Ballistic (20 page)

There was no doubt in Court Gentry's mind that right this moment, several men and women in Langley, Virginia, coffee cups in hand, would be watching this same feed on a large monitor in a darkened room. Right about now one of them would adjust his or her glasses, lean forward a tad, and say to those around, “Holy shit? Is that Violator?”

Court knew this was happening just like he was there in the room with them. His CIA code name would be broadcast throughout the upper echelons of the agency, and everyone who had ever worked with him would get an enhanced image of that jackass with the swinging Colt Shorty zip-lining between phone poles so they could positively identify their former employee and current wearer of a shoot-on-sight sanction.

Then the SAD would come. The Special Activities Division of the CIA wanted him dead, and now that they knew where to find him, executive jets from Virginia would be landing in PV within hours, not days.

Court said it aloud; it was the only English that had been spoken in the Gamboa house that day. “I've got to get the fuck out of here.”

He stood again to leave; it was all he could do not to break into a sprint right there in the living room.

But the TV screen changed again, away from the Parque Hidalgo. It was an interview with Daniel de la Rocha. Court assumed it was an old interview. The handsome man with the trim haircut and laserrazored goatee wore his ubiquitous black suit and black tie; he sat in a simple Catholic church at a simple wooden pew; the reporter next to him held a microphone and spoke softly, reverentially. She was pretty, and she did her best to look serious and professional, but her body language broadcast to an expert eye like Gentry's an intense attraction for her subject.

“Tell us what happened today, Señor de la Rocha.”

“I came to the park to speak out against the corruption of the attorney general's office. Their unfair persecution of me. The memorial for the assassins who were killed acting on its behalf was an outrageous—”

Ernesto sat on the couch just to the right of where Court stood. His Spanish was native, obviously, so he understood what was going on before the American. He shouted aloud, startling Court. “
¡Chingado!
The monster is still alive!”

No,
thought Court,
no way that asshole took two to the chest and is giving an interview three hours later
. This was a live broadcast, and the smug bastard did not seem to have so much as a scratch on him. Court had seen him plainly during the shooting, both in person and just now on the television replay. He knew the man had not been wearing body armor, not even a Kevlar vest.

“After I was shot, I thought it was over for me, I thought of my wife and my little ones, but as my associates drove me towards the hospital, I said, ‘Hey, guys, wait a second. I don't even think the bullets went into my body.' It was some kind of a miracle, thanks be to God.” He crossed himself in the Catholic fashion and then wiped tears from his eyes. The reporter handed him a Kleenex. He took it with a nod. To Court it all appeared to be an act, as if he were hitting predetermined notes of faith, sadness, vulnerability, charm. DLR smiled at the reporter. “
Gracias.
I'm sorry. It has been an emotional day for me.”

Gentry looked around to find Luz and Elena and Laura in the room with him now. Diego came in from the hallway, and even Ignacio came in from outside after hearing his father's shout. Court saw the red anger in their faces; he wished there was something he could do for them; they were in more trouble now than he'd thought.

But shit . . . he
had
to go.

By the end of de la Rocha's interview he had the reporter eating out of his hand. She asked with a concerned look on her face, “What else would you like to tell the viewers, Señor de la Rocha?”

“Government agents working for the Madrigal Cartel have tried to kill me two times in the past two weeks because I have information linking them together. I lament the incredible loss of life today at the Parque Hidalgo, but it is only the beginning if the
policía
are allowed to kill anyone they want on behalf of the
narcoterrorista
Constantino Madrigal. It is obvious to me, and I am sure to the federal authorities in Mexico City, that Señor Madrigal ordered the massacre in Puerto Vallarta this morning in order to punish the GOPES for failing to kill me two weeks ago. This tragedy will continue as long as Constantino Madrigal remains a free man.”

While he spoke, all of the Gamboas sat in rapt attention except for Luz. The sixty-five-year-old woman disappeared down the hall towards the kitchen; she came back seconds later carrying a tray with plates of fried empanadas, beans, plantains, and salad. Leftovers from the night before. Court groaned inwardly as she tried to hand him his lunch.

Laura turned to Court. “What do we do now?”

Gentry looked behind him, back over his shoulder, to see who the hell she was talking to. There was no one else.
“¿Cómo?” Huh?

“What now? What is our plan?”

“What are you asking me for?”

Laura looked confused. “I thought . . . I thought you would tell us what we should do.”

“I don't have any idea what you guys need to do now. I'm not even supposed to be in Mexico. I've got to get out of here myself.”

“Go? You are going to leave us here?”

“You
live
here.”

“You think we should stay?”

Of course they shouldn't, Court knew. But he had neither friends nor connections in Mexico. In truth he had no real friends anywhere.

“You don't want to go with me; I guarantee you that. Find someplace safe. Contact some friends who can help you.”

Elena stepped past her sister. The pregnant woman said, “We do not know who we can trust.”

“I don't know, either. I'm not from around here.”

“We trusted the GOPES until Eddie was killed. We trusted Capitán Chuck. And we trust you.”

Shit.

Court said, “Surely Eddie had some friends here, in the government, the army, who can protect you.”

Elena's voice rose, a growing panic in her heart as she realized the man who had saved their lives was about to hit the road. “His unit was wiped out. It seems likely his bosses were involved in the corruption. Who can we turn to now?”

