on the hood of Briones’ police cruiser, his service pistol trembling in his right hand from the adrenaline of the chase as he sighted on the killer’s inert form. He could have done the world a favor then, and nobody would have questioned a later story that El Rey had appeared to have been reaching for a weapon.
Sadly, that wasn’t how the game worked. But it was still a compelling daydream.
Now, the super-assassin who had been responsible for multiple attempts on the president’s life, who had killed scores, if not hundreds, with the cold-blooded precision of a slaughterhouse, had beaten them again and was once more out in the world while Cruz and his colleagues scrambled to close the barn door.
To call it disheartening was the understatement of the decade.
Cruz made the mental commitment that if he ever had the assassin in his cross hairs again, he would pull the trigger without hesitation and rid the world once and for all of one of its most lethal predators.
Which was easy enough to commit to when he was free as a bird and probably winging his way at high speed via private jet or helicopter even as Cruz stood entertaining schoolboy flights of fancy.
Cruz watched the interrogation of the Nissan couple from a distance, but didn’t have the heart to get involved. He already knew that would yield no clues.
He and Briones carefully walked the crime scene, the relative solitude disrupted by blaring reports over the radio every few minutes from the roadblocks. Even as they studied every inch of the ground around the van, Cruz sensed that they were wasting their time. He spent a few minutes talking to the three guards, who were now fully conscious, if a little groggy, and peered at the prison chain, neatly cut with bolt cutters – further proof, as if any were needed, that the attackers had been organized and prepared.
Cruz couldn’t see what his presence there was adding to the party, so he wandered a few paces from the gathered Federales , trailed by Briones.
“Come on. I want to talk to the warden. We need to start with how the perpetrators knew about the transport in the first place. That’s the weak link. Find the leak, and we’ll be one step closer to finding who broke El Rey out.”
Chapter 7
The first thing El Rey noticed when he opened his eyes was the distinctive medicinal smell of a hospital. The low-pitched steady beeping of his pulse tracing a green graph on a small screen a few feet from his bed reinforced his impression, as did the IV bag now mounted on a bedside metal pole. He tried to move his arms and was surprised that he could. No restraints were in evidence, and his legs were
“Someone went to a lot of trouble to plan this out. When did the route and the schedule get formalized, and who knew about it?” Cruz inquired.
“Too many. The staff at the court, at the prison, and everyone connected with arranging the vans and the guards, including within the Federales . Easier to ask at this point who didn’t know about it. As to the schedule, it was inked yesterday.”
“Why was he being taken to court?”
“The lead judge wanted to see him in person before making a final determination on his sentence. It’s his prerogative.”
“Are you kidding me? The man is the most infamous killer in Mexico. What would staring at him do that the record of countless assassinations doesn’t? That makes absolutely no sense,” Cruz fumed.
“Agreed, but you know judges. They’re like demi-gods, living in ivory towers while we worker ants clean up the messes. And what they say, goes.”
Cruz shook his head. The system was crazy. They’d worked for years to put this animal behind bars, only to have him handed an opportunity to escape before he was even formally sentenced.
Sometimes Cruz really hated the whole bureaucracy. He should have just shot the assassin when he’d had the chance. He could still remember the temptation upon seeing his nemesis spread-eagled on the hood of Briones’ police cruiser, his service pistol trembling in his right hand from the adrenaline of the chase as he sighted on the killer’s inert form. He could have done the world a favor then, and nobody would have questioned a later story that El Rey had appeared to have been reaching for a weapon.
Sadly, that wasn’t how the game worked. But it was still a compelling daydream.
Now, the super-assassin who had been responsible for multiple attempts on the president’s life, who had killed scores, if not hundreds, with the cold-blooded precision of a slaughterhouse, had beaten them again and was once more out in the world while Cruz and his colleagues scrambled to close the barn door.
To call it disheartening was the understatement of the decade.
Cruz made the mental commitment that if he ever had the assassin in his cross hairs again, he would pull the trigger without hesitation and rid the world once and for all of one of its most lethal predators.
Which was easy enough to commit to when he was free as a bird and probably winging his way at high speed via private jet or helicopter even as Cruz stood entertaining schoolboy flights of fancy.
Cruz watched the interrogation of the Nissan couple from a distance, but didn’t have the heart to get involved. He already knew that would yield no clues.
He and Briones carefully walked the crime scene, the relative solitude disrupted by blaring reports over the radio every few minutes from the roadblocks. Even as they studied every inch of the ground around the van, Cruz sensed that they were wasting their time. He spent a few minutes talking to the three guards, who were now fully conscious, if a little groggy, and peered at the prison chain, neatly cut with bolt cutters – further proof, as if any were needed, that the attackers had been organized and prepared.
Cruz couldn’t see what his presence there was adding to the party, so he wandered a few paces from the gathered Federales , trailed by Briones.
“Come on. I want to talk to the warden. We need to start with how the perpetrators knew about the transport in the first place. That’s the weak link. Find the leak, and we’ll be one step closer to finding who broke El Rey out.”
Chapter 7
The first thing El Rey noticed when he opened his eyes was the distinctive medicinal smell of a hospital. The low-pitched steady beeping of his pulse tracing a green graph on a small screen a few feet from his bed reinforced his impression, as did the IV bag now mounted on a bedside metal pole. He tried to move his arms and was surprised that he could. No restraints were in evidence, and his legs were
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