by Mark Greaney
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.
Dammit, Gentry.
* * *
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.
Diego had lost his parents today. He was nominally in the custody of Ernesto and Luz, but he was mature enough to make his own decisions. He could have walked out the back door and jumped on a bicycle and pedaled away if he so desired. But he stayed with the family.
He knew that his abuelo Ernesto was old, and he knew that his tío Ignacio was a worthless bum.
Diego knew that he would have to be the man. It was not an easy decision for him to make. He himself had peddled Sinaloan pot to American surfers and backpackers in PV and Sayulita, so he was actually a member of the Madrigal organization, although at the absolute bottom rung of the ladder. But that was behind him now. This wasn’t about money or right and wrong; this was about family, about survival. He would do whatever it took to make his family safe.
Ignacio had gotten half drunk on beer and tequila in the past hour. He agreed to go with the family to Tepic without argument. He had no family of his own, and he had nowhere to go but back to his house, just up the coast from Puerto Vallarta.
Even with four shots of reposado tequila and a couple of beers in his system, he wasn’t too drunk to realize that that was no option at all after today’s events.
Laura was satisfied that they now had a plan, but she still would have felt a lot better if Joe had stayed to help. She was disappointed in the American stranger for leaving them. He had saved all of their lives; she had not seen what he’d done in the Parque Hidalgo, but according to the news reports, someone had killed a half dozen of the sicarios shooting in the crowd. Laura had only shot one, so she reasoned this mysterious American must have taken out the rest.
There was an attraction there, as well, but she quelled it now that he was gone. She had not so much looked at a man in years, not since her husband had been tortured to death by the narcos up north. But she had looked at Joe. She could not say why. She wondered if it was just that he had known Eduardo in those years when her only relationship with him had been occasional phone calls and colorful postcards of faraway cities. This made her feel close to the American, almost like they were friends from the past.
And now the mysterious American had come and gone, had appeared and disappeared in the space of less than twenty-four hours, and he had taken himself out of her life.
With everything else that had happened today, she did not really understand why she cared.
She had the family prepare to leave. The six of them would pile into Eduardo’s big F-350 Super Duty. Her father began packing, her mother shuffled into the kitchen to begin getting together food and drinks, and Diego took the truck up the street to fill it with gas and to add some oil.
Elena rested on the couch, and Ignacio went out back to smoke and drink.
The phone in the living room rang for the first time since the family had returned home. Elena answered the call.
“¿Bueno?”
“Good afternoon, Elena. How is the family?”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Daniel.”
Elena sucked in air before speaking. She recognized the voice. “Daniel de la Rocha?”
“At your service. We did not meet formally today. I didn’t get to meet your husband formally, either. Such a pity about Eduardo.”
Elena was breathless now. “I… I saw you get shot.”
He laughed. “Señora, if your tough husband, trained to murder by the gringos, could not do me in, do you really think it would be so easy to kill me? No, there is not a scratch on me.”
“Why are you calling me? What do you want?”
“I’ll tell you what I want. You won’t like it, but I’ll tell you. I want your baby. For the crimes of your husband, your son must pay. You give me your child, and you can have your life. I will no longer threaten you or your family.”
“My baby? You will kill my baby?”
“Yes, but it is not so bad. Listen, I will make it very easy. You can go to a doctor, and I’ll talk to them and explain the situation. They will take care of you and just take from you what I want. If you do this, you can spare your own life, the lives of the rest of your family who made it out of the Parque Hidalgo this morning, and you can save the lives of everyone who tries to stop me from taking your baby. Your mysterious gringo included.”
“You want my… child? Are you mad?”
“I am far from mad. I am a reasonable businessman. And I am extending you a limited-time offer. Agree now or you will regret it.”
“You are insane. Leave me, my family, and my unborn son to grieve for all that you have stolen from us!”
De la Rocha’s urbane tone changed, turned acidic. “Listen, bitch! Your husband tried to take from me! His life did not pay me back for the trouble he caused. His life was not worth the shit on my shoes! You give me that baby or I will kill every—”
Elena Gamboa slammed the phone down, brought her hands to her face, and emitted a shrieking cry. Laura took her sister-in-law in her arms and hugged her tightly. Began praying aloud standing right there in the living room.
“God, protect us!”
The front door opened and together the women turned towards it.