“What about in the U.S.?”

Elena shook her head. “Eddie worked undercover for thirteen years. Almost all of it overseas. You don't make friends working undercover. He had friends in the Navy, but I don't know them. I can not just show up, pregnant and running from killers, and ask people I do not know for help.”

Court felt completely on the spot. The entire family stared at him, and he took an unconscious step backwards, bumped into the cement block wall. Softly, he shrugged. “I . . . don't know. I think you guys should get away from here. But where you go . . . what you do . . . who you trust? I have no idea. I can't help you. I wish I could.”

No one spoke for a long time. Gentry looked longingly across the room at the front door. It seemed miles away.

Young Diego shook his head in disgust, turned, and disappeared up the hallway. He did not understand all of the English, but he'd picked up the fact that Joe had decided to leave.

Laura said, “You
can
help us. You
did
help us. You took charge. The shooting and everything in Puerto Vallarta. You—”

Court wanted them to understand. “The shooting and everything . . . that's pretty much my specialty. I don't know how to do much of anything else. My plan ran out when the bad guys disappeared. You all need to just leave town. Get away from the Black Suits. I won't be any help to you with that.”

Elena began begging him to stay.

“Leave him alone,” shouted Laura, interrupting her sister-in-law. “He is done with us! That's fine.” She looked at him. “Thank you for everything. We'll be just fine.” Court's interpersonal communication skills were not refined enough to discern whether or not she was being sarcastic, but he had his suspicions.

Court nodded. Shook everyone's hand, wished them luck, and left through the front door.

Gentry walked through the
mercado
that ran along the road north of the town square in front of the church of San Blas. He felt miserable for the Gamboas, but he had no doubt that if he didn't get the hell out of here right now, he would be found and killed by the CIA or Gregor Sidorenko's henchmen or, in what was a pretty lousy
best
-case scenario, thrown into a Mexican jail for not having papers or for murdering federal police.

He justified his leaving the imperiled family behind by telling himself that his presence around them did them more harm than good. Ernesto had a good relationship with the local cops that would deteriorate if they realized he was harboring a man on the run from both the American government and the Mexican police.

And if Russian assassins dropped into San Blas? Well, that would
really
annoy the local constabulary.

They'd be okay. Laura and Elena and Diego and Luz and Ernesto. The locals would gather around them, just as they had last night, and protect them. De la Rocha had made his point with the shooting in Vallarta; the Gamboas would be in the spotlight now, so they would be safe.

As Court had explained to Elena and Laura, he
was
helpful in a shoot-out. But, he told himself, his presence was pretty much a hindrance in most other situations. He'd been on
television
for God sakes.

And the motherfucking Gray Man did
not
go on motherfucking television!

He passed the church and neared the bus station, his arms swinging freely as he moved. His canvas bag was back in Chuck Cullen's car, so he had no belongings other than a wallet and the hidden revolver with three live rounds. He passed a barbershop and a beauty supply store, kept walking for a moment, and then slowed.

A large yellow sign on the wall of a bodega caught his eye. It looked like the other advertisements around, for a school or car insurance or a soft drink.

But it wasn't.

It was very different.

“Join the ranks of the Cowboys of the Madrigal Cartel,” it said. “We offer benefits, life insurance, a house for your family and children. Stop living in the slums and riding the bus. A new car or truck, your choice. Members of the police, the army, or the marines will receive a special bonus for joining us.”

A phone number was written below next to photos of a smiling, happy family.

Court stopped in his tracks. Read it again, checked his comprehension. Yes, he'd understood it perfectly.

What the hell? The drug cartel is openly hiring?

This place is fucking insane.

“
Narcobanderas
, they are called. Help-wanted advertisements for the cartels.
¿Increíble, no?
” An old man sitting on a bench in front of the convenience store had noticed Court reading the ad. Presumably, he noticed Court's jaw hanging open; otherwise, he might have assumed the bearded man was interested in a job for himself.

Court looked at the man. “Madrigal can post these ads, and the police don't take them down?”

The elderly man shrugged. “Sometimes they do.”

Thank God. Not everyone was corrupt. “That's good to know.”

“
Sí
, the police who support DLR sometimes take down the Madrigal ads. Or else they will write on them, put a note at the bottom to say the Black Suits offer a better life insurance plan than the Cowboys.”

Court shook his head in disbelief.

The
narcos
were everywhere, even here. Like a malignant cancer, the cartels' insidious reach had taken hold in all aspects of life on Mexico's Pacific coast.

He could not kid himself. Laura and Elena and the rest did not stand a chance.

But just what could
he
do about it?

Court looked up the street towards the bus station, took a couple of steps in that direction, and stopped again.

Indecision. Complete and utter indecision.

After a protracted family argument right there in the living room, Laura Gamboa Corrales took temporary control of the surviving members of her family, plus Elena Gamboa Gonzalez, her late brother's wife. Laura had announced her decision that they should leave San Blas that afternoon, that they should go to a family friend an hour or so inland in Tepic. This man was a prominent attorney, and he would help them, she was certain.

Elena had tired of arguing, had acquiesced to her sister-in-law's wishes, and then had lain down on the sofa to rest her tired back and her swollen feet. At first Ernesto and Luz fought the decision to run; San Blas was their home, after all, but when Laura promised them that if
they
did not go,
she
would not go, they reluctantly agreed.