by Mark Greaney
And then his own. He had to get them home and then get himself out of here before the cops came to question the Gamboas.
Elena dialed the number of one of the other relatives there on the podium; she did not know if the woman was alive to take the call.
“Hang it up!” shouted the American behind the wheel now. She nodded but kept listening to the ring, willing someone to answer.
Court rolled down the window next to him, reached across his body, and wrenched the phone from Elena Gamboa’s hand. He threw the device out onto the highway.
“Why did you do that?”
“They can track your calls. You are a target.”
“A target?”
“Yes. Those federal cops were gunning for everyone on the stage. There was nothing random about what just happened.”
“De la Rocha was killed. Why would someone kill him and then kill the families of the GOPES men?”
“I don’t know. The only thing I can think is there was more than one group in the crowd. One group trying to kill you; one other group trying to kill him.” Court shook his head. “This place is completely fucked up.”
Elena just put her head in her hands and cried.
“We need to swap vehicles,” Court said, more to himself than to the six others in the car.
“Why?” asked Elena. “What’s wrong with this van?”
“Operational security. We left the scene in this van; we need to switch it out for something clean.”
She looked around the interior. “It’s clean enough.”
Laura spoke out from the back. “He means something that did not come from the crime scene. Joe, where are we going to get another vehicle? We passed the last rental car office back at the airport.”
“We can get whatever car we want. I have a gun, remember?”
It was quiet in the van for several seconds, only soft sobbing from Luz Gamboa in the backseat. Finally, Laura said, “You can’t steal another vehicle.”
“Wanna bet?”
“It is against the law.”
Court laughed, more in surprise at the comment than anything else. “What, are you a cop?”
“Sí.”
“Right.” Court shook his head, kept driving. Then he slowly looked back up at Laura in the rearview. “You’re serious?”
“Sí.”
Elena entered the conversation while wiping her nose with a tissue. She spoke dismissively, “She’s with the tourist police in Puerto Vallarta. Not a real cop.”
Laura snapped back at her sister-in-law. “I am a real police officer. My training and responsibilities are just as—”
Elena shouted back at her sister-in-law, and the two women’s argument became heated. Court recovered slowly from his shock, realized Laura’s knowledge of roads and roadblocks and traffic patterns made sense now. He then took Eddie’s sister’s side against Elena. Like a man sprinting headlong into a minefield, he entered into a squabble between two Latin women. “The real cops killed a lot of innocent people today, and I saw how Laura shoots, so I’m glad she’s on our side.” He looked back into the rearview mirror at Eddie’s sister. “Why didn’t you tell me you were with the police?”
She shrugged. “You didn’t ask me.”
“Oh.” Just like always, he found himself having to struggle to take his eyes from her. He forced himself to stare at the road ahead.
She continued, “Anyway, when Eduardo died, I was suspended. Many say that he acted without permission, and I would need to be investigated and cleared before I could return to work.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I know, but that’s what they said. They took my gun when they took Eddie’s weapons from his house.”
“You still have that Beretta you used in the church.”
She shook her head. “No. I gave it to the padre to hold. I cannot be caught with a weapon.”
Court sighed. Neither could he, but that didn’t stop him from packing one now. He wished she was still packing. He let it go, looked back up, and he and Laura made long eye contact in the rearview. He said, “You did good back there.”
“So did you,” she said. “Thank you.” Court’s eyes flicked back to the road ahead for just a second, then back into the rearview. Laura Gamboa continued to stare at him. She said, “Please don’t steal another car.”
For a long time the eye contact continued. Finally, Gentry looked away. “Whatever you say, officer.”
The Gamboas prayed together: Laura led the prayer, Ernesto’s voice was the loudest, Ignacio mumbled, and Luz could only sob softly along with the words. After the prayer the conversation trailed off. The six surviving Gamboas stared out the window while Court drove. He himself was worn out from the exertion and the danger, and he found himself sad about the old Navy man. Cullen was a stud, Gentry recognized. He would have enjoyed another night drinking tequila with him, hearing his stories. Hell, he would have even enjoyed the old geezer chiding him about his long hair and his vague answers.
But, Court told himself, that cranky bastard went out like a hero.
And there was something to be said for that.
* * *
They arrived back at Elena’s house shortly before three p.m. Ernesto immediately turned on the television and sat down, while Luz retired to the kitchen to begin dishing out leftovers from the previous evening. Heavy-set Ignacio grabbed a beer from the fridge and went out back to smoke, Diego disappeared into the bathroom, and Elena and Laura stormed around the house arguing with each other about what they were going to do next.
Court could not understand a word the two women said.
Gentry stood in the living room with Ernesto and the TV, watched news reports from Vallarta — a reporter did a stand-up in the local morgue amid rows of bodies lined up on the floor. Bloodstained sheets and blankets covered the fresh cadavers, and only the feet stuck out; paper toe tags were attached to the left big toe of each body with red twine.
There would be cops here at Eddie’s house soon enough. Court didn’t know what kind of police, didn’t know if they would be friends oror enemies. He hoped what remained of this family had the sense to leave town for a while, maybe hook up with some friends or family in another part of the country where the Black Suits weren’t so firmly entrenched.
But Court’s ingrained sense of self-preservation had begun kicking into high gear on the drive up the coast, and his own predicament came into sharp focus. The Gamboas weren’t out of danger by any stretch, but he had his own problems. He was in the country illegally; he’d just shot dead a shitload of people, most of whom wore badges; and any police officer he ran into would likely want to have a word with him about that.
There really wasn’t much left for Court to do now, he reasoned, but disappear. He did not want to hang around to await the arrival of the authorities. Despite all the bullshit sermonizing by the Mexican government about the United States’ treatment of illegals, illegals caught in Mexico were not entitled to anything much more than a jail cell.
He figured the media would show up here as well. The residents of this house had been at the memorial, the six people here with him were likely the largest surviving family of those who’d been on the stage when the battle erupted, and the reporter on the television wasn’t having much luck interviewing the eyewitnesses with the toe tags.
Court began moving towards Ernesto to explain why he had to run now and to wish him and his family luck. But the image on the TV broke away from the reporter suddenly and showed the Parque Hidalgo. This was clearly footage of the incident itself: the square was full, and the camera was positioned up in the square just above the street. The videographer caught de la Rocha the moment he was shot and knocked from the hood of the truck, and then it shook and spun; people moved in front of the lens; the cameraman seemed to stumble and then to regain his balance with the jostling of those all around him.
Court sat down on the edge of the sofa and watched the replay of his day.
The crackling
of gunfire and wisps of gray gun smoke above the crowd, and then… no… yes… Oh shit, thought Court.
The camera caught it.
Court groaned as the television broadcast the image of a bearded man in a blue baseball cap, wrinkled khaki pants, and a brown shirt as he used a bent iron bar to slide down a telephone wire across the street, a short-barreled rifle hanging from his chest. He dropped and disappeared into the crowd.
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.
TWENTY-ONE
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.
