Ballistic cg-3

by Mark Greaney

  “Charlie don’t care if you’re tired!”

  “I can’t, sir,” replied Court aloud. “I can’t.”

  But when he spoke, when he brought true noise to the night, the vision disappeared. He was alone. Frail, hurting.

  Dying.

  * * *

  But he did not die that night; he lived to see morning. The three hours of daylight before the storms came were the worst of his ordeal. He prayed for rain, and when it came, it cooled him and quenched him, but the mud all around his body caused the water to pool, and it became deeper. A few times he even felt his body move slightly, he was floating in the downpour over the saturated earth. He wondered if he would be pulled into the pond, and he was horrified at the thought of drowning in the murky water.

  But mercifully, the rain lulled him to sleep.

  He awoke to the sound of birds, then voices, human voices. He knew it was day, the rain had stopped, and the sun singed through the humid air and burned his skin.

  He heard voices once again; this time he assumed the voices to be nothing more than the beginning of another vision. He did not feel elation or fear; he only lay there, barely alive but drifting away.

  The voices were soft at first, but they became louder, as if the speakers were getting closer. Court began to realize he was not dreaming, was not imagining this, and he felt a faint sense of concern. He had no weapon, not like it mattered — he wouldn’t have been able to thumb a safety catch or pull a trigger, much less identify a threat and point a weapon towards a target.

  The voices were all around him now, and they were speaking Laotian. They had found him, and as far as he was concerned, they could have him. They could shoot him right here; that would surely be preferable to them dragging him up the hill and hoisting him into a vehicle only to bounce around on the shitty roads on his way back to a cell in which he would certainly die within hours.

  Fuck it, he thought, his mind incredibly lucid on this one subject. He’d fight them. These little bastards weren’t taking him anywhere.

  Two men knelt over him, peeled off the few banana leaves that were left covering his body. He reached up to punch one, but his arm just sort of wiggled a little next to his body. There was no swing, no punch.

  More men came, and he was lifted off the ground and into the air; he screamed in protest and then in pain as his left arm was yanked in a different direction from the rest of his body. He felt himself being hauled up the hill; he heard the men’s guns clanking against metal on their belts as the weapons swung free; his legs were dropped once, and men fell along with them, yelled and barked at one another until he was lifted up again.

  The steady slap, slap of boots in mud as they left the muddy pond behind.

  Their clipped and impenetrable language felt like ice picks into his ears.

  They hoisted him onto the road finally and hauled him towards a black van. Gentry was carried headfirst and faceup, but his head hung upside down and bounced with the strides of the soldiers. The back of the black van opened, and it was dark inside. The men spoke quickly and gruffly amongst themselves, as if they were arguing with one another. Their uniforms meant nothing to him, but their weapons were AKs and long SKSs, the same as the local cops and the prison guards.

  They slid him into the back of the van, and the doors shut. The van lurched and sped off, bouncing on the gravel alongside the paved road. Court tried to lift his head but gave up, rolled it from side to side. It took a moment, but he soon realized none of the soldiers had gotten in with him.

  He was alone.

  Huh?

  No, he was not alone. A figure moved into the back from the front passenger seat; Court’s weak neck muscles had dropped his head back on the hard surface of the van, and it rolled towards the wall.

  A hand went to his forehead as if taking his temperature. “Bad news, Sally, no luck on the root beer. I brought you some Beerlao. It’s the local brew. That work?”

  Court smiled and even that hurt; it stung his sunburned face. But a painkilling wave of relief began in his heart and shot out across his body in all directions. A new energy forced his neck muscles to fire one more time. He turned towards Eddie. He felt tears welling in his eyes, and he fought them. His voice was faint and rough. “Is it cold, at least?”

  Eddie shook his head. His eyes were wide and relaxed. That big Eddie Gamble smile widened as he spoke. “Hot as hell, amigo. Tastes a bit like yak piss. Sorry.”

  “The soldiers. Are they from Thailand?”

