Ballistic cg-3

by Mark Greaney

  Calvo slid the phone back in his jacket, completing a call. “Done.”

  Pent-up rage blew forth from the thirty-nine-year-old de la Rocha; he screamed and pulled dishes and glasses from his table, crashed them against the stone wall.

  Calvo rushed forward. “Daniel, listen to me! Calm down! Everything the gringo said, everything he did, it was all to get this reaction from you! It was to knock you off balance! Don’t play into his plan! Think!”

  “I will piss on his beating heart!”

  “¡Tranquilo!” Calm down!

  “I will calm down when someone around me does their fucking duty! I have had enough failure from you cabrones!” He threw bottles and knocked over tables. Around him his Black Suits stood watch. No one but Nestor dared speak to him.

  And Nestor did speak. “We can end this, Daniel! We can end this right now!”

  De la Rocha stopped smashing things; he turned towards his older advisor. Cocked his head. “You want to give the girl to the gringo. You want to stop hunting for Elena Gamboa.”

  Nestor reached out, smoothed the lapel of Daniel de la Rocha’s black suit. “I want to put an end to this madness so that we can get back into the business of making money. Making money for everyone. Building our organization, empowering ourselves against our enemies, protecting ourselves from the government and the—”

  “Stop! Stop talking now, Nestor, before I begin to lose trust in you.”

  “I am at your service, patrón. But as your advisor I feel it necessary to remind you why we are here, why we take the risks that we take. Not for some gringo that la CIA cannot even kill or capture. Not for the life of the unborn child of a cop that we dealt with brilliantly weeks ago.”

  DLR shook his head. “Listen to me, Nestor. You have your orders. The Gray Man must die. The Gamboa woman needs to be found.”

  Without a sigh or a change of expression, Nestor Calvo Macias nodded. “As I said, I am at your service.”

  “Good.” De la Rocha turned to another of his men, the leader of his kidnapping operation. “Roberto, move the Gamboa woman. Double the guard on her.”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “Emilio!” he shouted. His bodyguard was right behind him still. “Double the guard on me.”

  “Already done, jefe.”

  “Let’s go, before the Gray Man pushes that button on his phone.”

  * * *

  Court did not push the button on the mobile phone, as there was no explosive hidden in the courtyard of the seaside restaurant. The Black Suits lost Gentry in the crowd of the Malecon, the busy beach promenade of Puerto Vallarta. Court ditched his waiter uniform in an alley, went through the entrances and out the exits of a half dozen bars and eateries, then climbed onto a parked pickup truck, leapt to a second-floor balcony of a beachside apartment building. He would spend the night on this balcony, curled into a ball on a soft patio chair, the sea breeze blowing against his face.

  Below him the Black Suits ran through the streets, drove convoys of SUVs and pickup trucks through the foot traffic, grabbed shorthaired and goateed Americans and pushed them up against walls, shone tactical flashlights in their faces, and then shoved them back on their way in frustration.

  The local cops were out in force as well. They were hunting the Gray Man at the behest of the Black Suits. Gentry imagined word would have gotten to the CIA by now, any American black ops teams in the area tracking him would be racing into downtown Puerto Vallarta.

  He wondered if Gregor Sidorenko had operatives in Mexico hunting him, too. If they could find him in the Amazonian jungle, it was a safe bet the Russian mob boss would have a crew here.

  But none of these forces had the power to search every apartment in the entire city. He was safe here for a night. And by morning they would have given up, they would have assured themselves that he’d slipped through their net again.

  Court scrolled through e-mails on his phone, all from Hector Serna, intelligence chief for the Madrigal Cartel. Each e-mail was a nugget of information. The address of a Mexico City bank; the tail number of a cargo aircraft known to run meth and black tar heroin for the Black Suits; addresses or satellite coordinates of safe houses, warehouses, parking lots of vehicles all purportedly owned by de la Rocha’s organization.

  Court’s target list was an embarrassment of riches.

  He sent Serna a text message, requesting some items that he would need the following day. Once Serna replied with details of the drop-off of the goods, Court put the phone in his pocket and looked up at the stars.

  He heard another confrontation below, angry men shouting at confused civilians.