It was Joe, the American. Stunned, Laura stammered in her confusion. “Did you… forget something?”
He nervously shifted from foot to foot. “I can just watch over you tonight. Tomorrow if things haven’t cooled down yet, I can hide out back in Eddie’s boat if the cops come.”
Immediately, Elena told him of the call from de la Rocha. Luz, Ernesto, Diego, and Laura all surrounded Elena while she spoke. Court’s jaw muscles flexed when the pregnant woman relayed the drug kingpin’s demand for the life of the unborn child.
“Why?” he asked. “Why the kid?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because he is Eduardo’s only offspring.”
“His legacy,” Court said softly, shaking his head. “This prick is from another fucking century.” He thought for a few seconds. “You need to run. You need to get the hell out of here right now.”
Laura said, “We are going to Tepic. We have a friend there; he is a prominent attorney. He can—”
“No,” Court said. “No friends. The Black Suits can track you to any friend who lives nearby. You need someplace out of the way, someplace where you can just disappear for a day or two while we figure out who is on your side.” He hesitated. “If you can think of someplace like this… I’ll come along, just to make sure you get there.”
Ignacio scratched his huge belly and looked at Court. “We have cousins who have a place in Mazatlan. We can go there.”
“No. No friends, no family.”
Laura stepped in. “I know a place.”
“Where?” asked Gentry.
“It’s an old farm high in the Sierra Madres, three or four hours from here, depending on the roads. Owned by my late husband’s family, but they are old now, and they moved away to the city. As far as I know, the hacienda is unoccupied.”
“That’s where we’re going,” Court announced to the family.
He was back in charge.
TWENTY-TWO
If it were just Court, he would have been long gone by now, within sixty seconds after the decision had been made to head to a farm up in the mountains. But it wasn’t just him; there were six others who would be making this trip, and to a guy like the Gray Man, it felt like he had a long tail sticking out of his ass, a tail that would trail way behind him, exposed and catching on everything as he moved. He couldn’t just walk out through the gate in the back garden, out into the back alleyway, and disappear in the dust. He had to wait for three women, a kid, a fat drunk, and an old man to get their shit together. He’d tried to rush them at first, but they only agreed with him that they didn’t have time to waste and then continued picking things up and putting them back down as they scurried throughout the house.
While Court waited, he pulled guard duty; he had the revolver with three rounds in it. He kept it in the small of his back under his shirt as he stood out by Eddie’s truck. The truck was large enough for the seven of them, barely, but it was also a powerful four-wheel drive vehicle that could go off-road if necessary. It even had massive flood lamps on the roof of the cab that might also come in handy on rough mountain roads. Diego had shown Court around the cab, how to operate the controls for the lights and the winch, how to use the key fob so that he could start the engine remotely without putting the key in the ignition.
It sure as hell was not Gentry’s first choice, driving around in a big brash vehicle known to the bad cops who might well be targeting this family, but he’d at least had Diego change out the front and back plates with Laura’s little Honda two-door. He hoped this would be enough subterfuge to get them a few hours clear of San Blas.
As Court waited impatiently for his “tail,” he kept his eyes on the gate at the end of the little driveway. He’d only stood there a minute or two when a middle-aged San Blas municipal policewoman appeared at the gate and peered through it at him. Court remembered her from the dinner the evening before; she’d been one of the police who’d stood around in the back garden. She’d hugged Laura several times; something he’d noticed, no doubt, because he’d been staring at Laura. Court nodded at her and gave her a quick wave. She just stared back at him. Her demeanor had changed since the previous evening, and he wondered what she knew about his involvement in the events in Puerto Vallarta.
We need to go! He said it to himself, because saying it again to the Gamboas would be a waste of time.
The policewoman stepped away after a few seconds, but then another San Blas cop stepped up to the gate. This man soon wandered off as well, but not long after, Court heard a police radio squawk in the street on the other side of the wall, and he knew the policeman, and possibly the policewoman, were still standing out there. He hoped they were here to protect the Gamboa family, although there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot they could do with their stupid batons if the Black Suits showed up.
A third and a fourth cop pulled up in a battered white pickup truck. The men climbed out of the cab, and like the others, they just stood out in the street. Diego came out of the house, and Gentry helped him throw two big backpacks in the bed of Eddie’s F-350.