  “I didn’t leave the country. You didn’t have time for me to get out and for some other group to come back and find you, so I went to Vientiane. Called in some favors I’d earned with an insurgent force. They aren’t half as badass as they think they are, but I figured they were good enough to help me scoop a guy out of the mud and toss him into a van.”

  Court hoisted an arm up with all his might, and Gamble grabbed it and shook it. Court said, “Thanks for coming back.”

  Gamble grinned, pulled a large backpack from between the front seats, opened it, began pulling out bags of fluid and syringes and medicines. “You start crying, and I’m gonna tell your buddies in the CIA. You’ll never hear the end of it.” He prepped an IV and jabbed it into Gentry’s arm. “Let’s get you home, amigo.”

  FOURTEEN

  At eleven o’clock in the morning Court stood in a slow-moving line to buy a bus ticket at the Central Camionera de Puerto Vallarta, the city’s main bus terminal. His green canvas bag lay on the floor in front of him. Every minute or two he’d kick it forwards and take a step along with it.

  He’d awoken early, folded his bedding, descended the stairs silently, stepped over guests sleeping on the floor, and then left alone through the kitchen door. He’d taken the first bus of the morning from San Blas, and he’d stared out the window at the Pacific Ocean for much of the three-hour journey. Thinking of Eddie. Eddie’s family. Eddie’s sister. Court tried to shake the thoughts from his head a number of times but found it hard. Long-dormant emotions tugged at him. Longing. Loneliness. Lust.

  He so needed to get the fuck out of here.

  To that end, he had a plan. He’d buy a ticket to Guadalajara, and once there, after a day or two, he’d catch a bus to Mexico City. From there he would make his way to Tampico. He imagined it taking him a week or more to cross the country at the pace he planned on traveling.

  The station was busy, but the pace of the line picked up a bit. He was only four from the counter when a security scan of the room caused his shoulders to pull back and alarm bells to go off in his head.

  Entering the station with the charging, purposeful gait of a military officer was Captain Chuck Cullen.

  Cullen scanned the room himself; Court had no doubt the old man was looking for him, trying to pick him out of the mass of travelers. Gentry turned away out of force of habit; he knew he could duck the man and remain invisible until he left.

  But there was something about Cullen’s walk, his intense, seeking expression.

  Court knew something was wrong.

  The Gray Man came out of the shadows, hefted his backpack, stepped out of the line, and walked towards the only other American in the crowded hall.

  “What’s up?” he asked, warily.

  Cullen did not hide his surprise. He’d been hopelessly searching for a man who had just somehow materialized in front of him. He recovered. “Elena said you didn’t wait around to say good-bye.”

  Court shrugged. “Tell her I said good-bye.”

  Cullen glared at Gentry for a while. He clearly wanted to say something, but twice stopped himself from speaking. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Young man. I don’t quite have a handle on who or what you are, but I have the impression that you may be helpful right now. And, whoever the hell you are, I do believe you want to do right by Eddie’s family.”

  Court cocked his head slightly but nodded. Said slowly, “Absolutely.”

  The captain nodded. Continued. “Elena and most of her family are go
ing to the rally downtown.”

  Court wasn’t surprised. “Yeah, that’s what she said last night.”

  “I live downtown. This morning I woke to the sound of a car with a PA system driving up my street; the announcer was telling everyone to get out to the memorial this morning and protest the government’s assassins. They’ve been talking about it all morning on the radio. There’s a boatload of ill will on the local stations towards the Policía Federal’s assassination attempt, and the DJs are encouraging certain… elements to come out and make themselves heard. Supporters of de la Rocha and his Black Suits. The authorities are saying they are expecting thousands; they’ll be roping off streets. It just sounds… off. I am going to be there just in case something happens. I’d like you to come, too. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “You really expect trouble?”