  To a man, Spider’s sicarios were scared of Spider. And Spider was surely afraid of Daniel.

  Court was a single operator, which freed him of suspicion of others within his organization, simply because he had no organization. He was a lone man with neither friends nor close associates.

  He had to be suspicious of everyone, trusting of no one, and he preferred this to working for a group that could turn on him in an instant. This had happened to him in the past. And he preferred this to working for a handler who had double-crossed him. This had happened to him in the past — twice.

  Court lay on the softly padded teak chaise lounge, looked at the beautiful night above him, ignored the honking horns and the killers below him, and he knew that this would be his last true rest for many nights to come.

  He thought of Laura.

  FORTY-NINE

  Daniel de la Rocha’s estate deep in a canyon at the foot of Sierra del Tigre was his largest and most palatial. He’d named it Hacienda Maricela, after his youngest daughter, and he came here to relax as often as his travels would allow. At present his wife and children were at their home in Cuernavaca; it was better suited for kids, thought Daniel, and he was careful to keep la Santa Muerte out of that particular property, if only to placate his devout-Catholic wife.

  Hacienda Maricela was a mammoth early twentieth-century home and hunting lodge surrounded by two hundred hectares of private forest. The nearby town of Mazamitla provided its local police force to augment the hundred-man security detail that protected the Black Suits’ leadership when they stayed at the residence, and a private airstrip, a heliport, and a paved road dotted with checkpoints that led out of the canyon and up to the highway towards Guadalajara provided safe and easy access for Daniel and his men.

  De la Rocha’s men had even built a stop on the rail line that passed through the forest so that large goods could be delivered by freight train.

  The property was also Daniel’s favorite place to train with his men. There were rock walls, obstacle courses, a rappelling tower, an outdoor long-distance firing range, a dojo, and myriad other opportunities for the ex-military men to hone their martial skills. DLR flew his Eurocopter through the canyons and ravines, horrifying his men with his death-defying flying.

  The morning after the dinner in Puerto Vallarta, DLR and Spider were training in the hacienda’s massive indoor firing range. A few of Spider’s men stood around and watched, and Emilio Lopez Lopez stood just behind his principal, protecting him here even in Daniel’s own home.

  Javier and Daniel were firing modern FN P90 submachine guns at life-sized rubber human forms attached to hooks that moved on tracks recessed in the ballistic steel ceiling of the firing range. One at a time the targets emerged from behind swinging steel doors in the backstop of the range, forty yards away. Like attacking gunmen the humanoid targets raced forward, darted left and right a bit, even stopped behind the cover of low pine walls laid out on rolling tracks on the floor.

  One at a time Cepeda and de la Rocha took turns firing at the moving targets, a dozen times each before they darted off to the side, only to be replaced by the next wave of “attackers,” coming in from the side or popping up from behind the concrete walls.

  It was a state-of-the-art system, costing millions of dollars, and Daniel even had two full-time employees for the range who lived on the property.


  Quickly Daniel’s weapon emptied while shooting at a target sailing by close from left to right. He dropped the P90 from his hands; it fell and hung taught by the sling around his neck. DLR reached into his black suit, pulled his .45, and snapped four rounds into the humanoid head before it slid from view.

  One of the Black Suits behind him shouted. “That is the Gray Man, jefe!” Others cheered.

  Daniel smiled, pulled his ear muffs off his head. “I wish. I get another chance at him, and that is what I will do! Spider failed me last night and let the chingado gringo get out of Puerto Vallarta with his life. All of you have failed me!”

  Spider’s sicarios looked down to the floor or up at the ceiling.

  “As soon as Calvo’s operatives catch wind of where he is, all you fools and your men will be cast out into the street, and your shooting better be as good as mine.”

  Nods from the men within the subdued silence.

  Spider hefted his P90 from a table, stepped back up to the firing line, but Emilio Lopez Lopez patted his boss on the pack. “Daniel. Now that you are warmed up, the next targets are for you, as well.”

  Spider lowered his P90 and stepped back. De la Rocha shrugged and reloaded his .45 and his sub gun.

  Emilio nodded to the range master working in a booth against the side wall. He flipped a switch and the two doors at the rear backstop opened, and the tracked hooks on the ceiling brought targets out into the firing range.

