Introduction
Three years ago, Pacific coast, Mexico
Armed men lined the perimeter of the large contemporary home on the secluded stretch of seashore just north of Punta Mita, twenty-three miles north of Puerto Vallarta. The stunning single-level example of modern Mexican architecture sat overlooking a cove, where the heavy surf from the Pacific Ocean flattened out over the shallow offshore reef a hundred yards from the beach. Nine-foot-high concrete walls ringed the compound, protecting the occupants from prying eyes and would-be intruders. Not that any were in evidence. The property and the coastline for a quarter mile in each direction belonged to the house’s secretive owner – Julio Guzman Salazar, the Jalisco cartel’s chief and the eighth richest man in Mexico, although his name didn’t appear on any roster other than the government’s most wanted list.
The building’s Ricardo Legorreta design boasted thirty-eight thousand feet of interior space, with nine bedrooms in the main house, separate servants’ quarters adjacent to the twelve car air-conditioned garage, a full sized movie theater with a floating floor, its own solar and wind power generation system, and a full time domestic staff of eleven. An Olympic-sized swimming pool with an infinity edge finished in indigo mirrored glass tile created the illusion of water spilling into the deep blue ocean.
The white cantera stone pool-area deck took on a pale cosmic glow as the last sliver of sun sank into the watery horizon, making way for the dark of a late-November night. The armed men encircling the house were hardened and efficient, exuding a palpable air of menace as they roamed the grounds, alert for threats. The security detail, which traveled with Salazar everywhere he went, consisted of eighteen seasoned mercenaries who were proficient with the assault rifles they held with nonchalant ease.
Motion detectors provided an early warning system outside of the walls, where infrared beams crisscrossed the expanse between the beach and the house, ensuring that nothing could penetrate the elaborate defenses undetected. Salazar could afford the best security money could buy, and his private army comprised not only Mexicans and Nicaraguans and Colombians, but also two South Africans and a Croatian. All had seen more than their share of combat, either of the civilian variety in the ongoing drug skirmishes between rival cartels, or in full-scale armed conflict in the Balkans or Africa.
At seven p.m. precisely, the bright halogen headlights of expensive vehicles began making their way down the long road from the coastal highway that connected Puerto Vallarta with Mazatlan, and through the enormous gates of the opulent home. Each car was allowed inside to drop off its passengers after undergoing scrutiny from the guards charged with Salazar’s protection, who inspected the SUVs inside and out. During the next hour, seven Humvees and Escalades discharged their loads before pulling back out of the compound and parking in a brightly lit area designated for the purpose. Two armed gunmen patrolled the flat expanse, weapons cocked and loaded.
In the constant drug battles that were the norm on mainland Mexico, every minute held the possibility of instant death for those in the trade, and so the men on the security team were in a constant state of readiness for attack. Their vigilance had paid off many times over the past decade, when rival factions had attempted to challenge Salazar’s stranglehold on the Jalisco trafficking corridor. He’d emerged victorious from that series of ever-escalating brutal engagements, the last of which had culminated in nineteen corpses beheaded or shot execution-style in Culiacan over a three month period.
The Sinaloa cartel was one of the most powerful in the world, and for some time had nurtured aspirations of expanding its lethal tentacles into Jalisco, the neighboring state to the south – Salazar’s home turf. The Sinaloa cartel controlled much of the marijuana produced in Mexico and had grown to be the largest cocaine and heroin trafficking entity in the world, handling over seventy percent of all Colombian product that made it into the U.S. Salazar’s operation was considerably smaller, but the brutality of his tactics made him a difficult adversary to encroach upon; after ten years of unsuccessful attempts to execute him, an uneasy truce now held sway.
The lush, planted areas of the compound were lavishly appointed. The beachside pool deck’s verdant landscaping was circled with the flicker of tiki torches – placed there for the big event that was just getting underway. An eighteen-piece mariachi band in full regalia had assembled by the massive palapa over the hotel-sized outdoor pool bar. The musicians aired their traditional music for the guests, who were almost exclusively children and their mothers. It was Salazar’s oldest son’s seventh birthday; the party was an important event. Attendees had come from as far as Mexico City to honor Julio junior’s big day. There was a giddy sense of privilege and wealth in the festivities – the boy had been presented with a pony, along with every imaginable video game and technological miracle a young man could wish for.