  “Organized trouble? Maybe not. But at this point in time, DLR has more fans in Puerto Vallarta than Eddie Gamboa does. Depending on the crowd, the disposition of the cops holding back traffic, the extent to which the pro — de la Rocha group fires up the audience, the number of drunks and lowlifes who stagger into the protest… Christ, I could see this getting out of hand really easily.”

  With only a moment’s hesitation, Court hefted his green canvas bag off the ground and slapped the older man on the shoulder. “Good call, Chuck. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  They drove south in Cullen’s red two-door CrossFox. Traffic was heavy, but the seventy-two-year-old American weaved through it expertly. Court recognized that he could not have driven these streets half as well as the old man.

  Cullen filled Court in as they drove. “It’s Monday, so there will be a cruise ship in port. Thousands of tourists down on the Malecon, the boardwalk lining the beach. Plus locals come into downtown on Mondays. The streets would be tight, even without this protest going on. I know a place I can park east of the event, just up the hill from the action.”

  “The site of this rally. What’s it like?”

  “It’s called the Parque Hidalgo. Used to be a park, but the city cleared out the grass and the trees and the market, so now it’s just a flat, open cement plaza sitting on top of an underground parking lot. I guess the plaza is about fifty yards square, ’bout three blocks inland from the beach. There is a big staircase running off the plaza to the left that leads up to a street on the hill above. The Talpa Church sits up there.”

  “Does the church provide overwatch on the location?”

  “Overwatch? Hell, son, I never was a ground pounder, but I get what you mean. Yeah, it might. Not sure, to tell you the truth.”

  “And in front of the plaza?”

  “Just a busy downtown road. Three lanes, all one way, and gridlocked this time of day. Buildings on the other side. Commercial property. My dentist’s office is right in there. There’s some construction going on if I remember correctly. Everything is four stories high or so.”

  “I need a phone,” Court said as a plan of action began to form in his head.

  “Here, take mine.” Cullen reached towards the BlackBerry on his belt.

  “No, I need my own, so I can contact you after we split up.”

  “Why are we splitting up? We need to stay around Elena and the family. She’s seven months pregnant; somebody throws a beer bottle, and she won’t be able to get out of the way. Ernesto and Luz aren’t as old as me, but they aren’t as fit, either. Laura can handle herself, but Eddie’s brothers are worthless; his uncles and aunts are mountain people who’ve probably never even seen a crowd this big before. We need to protect the family.”

  “We will. Look, trust me. Let’s do this my way.”

  Cullen looked at Court out of the corner of his eye while he drove through thickening traffic. “Help me understand just what skills you are bringing to the table.”

  Court’s game face slowly hardened. “If I were armed, I’d be bringing more skills to the table.”

  The captain sighed. “We don’t want to do anything to make a bad situation worse. Somebody charging in in a blaze of glory is not going to—”

  “I’m not looking for glory. If the shit doesn’t hit the fan, you won’t even know I’m there.”

  “Good.”

  “This rally… Do you expect the press to be there?”

  “Most definitely.”

  Court reached over to Cullen, pulled the USS Buchanan cap from his head. He put it on his own and pulled it down low.

  Cullen looked at him as he drove.

  By way of explanation, Court said, “I’m a little camera shy.”

  “Do I want to know why?”

  Court shook his head, looked out at the road. “You really don’t.”

  Cullen turned back to the road himself; the creases in his face deepened in thought and worry.

  “What have you done, son?”

  “I’m just like the other good guys down here. There are enough bad guys around that I don’t want them to see my face.”

  Cullen nodded, but it was obvious he was still suspicious. He reached into the backseat and pulled an identical Buchanan cap from the floorboard and put it on his silver-maned head.

  They pulled into a supermarket, and Cullen rushed inside, came back a few minutes later with a cell phone and a wired earpiece in black plastic. Court had already ripped the devices out of their packaging before Cullen had pulled the CrossFox out of the parking lot.

