by Mark Greaney
This time, Court’s burning water bottle shattered completely, sending a barb of sharp plastic into his left thumb. The gunshot was muffled, unquestionably, but much less so than the first two rounds. The weapon was now useless as a covert tool. Court tossed the bottle aside and pointed the pistol at the remaining sentry.
The last soldier in line did not reach for his gun; instead he turned to run back up the stairs. Eddie Gamble spun around, clambered over the thrashing Laotian with the spurting juggler vein, and grabbed the escaping man by the ankle. The soldier screamed out just as he fell, crashed face first, and then tumbled back down, dragging his wounded comrade and his prisoner along with him as he fell. The four bodies rolled down the steps and collided with Gentry at the base of the stairs, coming together on top of the first soldier to be shot, six men in a ball of twisted arms and legs. Blood from the gurgling throat wound of the dying guard coating everyone and everything with a thick, hot, crimson stream.
Court ended up on his back, the pistol fell away from his hand, and his weakness prevented him from engaging in the fight that was happening on top of him. Eddie and the fourth sentry kicked and punched and bit and clawed at each other while Gentry just lay there, his arms out wide. The battle rolled off of him, leaving the man with the throat wound, now dead from blood loss, lying across his feet. Gamble’s size, strength, and training eventually gave him the advantage against the soldier. Finally, after a brutal struggle of thirty seconds, Eddie got off a clean cracking punch to the guard’s face, knocking him out cold.
Eddie rolled off the Laotian gasping in exhaustion but then quickly recovered and crawled over to Gentry. Eddie’s eyes were wide in shock. Amid pants and wheezes he said, “Get up, bro! We’ve got to get out of here!”
Court wasn’t going anywhere under his own power. He just shook his head and gave orders. “Listen carefully. Grab a gun from one of these guards. Put on a poncho and walk out the front door like you own the place. Go to the motor pool to the left of the interrogation shack. You’ll need to pick a car you can hot-wire. Go!”
“Not without you, amigo,” replied Gamble, and he pulled a gun from one of the dead guards and then heaved Court up and onto his back.
“Give it up! You can’t get me out of here!”
But Gamble ignored the comment. As he fought his way slowly up the stairs, pulling himself upwards with both hands on the wooden railing, struggling with the dead weight of the weak and sick man on top of him, his knees buckled more than once. But he made it to the top of the stairs, out into the one-room shack, and found it empty. He lowered Court to the ground and then grabbed a couple of green ponchos that were hanging from pegs by the door. He dressed Gentry with one and took one for himself. Court fought his way back to his feet on his own, using the desk to help himself climb up. Both men pulled their hoods down over their faces and walked out together, Gentry leaning against his friend.
The late morning rain beat down in near horizontal sheets, obscuring the view from the guard towers and the porches of other shacks around the waterlogged compound. Court stumbled, Eddie grabbed him tighter, and they walked directly across fifty yards of pathways to the motor pool. They passed close enough to a small warehouse to see a group of four soldiers inside, looking out at them in the rain. The men did not come after them, but they did not look away, either.
At the motor pool the men found a dozen jeeps, cars, pickups, and flatbed trucks. Eddie lowered Gentry into the backseat of a small Chinese-made sedan, and then he jumped in the front and dropped down below the steering column.
Court fought to pull himself up to see out the window. He heard the sounds of the DEA man cracking the plastic steering column, cussing in Spanish as he struggled to hot-wire the vehicle with soaking wet hands, poor lighting, and the pervasive threat of imminent death.
Gentry saw them through the rain running down the rear windshield. Two soldiers approaching from the fence line, their wooden-stocked rifles hanging from their shoulders, their poncho hoods obscuring their faces like Grim Reapers. They walked directly towards Eddie and Court.
“Hey!” Court said, “Fast Eddie? You’re gonna be Dead Eddie in about fifteen seconds if you don’t get this thing moving.”
“I’ve never boosted one of these. Shouldn’t take too much longer.”
“Figure it out! We got company coming!”