Clowns and acrobats japed and tumbled around the sidelines, performing astounding feats of dexterity and contortionism amid long bursts of yellow flame from a troupe of fire-breathers. Peals of adolescent laughter punctuated the melody of strumming guitars and blaring horns and violins, while the women circled the children’s area clutching piña coladas and daiquiris in their lavishly bejeweled hands. All the guests knew one another – Salazar’s social circle was small and exclusive.
Off to the side, Salazar and a handful of his closest male friends and associates stood beside a fifteen-foot-diameter fire pit, smoking Cuban cigars and drinking five-hundred dollar tequila from brandy snifters as they discussed business in hushed tones, occasionally glancing a watchful eye over their wives and offspring. Salazar was easily distinguished from the group due to his height and distinctive facial hair – he was barely five four, and sported a Lincolnic beard in the fashion that his father had affected until he’d died in a car crash when Salazar was nine years old.
Two female dancers in traditional folk garb approached the specially erected stage with a male dancer in the classic Mexican vaquero outfit, who executed a series of exhibition tricks with a lasso, dancing with the whirling rope to the delight of the assembled children. When he was finished, the trio remained on the stage. A spotlight flicked on. From a newly pitched tent adjacent to the pool, a man in a black suit emerged, flamboyantly brandishing a large sombrero. He bowed to the arc of enraptured kids before finally placing it onto the head of the birthday boy.
The crowd laughed and clapped in mutual surprise – this was one of Mexico’s most beloved singers, popular for two decades before Salazar’s son had been born. He swiveled and moved onto the performance area with a practiced ease and began singing one of his most famous ballads, a perennial favorite with young and old alike. The adults sang along and clapped, as did the children, who were captivated by the theatrical production numbers and the pomp of the event.
A small prop plane meandered along the coastline at an altitude of nine thousand feet, its lights extinguished, its radar off and its radio silent. The pilot held up a hand with two fingers extended, and then watching his digital timer, made a curt gesture, signaling to the man in the rear that it was time. The passenger, dressed head to toe in black and with a balaclava covering his face, nodded and gripped the lever of the sliding door on the fuselage’s side, twisting it and forcing it open. He was instantly buffeted by a blast of warm air which tore at his clothes and burned his eyes, until he pulled a pair of night vision goggles into place and hurled himself into the dark, rushing void. The wind clawed at him as he tumbled through the night sky, the plane’s droning engine inaudible over the howl of the wind. After counting to twenty, he pulled the handle of his specially configured parachute harness and whumped to a near halt, the straps straining at the arrest of his descent.
A black rectangular glider-parachute billowed above him as he manipulated it with two handles, until he quickly got his fall under control and directed himself at the glowing patch of coastline where the party would now be in full swing. He glanced at the luminous hands of his oversized military-blackened Panerai watch and smi
led under the woolen mask. So far everything was going according to plan.
A few minutes later he could make out the flat roof of the main house, where three armed sentries watched the proceedings by the pool and scanned the beach for threats. He was now barely fifteen hundred feet above the compound. Even at that altitude, he could hear the music and singing, and make out the shrieks of glee from the children as they chased each other around the party tables to the bouncing melody of the band. As he’d hoped, the volume of the musicians drowned out any hint of flapping from his chute. The rooftop security men were engrossed with the show, so were unlikely to look up.
He connected the right control cable handle to a clasp on the harness, which made steering more difficult but was essential to momentarily freeing his hand. From a strap on his chest, he grappled with the grip of an MTAR-21 compact assault rifle: a small, evil-looking weapon with a silencer and flash suppressor. The gun was affixed to the harness with a three-foot nylon rope to prevent an inadvertent loss during the nocturnal descent. He groped until he felt the familiar pistol grip and trigger guard, and flipped the safety off. He was now two hundred feet above the roof at the far end of the house – the three sentries were still on the beach side of the roof, watching the entertainment and scanning the surf line.
When he was twenty yards above the men, his weapon belched three short bursts, catching all three guards unawares and ending their lives before they could register any surprise. His feet alighted on the waterproofed concrete surface next to them, and he immediately reeled in the chute, securing it in place with one of the guard’s guns after shrugging out of the harness.
Eighty feet away, on the far end of the roof, a gathering of gulls stood with a black bird – a raven or crow – in their midst, silently observing the new arrival from the sky. A sound from below startled them, and the gulls scattered into the evening sky. The black bird remained, as if undecided, and then with a squawk also flung itself into the night.