  * * *

  The memorial had begun by the time they parked the car a few blocks behind the large stone Talpa Church, on a steep hill above the plaza. They followed the rumbling noise of the crowd, and canned patriotic music played on a tinny public address system as they walked down the hill. The music stopped, and a woman began speaking to the crowd. It was not Elena Gamboa’s voice, but Court thought it sounded like one of the other police wives from the dinner the previous evening. She railed against the narco traffickers, the lack of opportunity for the youth of Mexico, and the corruption in the local police force. Gentry could not understand more than half of it, but it seemed pretty rambling and disjointed, even if it was delivered passionately. He and Cullen passed some Puerto Vallarta Municipal Police manning a wooden barricade just as the speaker called out their department as being in the back pocket of the “terrorist” Daniel de la Rocha. The cops glowered down the hill towards the protest with their right hands resting on their pistol grips.

  “This shit could turn ugly,” Court said as they began pushing through street vendors and stragglers at the top of the long stone staircase that ran alongside the big square.

  “Yep,” Cullen said tersely; he looked over the edge of the railing down towards the podium, searching for the Gamboas.

  Moving down the big staircase was an exercise in both diplomacy and aggression. Court would tap one person on the shoulder and politely ask permission to pass, and then physically adjust the next person to make way for himself and the old man. The plaza below to his left was every bit as crowded, easily two thousand people crammed into a single city block to listen to the speaker. Court worried there were some in the crowd here to encourage trouble, and likely others who were just trouble-loving spectators hoping for a little excitement.

  Finally, at the bottom of the steps, Court said, “Why don’t you get close to the family? Be ready to move them away and out of the action if this all breaks bad.”

  “Alright. But what about you?”

  Court turned slowly, 360 degrees. Then he looked back to Cullen. “I need to stay on the perimeter. Get a feel for the action, the crowd, the streets. The vibe.”

  “How is that going to accomplish anything?”

  “I’m pretty good at this. You brought me here because you think I might be able to help. Let me help.”

  Cullen nodded. “Call me if you see something.”

  “Let’s establish coms right now and keep the line open between us.”

  Cullen called Gentry, popped his earpiece in his ear, and Court put his earpiece in and answer
ed. “Good luck,” the Gray Man said into his mike, and the men set off in different directions.

  Moving west through the mass of humanity, away from the stage, Court immediately ID’d troublemakers in the crowd. There were groups of dissenters here and there; around him he heard angry comments, arguments, even some pushing and shoving. A woman mumbled that the Policía Federal shouldn’t be blowing up boats in the bay, and another woman snapped back that DLR was a son of a whore and the only pity was that he survived.

  Within sixty seconds of leaving the captain’s side Gentry spotted men who clearly did not belong. Heavies, stone-faced tough guys watching the others around them instead of focusing on the speaker. He passed two of these individuals within yards of each other, picked them out as undercover operatives working for the police, the government, or maybe even one of the drug cartels.

  Court saw bulges on their hips, evidence the men were wearing guns secreted into the waistbands of their blue jeans. Plainclothes police agents were common at Latin American protest rallies; it was nothing Court hadn’t seen before in Brazil or Guatemala or Peru or a half dozen other places. Often they weren’t as dangerous as they looked, but still he knew to keep an eye out for these assholes.

  Court spoke into his mouthpiece. “Chuck, have you made it to Elena yet?”

  “Just about. I’ll get up on the dais with the family. One more speaker after this broad and then it’s Elena’s turn. When she’s finished at the podium, I’m going to do my best to get everyone back up the stairs and away from this crowd.”

  “Roger that.”

  Court arrived at the three-lane street just below the Parque Hidalgo. There were a few cars and trucks parked along the curb, but no traffic flowed. Instead, PV cops had the street blocked to the north, and easily two hundred people stood in the middle of the road or on the sidewalk next to it, their eyes riveted to the stage.

  The speaker finished, and she received polite applause from some and angry whistles from others. Gentry passed another tough-looking hombre who neither clapped nor paid attention to the speaker; instead he made eye contact with the bearded gringo pushing to the east before turning his eyes towards another part of the audience.