“Okay! Just have to…” The engine started. Court looked up to see Eddie making the sign of the cross over himself, then kissing his fingertips and touching them to the dashboard of the little car. He put the transmission in gear, looked back to Gentry, and said, “Vamanos.”
The Chinese sedan rolled forward over gravel and rainwater. Eddie turned for the compound’s main gate, doing his best to drive slowly and naturally. Court looked out the back window again. The two soldiers had unslung their rifles. They seemed confused for only a moment. Then both men raised their weapons at the departing sedan.
“Punch it!” shouted Court.
The rear windshield snapped, glass blew into the backseat, and Eddie Gamble stepped on the gas.
They barreled ahead through the rain; the cracks of rifles from overhead told them they were below the twin guard towers just inside the compound’s entrance. Eddie screamed to his passenger to brace himself, and the little four-door smashed through the wood and wire gate, just as more rounds blew out the rest of the rear windshield. A tight corner to the left sent the car skidding on the paved road, but Gamble turned into the slide and righted the vehicle just as its two right-side tires reached the edge of the blacktop.
The sedan and the two American escapees left the prison behind.
ELEVEN
As dusk descended on Mexico’s Pacific coast, dinner was served at several picnic tables lined up in the large backyard of Eddie’s house. On the back driveway an old open-decked twenty-three-foot Boston Whaler rested on blocks. Leaning against the wall near the back gate were a couple of bicycles; fishing rods hung from hooks next to the little garage. These were Eddie’s things, and it felt weird for Gentry to sit here amongst them without his old friend. In Laos Eddie had a set of filthy baby blue pajamas, just like Court. Nothing else. Now that Court was in Eddie’s world, he saw what Eddie enjoyed doing, he saw who Eddie loved, and Gentry could not help but feel like he was encroaching on Eddie’s world.
Court counted thirty-two people at the tables, including the Gamboa family, the families of a few of the other dead GOPES officers, local friends, and several individuals he’d been introduced to who were in charge of the memorial in Puerto Vallarta. The unarmed local cops whom he’d seen earlier watching over the gathering had grown into a force of eight that wandered around the driveway, out in the street in front of the house, and even patrolled the garden around the dinner tables. He didn’t know why they were there, if they thought some sort of trouble was possible, or even what they’d do about it if trouble appeared.
Court Gentry knew of no real trouble that could be quelled with a whistle and a stick.
Three brown roosters wandered the garden as well; their patrol seemed oddly similar to the unarmed cops. A small pack of mixedbreed dogs of different sizes lounged close to the diners, begging for scraps. Court related to their primal motivations. He was, more or less, doing the same thing here.
Captain Chuck Cullen sat at the head of the row of non-uniform tables, his back to the kitchen and a big charcoal grill alongside the back of the house over his right shoulder. Long black lizards scampered up and down the white stucco wall behind his head.
Court had been placed at the opposite end, facing Cullen; the old man stared him down silently for long periods of time. On Gentry’s right were Elena and her in-laws, and he did his best to stay out of their conversation. Instead he dug into an excellent grilled marlin, more fresh salad and vegetables than he’d eaten at any one time in his life, and he drank beer so cold the bottles stung his fingertips.
Court imagined there had been many dinners just like this, right here, with Eddi
e Gamble sitting in the chair that Cullen now occupied.
Court noticed the American geezer staring intently at him again, across the length of the tables, over thirty-two big plates of food. Court did his best to ignore him. Instead Gentry found himself gazing at someone.
At Laura.
She was midway down the table on his right, sitting between her two aunts and constantly running back to the kitchen for more plates and bowls and bottles and pans filled with food and drink.
She glanced his way once, maybe twice. Surely, she’d caught him staring at her. He hoped he did not look to her like Cullen appeared to him, overtly eyeing everything he did.
This was no fiesta. The conversations were subdued and hushed; the attendees were sad and angry. Court’s training in reading people was employed as he went up and down the table, trying to discern exactly what was going through each person’s head.