The assassin stole his way, catlike, to the corner of the house nearest the beach and carefully unpacked the contents of his backpack, extracting two spare 32-round magazines for the gun, a black nylon rope with a grappling-hook, three grenades and four smoke grenades, a fiber optic scope on the end of a black aluminum telescoping rod, a heavily modified sniper rifle with a collapsible stock, a silencer and ten-round magazine for it, and a waterproof camera. He slipped one of the magazines into a pocket on the side of his pants, along with the camera, and turned his attention to the sniper weapon.
Inspecting the rifle and confirming it was intact, he drew several deep breaths, preparing himself for what was to come. He carefully threaded the silencer onto the barrel and unfolded the carbon-fiber stock, then inserted the magazine and silently eased back the precision-machined bolt, chambering a round. Ready now, he flipped the night vision headgear up and out of his line of sight and peered through the telescoping fiber optic lens at the festivities below. He quickly located the group of male guests and confirmed Salazar was among them. Satisfied that his quarry was in his kill zone, he surveyed the rest of the deck and spotted three security guards unobtrusively standing in the shadows at the base of the portable lighting towers that illuminated the party. Returning his attention to Salazar, he calculated the distance and the strength of the light breeze – not that it would make much difference on a shot that was no more than sixty yards; it was force of habit.
One of the fallen sentries’ radios crackled as a coarse voice intruded, demanding a status report. He reached over and turned the volume down, then returned his focus to the celebration, this time peering over the edge of the roof through the scope of the rifle.
Salazar was gesturing at the famous singer like an orchestra conductor, singing along with him, obviously well on the road to inebriation, when the top of his head blew apart, speckling his entourage with bloody shards of bone and brains. He crumpled soundlessly, his limbs slack, dead before his brutalized head slammed against the ground. A second ticked by as the shocked group registered what had happened, even as the band continued playing, unaware that the party had just come to an abrupt end.
The farthest security guard lurched backwards, dropping his gun as he died, and then the screaming from the crowd began. The other two sentries swiveled around with weapons in hand, searching for assailants. A slug tore the second guard’s throat out as it sheared through his spine, and the third guard’s chest erupted blood even as he wheeled around to his fallen associate. Pandemonium reigned as the women ran crying towards the house with their terrified children in tow. The band fell silent and hurriedly made for cover behind the concrete pool bar, instruments clattering against the deck stone as they took flight.
A large exhibition light on the periphery exploded in a shower of sparks, then the other three quickly followed suit, and finally the spotlight shattered, leaving only the torch flames and a few indirect wall sconces on the house. Salazar’s friends had rushed to their families and were herding them to safety inside, leaving the expansive pool deck empty save for the band and the trembling entertainers.
On the roof, the uninvited guest tossed the rifle onto a dead guard’s chest and methodically lobbed the grenades over the front of the house, not looking to see where they landed, their detonations ample evidence they’d found a mark where the rest of the guards had been stationed. He raced back to the beach side of the roof, pulled the pins on the smoke grenades and threw them onto the right side of the pool deck, allowing the breeze to waft a dense fog over the area. Satisfied with the effect, he wedged the steel hook into the concrete roof lip and tossed the line down to the ground. He scanned the walkway that ran along the wall’s edge to confirm there were no armed assailants immediately proximate, and swung his legs over the side, sliding down the rope to a flagstone, where he landed in a crouch.
From the plants at the side of the deck, the dead guards’ radios crackled with panicked orders as he moved through the smoke to the fire pit, where Salazar’s corpse lay sprawled face down on the white cantera in a pool of blood. He hauled on a shoulder and flipped the body onto its back, then fished in his pants for the tarot card that was his signature. Carefully balancing the image of a crowned man holding a sword on the cartel kingpin’s mangled face, he took two pictures with the little camera before returning it to his pants pocket, then reached down and stuck the card in Salazar’s gaping mouth so that he could be sure it wouldn’t blow away during the ensuing action. Peering through the billowing clouds that largely obscured the house, he pulled the tab on his last smoke grenade and tossed it onto the sand, enveloping the beach with an impenetrable haze.
A hail of bullets tore a chunk of stone from the deck a few feet from him; he swiveled in a crouch and fired a few short bursts from his silenced assault rifle in the direction of the barking male voices. Another bullet ricocheted off the fire pit, signaling that it was time to make his departure. The surviving guards from the front of the house were closing in, and even he was reluctant to take on over a dozen armed men in a wide-open gunfight.