Two more unarmed officers pedaled up on bicycles and looked through the gate. Court felt like a monkey in the zoo with all the eyes on him through the iron bars. He detected nervousness in the mannerisms of the municipales as they looked up the drive while speaking to their colleagues. Finally, one of them, perhaps the senior man, stepped up and stared Gentry down through the bars. Court decided to find Ernesto so he could talk to them.
He stepped back inside, walked through the entire house, was annoyed to find Laura leading everyone but Ernesto in yet another prayer in the living room, so he stormed out into the back garden. Here he found the old man just sitting in the back yard, at the table next to Eddie’s Boston Whaler restoration project.
He was crying, sobbing in solitude.
Fuck, thought Court, like we have time for this.
“Perdóname, Ernesto.” His voice was soft but imploring. “The policía are out front.”
The old man looked at Gentry. Just said, “I lost another son and two brothers today.”
The American had no response other than, “I am sorry.”
“My daughter.”
“Laura?”
“Will you protect her?”
“I’ll do whatever I can. For all of you.”
Gamboa reached a hand out and ran it across the smooth hull of Eddie’s Boston Whaler. “Please, Jose. Please help me save the rest of my family.”
“I’ll watch out for Lorita. You better go see what the cops want.”
Ernesto stood, reached out, and took the American in a tight embrace. Court held himself stiff and wooden; he couldn’t imagine the pain residing in the old fisherman’s heart, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
* * *
Ernesto walked through the house and then out front towards the gate; Court followed him, watched his movements from behind, and saw the unbearable loss the old man had endured manifest itself in low shoulders and a hunched neck. Eddie’s dad looked physically quite robust, even at his advanced age. But mentally he was frail.
The old man unlocked the gate and opened it; the heavy-framed mustachioed officer stood in front of him.
“Sergeant Martinez. Have you heard what happened?”
“Sí, Señor Gamboa. I am very sorry.” The two men hugged stiffly. Court remained back by the truck; he did not want his presence, and any suspicion it may cause, to create problems.
Ernesto said, “It is not safe for us here. Los Trajes Negros tried to kill us today. We will be leaving immediately.”
The police sergeant looked up the street a moment. He then said, “I’m sorry, Ernesto, but I must ask that you do not leave San Blas.”
“Why not?”
“Well… the truth is I do not know. We have received a call from the director of the Nayarit state police in Tepic; he has ordered me to ask you to stay.”
Ernesto nodded. “I see.”
The rest of the family filed out the front door now. They c
arried various packs and purses and boxes, straining the limits of what Eddie’s pickup could handle along with seven passengers. They loaded up the truck, and Laura and Elena soon made their way out into the street to stand with Ernesto. Shortly, they were followed by the rest of the clan. Ernesto and the sergeant continued to discuss the arrangement.
The sergeant was courteous, but he requested that the family come with him and his officers to the local station, where they would await further instructions.
Ernesto thanked him for the offer of protection, but he did not instruct his family to go along with the municipales.
An extremely congenial standoff began to develop there on the hot street.
Gentry stepped into the crowd, anxious to get his entourage moving. Enough with this polite bullshit, he thought to himself. Though friendly and hardly threatening themselves, these cops, by delaying their escape from the Black Suits, were quickly becoming a threat to Court’s operation. He spoke Spanish. “Sergeant. You are asking them to stay. And they are telling you no. There is nothing left to discuss. Adios.” He looked to the family. “Everyone in the truck. We are leaving.”
The police sergeant said, “Señor, you are free to go. We were not told to keep you here, but the familia Gamboa needs to come with us to the station.” He turned back to Ernesto Gamboa. “We will protect you all there. Come this way.” The policeman smiled at them and motioned to the pickup, as if all seven of them should climb in the bed. This vehicle was barely half the size of Eddie’s big rig.
“Are they under arrest?” Court asked.
“Of course not. We would just like to watch over them for now.”
“They aren’t going anywhere, except with me. Now. Get out of the way.”
“Amigo, if you are interfering with police business, I can arrest you.”
“You can try.” Court stared the heavy man down, but the machismo of the officer was something that Gentry hadn’t considered. Court could stomp the out-of-shape middle-aged man into the dust without breaking a sweat, but this dude wasn’t going to back away from a physical confrontation.
