Ballistic (61 page)

A loud explosion just outside the house sent small snowflakes of stucco from the ceiling. All heads turned towards the noise.

Except one. Court remained focused on his targets, even while his mind raced.

Dammit.

Court didn't like his chances, but he saw no other option.

He had one trick up his sleeve, though, and he'd have to play it for all it was worth.

The gun in his hand looked exactly like a Glock 17, a common semiautomatic pistol. Surely DLR, Spider, and all the gunmen on the balcony had already identified it as such. But it was a Glock 18. The two weapons appear virtually identical, but the 18 is a rare handgun capable of fully automatic fire. Its ported barrel is able to spew 9 mm bullets at a rate of twelve hundred rounds per minute.

Court thought it over in an instant, working on a plan of attack.

Spider and his machete over Laura's neck would have to go first; there were no two ways around that. The men high on Court's left also wore Kevlar suits, just like their boss, and Court's 9 mm rounds would not penetrate Kevlar, so he'd either have to sweep across all five with perfectly executed head shots or, at least, knock them back a bit with a round or two into their soft armor and then finish them off after reloading.

DLR wasn't pointing a weapon at him, as were the
sicarios
on his left, but his two .45s would be in the fight in under two seconds. Court would have to execute an emergency reload of the Glock with perfect speed and precision, all the while avoiding the fire of any of the men with the M4s who'd survived his initial barrage.

Eighteen rounds of ammunition fired in full automatic mode at a rate of twelve hundred rounds per minute. His gun would be empty in a half second.

Oh yeah, there was one more factor Gentry knew he'd need to bring to bear. As soon as he started shooting, reflex alone would send rounds from the enemy rifles right where he was standing. In order to have any chance at survival, he'd have to execute all this precision while diving out of the way, moving his body as quickly as possible from where the five weapons were aiming.

Court felt confident there was no one on this earth with a better chance at executing this. Still, he put his chances at survival at less than 25 percent.

In the gun world, this was referred to as “spray and pray.”

Gentry was about to do both.

“Where is Elena Gamboa?” DLR shouted this time. Another explosion, just outside the mansion. Apparently, los Vaqueros had brought along a few RPGs.

DLR said, “Spider, if he doesn't answer in five seconds, kill the
puta
!”

Court took a deep breath, blew it out, looked at Laura, and then back at DLR.

He lowered the pistol from Daniel de la Rocha's tattooed chest. DLR immediately began reaching for the silver .45s on his belt.

Time to act. Once the .45s were trained on him, the equation would be unsolvable.

In the dim light of the
sala
Court lifted his pistol in a blur, shifted his aim to the right, remained in place on his feet, and pressed the trigger on the Glock 18. As the pistol lined up on the nose of Spider Cepeda, it popped, and a single round left the barrel behind smoke and fire. With no hesitation or delay to check the results of his shot, Court spun his entire torso hard to the left, his knees went slack, and he dropped straight down towards the tile in front of the sofa. For two thousands of one second his weapon was trained on the bare chest of Daniel de la Rocha, but he did not fire. DLR was at the bottom of his threat matrix, his pistols were not even drawn, so the Glock's muzzle remained silent and the sweep continued to the left.

He heard a rifle crack in the room a fraction of a second before his own weapon went to work; he pressed the trigger as his butt hit the hard floor; his Glock went cyclic as the muzzle began sweeping across the five
sicarios
on the balcony above.

Beyond the gray smoke pouring from the ports in the front of his machine pistol's barrel, he saw black-suited men spin, lurch back, and stumble forward as his supersonic 9 mm rounds sprayed into their bodies from right to left.

Too quickly the weapon locked open, Court had already begun rolling left on the floor to get farther away from return gunfire. As he rolled with his shoulders, passing behind the sofa, he reloaded with his hands, dropped the empty magazine with a thumb press to the release button on the side of the Glock, and pulled a long thirty-two round magazine from the hip of his cotton cargo pants with his left hand. After two full rotations of his body he rolled up to his feet but kept his body in a tight crouch. He ran backwards as he jammed the long black mag in place and dropped the slide forward, chambering a round, all the while trying to survey his handiwork.

He heard another gunshot, which meant not everyone was down. He raised his weapon, while still tracking backwards, and saw Spider on the ground next to Laura, who had fallen to her side next to la Santa Muerte's throne. Scanning to the left he caught a glimpse of de la Rocha's tattooed back as he fled behind the curtains behind the throne where the life-sized skeleton bride sat. A rifle report from the balcony cracked a fraction of a second before Court fired a single round at the curtains. Court then whirled his aim back up towards the five
sicarios
. He held his trigger down and dropped again to his knees, fired the entire thirty-two-round magazine into the Black Suits position above him as he fell forward, prone onto the floor now, desperately trying to keep his body moving out of the weapon sights of his enemies.

The pistol locked open and empty a second time, and Court vaulted back up to his feet while reloading with his last large mag. Again he moved through the candlelit room, this time laterally in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He headed towards Laura, his weapon back on target on the balcony. A single man hung over the railing; his rifle's sling was caught in his suit coat, and it caused his coat's tail to hang over his head. Court saw no one else, living or dead, but he fired a pair of short bursts up there anyway to keep any surviving heads down.