He unclipped a final grenade from his backpack chest strap and pulled the pin, flipping it roughly thirty feet towards the house, and then unclipped the MTAR-21, emptied the magazine in the direction of the approaching guards and tossed it aside, satisfied with the screams of pain from their direction. He wrenched the night vision goggles off his head and threw them as far as he could before turning to run for the beach. The grenade’s concussion delivered yet another delay for his pursuers – the shrapnel from the explosion would stop any chase long enough for him to get a thirty second lead, which was all he needed. He sprinted to the water line across the luminescent sand and without hesitation dived into the mild surf, swimming energetically as he strained towards the mouth of the cove.
A beam of light played across the water from the beach, and he sensed bullets shredding through the waves around him as he plowed further from shore. Counting to himself, he swam submerged for twenty seconds at a time, coming up for
gulps of air before plunging into the safety of the deep.
Once he was past the partially-submerged spit of land at the mouth of the cove he angled to the right, and within a few moments reached a slimy outcropping of rocks a hundred yards from the angry killers on the shore. He fumbled around in the dark until he found the smooth fiberglass side of the black jet ski he’d secured there the night before and hurriedly tore the camouflage fabric from its sleek hull and freed it from the barnacle-covered stones. The tide had risen to the point where the small watercraft slid easily onto the waves, and within seconds the engine fired and he tore off into the sea, jumping easily over the surf that roiled atop the reef line.
A few bursts of distant rifle fire chattered across the water but he was already out of range – the shooting was little more than a lament from the thwarted security. Savoring the adrenaline rush as he flew over the small swells at fifty miles per hour, he reached beneath his chin and pulled the soaking balaclava over his face, jettisoning it into the Pacific as he plotted a course south, where a vehicle waited on a lonely stretch of beach for his nocturnal arrival.
Tonight would be the stuff of legends, he knew. In a business where money flowed like water, he’d just pulled off the impossible in a spectacular and flamboyant manner. After this, he’d be able to command whatever fee he wanted, and there would be an international waiting list of eager clients. He’d left the card in Salazar’s maw to seal the deal and continue to build his reputation. It had started years ago, as an idea he’d gotten from an article he’d read about the American war in the Middle East, where the kill squads assigned playing cards to each target they were hunting. He’d liked the idea, but had taken it one step further with a unique flourish. When he’d begun his career as contract killer, he’d made a point of leaving a tarot card with a depiction of the King of Swords on it – the significance of which was known only to him – and he’d adopted a nickname that now struck fear into the hearts of those he targeted.
King of Swords. El Rey de Espadas. Or as the press had taken to calling him, El Rey.
It might have been a little melodramatic, but nobody was laughing now that his legacy of impossible kills was the stuff of front page headlines. Not since the exploits of Carlos the Jackal had an assassin gained such notoriety, and he’d carefully selected the contracts he’d taken for maximum publicity value, in addition to the money. He’d quickly developed a reputation as a phantom, an invisible man – a contract arranged with him was as good as putting a bullet in the target’s brain at the time the deal was negotiated.
El Rey was a star, a legend, and even his clients approached him with a certain trepidation when they required his services. These were generally men who butchered whole communities to make a point, but who deferred to El Rey out of respect.
He’d earned it the hard way, by taking the sanctions that were considered impossible and then delivering. In his circles, respect was won at the edge of a knife blade or the barrel of a gun. It was blood currency. And now, he could name his price. Tonight’s logistics had cost him just under a hundred thousand dollars – the contract price had been two and a half million. Not a bad evening’s work. But after this, his rate would start at four million and quickly increase from there, depending on the level of difficulty.
Off to his left, the lights of Punta Mita’s expansive coastline sparkled in the overcast night. Some of the homes along that stretch of beach cost well over five million dollars, he knew. Rich Gringos and successful narcotraficantes were the only ones who could afford them, and with a little luck, soon he would be part of the elite that called the area home. But he’d need to do a few more jobs before he could hang up his tail and horns and call it quits, and he was in no hurry to retire. El Rey loved the adrenaline rush of the kill; the more planning involved and the greater the level of challenge, the better.
He glanced down at the dimly illuminated compass he’d mounted beneath the handles and made a small adjustment to his course, musing at the direction his life had taken as he sliced through the inky water, effortlessly making his escape into the warm tropical night.