He was good at this. He was so good at it that it was sad, divining the individual misery and fury of thirty people, most of whom had just lost someone important to them. Someone strong and fearless. Someone better than the rest.
Court looked down to his plate, scooped up a forkful of his fried plantains. He told himself he’d drink another beer and hit the road.
LAOS
2000
“You hurt?” asked Eddie from the front seat.
Court checked his body for bloody holes. Finding none, he replied, “I’m fine.”
He then pulled himself up in the seat to look out the remnants of the back window. “They’ll be close behind, but this weather will help. It will keep choppers out of the air.”
But Gamble’s mind was on something else. “Please tell me you had sanction to kill those guards? I don’t want to escape out of here just to go straight to Leavenworth.”
“I have sanction.”
“So you can just whack whoever you want, no questions asked?” He couldn’t believe it.
“Stay on my good side, and you won’t find out.” Gentry mumbled it as he lay back on the seat; he was so tired and weak he found himself nauseous, and even holding himself in a sitting position was too much. He’d spent 110 percent of all his energy in the escape, even with Gamble carrying him part of the way.
He was no use to anyone now.
“Seriously. Tell me we’re okay.”
“We’re okay. You haven’t killed anybody.”
“I sure as shit would love to know who you work for. I mean, I’ve run with the CIA, and they don’t look or act like you.”
“I think you need to concentrate on the road, Eddie. The Laotian Army will have roadblocks set as soon as they can.”
The DEA man sighed in frustration but did what he was told.
They’d gone no more than five minutes when the road ended at a T-intersection. Gamble turned right, making for the Mekong River.
* * *
Court had nodded off, but he awoke when the car stopped in the road and began backing up. After a few seconds they turned around.
“What is it?”
Eddie answered with a grave tone. “Roadblock. Military. A quarter mile up. Four vehicles. Fifteen dismounts easily.”
Court looked out the window and noticed the rain had stopped. “Okay. Find a place to dump the car. You need to go overland. It can’t be too far. You can make it to the river if you go south. Find a guy with a boat, stick your gun in his face, and ask politely for a lift across to Thailand.”
It was quiet in the car for several seconds. Court said, “You’re going alone.”
Gamble clearly had been worrying about the same thing. “Look, Sally, maybe we can—”
“No. I can’t walk, and you can’t carry me. I’m not going anywhere.”
Eddie looked like he was struggling mightily, but obviously, Court was right. Finally, Eddie nodded. “I’ll find a hide for you. Cover you up and mark the spot somehow. I’ll go for help, come back, and get you as soon as I can.”
Court could tell Eddie did not believe Gentry would survive the night out in the elements. “Get over the river into Thailand. Tell your people where you left me. My people will come and get me.”
Gentry tried to sound convincing, but it was a lie. No one would come for him. He knew it, and surely, Eddie must have suspected it.
* * *
Twenty minutes later the roof of the Chinese sedan sunk below the surface of a pond. Air bubbled out of the car with a gurgling sound, and soon the water stilled and lily pads returned to cover the breach near the bank created by the vehicle’s entry into the water. Court Gentry lay nearby on his back, twenty-five feet from the water’s edge and fifty feet down a steep slope from the road, his body shielded by tall grass. Eddie had covered him in banana leaves and surrounded him with a small makeshift wall of stones and branches. Just a few feet away a small footpath ran off to the south past the pond, in the direction of the Mekong River.
Gentry was invisible from the road above, but if anyone ventured down the hill, they would likely notice the man-sized anomaly in the grass.
Eddie knelt down next to Gentry; they could barely see each other through the foliage.
“There’s going to be UXO out there,” Court said weakly. Eddie knew that UXO was unexploded ordnance. “We dropped more bombs on this country during Nam than we did on Germany in WWII. A lot of those bombs didn’t explode; they’re just out in the jungle, waiting for someone to come by and kick them. You do not want to go off the beaten path out here.”
Eddie looked down the trail. “Good advice. I knew I brought you along for something.” Gamble’s tone turned serious. “You won’t have any food, but H2O won’t be a problem. Just keep your mouth open and let the rain drip from the banana leaves.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll make sure someone comes back for you, I swear.”