As he quickly sidestepped his way across the room, he felt a rush of cool wind behind him, he saw the breeze move across the room as the candles and drapes fluttered. The
sicarios'
rifle fire had blasted the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Bandaras Bay. A hearty sea breeze blew into the room, candle sconces teetered and silk draperies whipped around, and in seconds three separate fires had ignited around the
sala
.

He looked down at Laura, his weapon still held high at the mezzanine. The small Mexican woman was still on her side, but she had managed to pick up Spider's machete with her fingertips and was trying to cut through her bound wrists without being able to see what she was doing. Court was impressed with her initiative.

“I've got it,” he said, and finished the job.

The tan-colored wood was wet with blood around them.

Court hoped it was Spider's blood and not hers.

Or his.

Court didn't check for a wound; he had no time. He helped Laura to her bare feet. She hugged him tightly, and his focus slipped away from scanning for threats in the room, the gunfire outside, the burning and whipping draperies. Instead he hugged her back, tightly, looked down into her eyes. They were wide and bloodshot but alive, and he embraced her with his free hand.

She broke away from him after a moment, took off her gag, knelt down, and went through Spider's suit coat. She pulled a micro Uzi free from a holster and stood back up.

Court said, “Follow me close. I have scuba gear hidden at—”

“We have to kill de la Rocha.”

“No! We don't! I'm here for you! I've got you! Let's go!”

Her eyes were wide with emotion, but Court couldn't tell what was going through her head now. The fires had spread to the sofa and chairs, the sea breeze's fuel turning small flames into swirling vortexes of smoking and burning debris. “I'm
not
leaving him alive.” She turned away from him and disappeared behind the curtain.

“Fuck,” Court shouted, but he followed her.

Court caught up with Laura at the top of a staircase. It was dark here and quiet save for a raging battle going on around the villa's grounds. Police sirens wailed along with civilian car sirens, and the nonstop
pop, pop, pop
of rifles punctuated the madness below them. Smoke from the
sala
followed along at the ankles of Gentry and Laura as they headed up a dark hallway. Laura whispered that she'd been kept in the wine cellar since her arrival and admitted she had no idea where they were going.

Fully automatic fire came from inside the house now; it sounded like Madrigal's men had pushed DLR's men into the main
sala
. Laura found another stairwell, and Court noticed a blood trail; he wondered if he'd hit Daniel in the back with his blind shot through the curtains. They moved slowly and carefully at first, but when they heard a helicopter's rotors spooling up above them, they ran upwards through the dark.

As they opened the door to the roof, both Court and Laura raised their weapons and opened fire. A man in a pilot's uniform stood outside the black helicopter with a gun in his hand. Laura missed with her weapon, but Gentry brought the man down with four single shots from his Glock. As his body crumpled to the ground, the Eurocopter's propellers sped up and the craft rose a few inches into the air, spinning on its axis, turning its nose out to the bay.

“It's de la Rocha!” Laura screamed, running for the helicopter.

“He's gone!” Court answered back over the wail of the propellers.

But Laura ignored him and sprinted across the roof, towards the lifting chopper.

Court cussed loudly and then raced after her again.

Daniel de la Rocha had been shot in the upper left shoulder by that
pinche
Gray Man gringo, but he'd be okay, if only he could get away. He was a well-trained helo pilot with over one hundred hours in this model of Eurocopter, and all he needed now was to put some distance between himself and the attack by los Vaqueros. He knew the Gray Man and the girl were chasing after him up the stairs, so he'd kicked the pilot out of his chopper, handed him one of his .45s, and gave him orders to shoot anyone on the roof until DLR could get the fuck out of here.

As he rolled the sleek chopper to the left and began gaining lift, the back door opened up behind him. It was too loud to be heard without screaming at the top of his lungs, but as he lifted off, he did just that. “I told you to wait on the roof for—”

He felt the hot barrel of a submachine gun press into the back of his head. “Land!” It was the girl, screaming into his right ear.

He couldn't believe it.

He looked back over his shoulder, saw the girl, and then, behind her, the Gray Man himself climbed up through the open door. DLR increased the throttle and pushed the cyclic stick forward, almost throwing the American back out the door. Finally, the American fell in for good, rolling all the way across the floor and grabbing onto a cargo tie against the wall. Laura had a good hold on DLR's seat, and though the gun wavered from his head for a moment, she jammed it back seconds later. “Land! Land, or I shoot!”

“You gonna shoot the pilot, you dumb bitch?” he asked, screaming and laughing at the same time. He had no idea if the Gray Man could fly a helicopter; it was a fair bet he could, so de la Rocha increased speed and jacked the chopper violently to the left and right, desperate to keep the aircraft on the verge of falling out of the sky. This way, even if the gringo assassin
could
pilot the bird, he wouldn't be able to take the controls in time to avoid a crash.

He planned on heading into downtown Puerto Vallarta. He owned the cops there, and they would protect him from these two
pendejos locos
.

The chopper shot to the north, zigzagging and shooting just feet above the ocean waves. Though concentrating most of his faculties on flying, DLR did take his left hand off the collective for a moment to pull the .45 pistol on his left hip. He kept it hidden from view of Gamboa and the Gray Man, and placed it under his left thigh where he could access it in an instant.