“Sure. Thanks for everything. Someday you’ll make someone a hell of a wife.”
Eddie nodded. Hesitated. Clearly, he was torn apart about leaving his former cellmate behind. “I’ll see you in a couple of days, tops. You’ll be at a hospital in Bangkok hitting on exotic nurses, and I’ll stop in and bring you something. Any requests?”
Court smiled. He’d play along with this fantasy if it would help Eddie save himself. “A root beer would kick ass.”
“You got it.” Eddie patted Court on the forehead through the leaves. “See ya soon, homes.” He stood and began walking towards the pathway to the south.
TWELVE
Court looked down at his watch and found it was past nine o’clock. Some of the dinner guests had drifted away; others were sitting around in clumps in the back garden, on the driveway by the boat, and throughout the downstairs of the house. The local police wandered around on the outskirts of the event. Laura and Elena had brought each of the cops a big plate of dinner and a tall plastic cup of iced horchata, a cinnamon-vanilla flavored drink made from boiled rice and sesame seeds. The cops ate while standing, careful to keep one eye out the gate towards the street.
Court took another sip from his fourth sweating bottle of Pacifico and began wondering about where he would sleep tonight. Bus service in San Blas had surely halted for the evening, and he did not have money to blow on a hotel. He figured he’d find a bench in the little central park a few blocks to the north, then be on the first bus out in the morning back to Puerto Vallarta.
There was another option. He’d learned through others that the retired U.S. Navy man, Captain Cullen, lived down in Puerto
Vallarta. Court considered asking him for a lift back to PV, but only briefly. A ninety-minute car ride with the icy geriatric was more scrutiny than the international outlaw wanted to subject himself to.
Gentry was pleased to notice that the rest of the crowd had forgotten him; he sat alone at a small picnic table near the back wall of the compound, away from the rows of lights strung over the garden and the flaming torches stuck into the ground here and there, and away from the conversations going on all around him. He eyed the back gate. It was close
d but not locked; the darkness beyond called to him.
He’d make an invisible escape now; he’d come to pay his respects, and his respects had been paid. Now it was time to disappear.
Standard operating procedure for the Gray Man.
Court finished his beer. Stood slowly.
“Why is it I find myself so curious about you?”
Court turned around, found Cullen ten feet behind. He held a bottle of tequila in one hand, with thumb-sized plastic shot glasses over the bottle’s spout, and a pair of shiny green limes in his other hand.
“I don’t know.”
“Join me for a drink?” Cullen did not wait for an answer; he sat down at the small picnic table across from Court, put the bottle down in front of him. Cullen retrieved a pocketknife from his cargo shorts, sliced them each a wedge of one of the limes.
Court hesitated. “I’ve got to be going.”
“Where you headed, ace?”
“Uhhh. Back to Puerto Vall—”
“Not tonight, you aren’t, unless you want to blow a hundred bucks on a cab. Elena said you arrived by bus.”
“Well… I’ll find a hotel here.”
“I can give you a lift to PV.”
Court sat back down. Cullen poured thick clear liquid into two tiny cups, passed one to Gentry. Court sipped the tequila, bit down on his lime wedge, and changed the subject by turning the conversation away from himself. “How did you know Eddie?”
Cullen leaned back and smiled. Took off his USS Buchanan cap and held it up. His silver hair shone in the light from the torches burning throughout the yard.
“You met him on your boat?”
The Captain shook his head. “No, no. I never knew him in the Navy. I met him in PV, ’bout four years ago. I run on the beach every morning, used to anyway. It’s more of a walk now but faster than most of the old expat farts around here. Anyway, one morning, after my run, this tough-looking Mexican hombre saunters over to me on the boardwalk. I thought he was going to go for my wallet. But he pointed to my hat. Asked me about my service. We got to talking, and he said he was Navy, too. Of course I’m thinking Mexican navy. When I found out he was an ex-SEAL, you could have knocked me over with a feather.