  But they were not humanoid.

  They were human. Two men, their faces well beaten, their mouths gagged with rough hemp, their hands tied behind their backs, and their bodies hanging from ropes from the hooks, tied tight around their shoulders and causing them to writhe in pain from the strain of gravity.

  “Jefe,” said Emilio. “These are two of the men in charge of the advance detail at the dinner last night in PV. After several hours of interrogation last night, we have decided they did not know the Gray Man was in the building. Still, for their failure, I have ordered them to pay with their lives.”

  De la Rocha lowered his rifle. Nodded slowly. “What of the rest of the advance team?”

  “Two more died during my interrogation. Two more were junior men who were stationed in the main dining room and were not part of the prescreening of the facility. I do not hold them at fault.”

  The hooks conveying the suspended men stopped in the center of the range, the men’s feet dangled a foot off the floor. The human targets rocked back and forth, swinging under the hooks.

  “You hold the men in charge at fault.”

  “Of course, Daniel.”

  “Emilio. Those are your men. You chose them; you trained them; you sent them to the restaurant. You are in charge.”

  Lopez stammered.

  “You believe in accountability, yes?”

  “Of course, Daniel. I hold them account—”

  “I hold you accountable. You should be out there hanging with them.”

  Emilio looked at his patrón. He did not move a muscle. Spider had put his P90 rifle down on a table, but he drew his pistol slowly and held it to his side, the leader of the Black Suit’s killers daring the leader of the Black Suit’s bodyguards to try anything.

  Emilio looked at Spider. He recovered from shock. “That is not necessary. I have my 9 mm inside my coat in a shoulder holster. Shall I remove it or would you like one of your men to take it?”

  Spider reached back with an empty hand, waved one of his men forward. The sicario stepped behind Emilio, reached around into his coat, and pulled out the gun.

  “I ask you to reconsider, mi jefe,” Emilio said, his voice calm, but a tremor in his lips belied his emotions.

  “You served me well, my friend.”

  “It… it has been an honor.”

  “Too bad some pinche gringo had to come and ruin everything.”

  “Mi jefe, if you give me just one more chance—”

  Daniel de la Rocha shot Emilio in the head right where he stood. In a single movement DLR spun, dropped to a crouched shooting position, and sent two rounds from his .45 into the heads of each of his men tied and writhing ten yards downrange. Their struggles stilled, but the impacts of the rounds caused their bodies to swing back and forth.

  Emilio Lopez Lopez lay crumpled in a ball at de la Rocha’s feet.

  DLR stood and said, “One more chance? A bodyguard does not get another chance. I’ve been in danger two times in the past week.”

  None of the sicarios spoke.

  Finally, DLR holstered his pistol. “Spider?”

  “Sí, mi jefe.”

  “You are my personal bodyguard now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. You see what happens if you fail twice?”

  “I will not fail you again.”

  * * *

  The banker stepped out of the nineteen-passenger Fairchild Metroliner turboprop and onto the tarmac in Manzanillo, two hours south of Puerto Vallarta on the Pacific coast. The sun was high in the sky, and the banker flipped his $4,800 Moss Lipow sunglasses down from the top of his head to protect his eyes.

  A limo awaited the banker and his two bodyguards; they were the only passengers on the aircraft, so after taking his time to shake the pilot’s and copilot’s hands, the banker descended the stairs, his $3,000 Pineider leather briefcase his only luggage.

  He approached the limo, and the driver opened the rear door for him. The banker leaned into the limo but then tumbled forward; his chest exploded onto the rich leather interior, splattered on crystal highball glasses, and dripped down smoked windows.

  His Moss Lipow sunglasses shot off his head and tumbled across the floorboard. His Pineider briefcase fell free from his grip and bounced against the rear tire of the limo.

  His corpulent body slid backwards off of the slimy leather, then slapped facefirst onto the tarmac.

  The bodyguards dove atop him as soon as they recognized what had happened, but it was too late.

  The bodyguards could do nothing now but guard the body.

  * * *

  Four hundred yards away the Gray Man closed the stock on the collapsible Sako rifle; in seconds he had the weapon stowed in a canvas bag, and the bag tossed into the passenger floorboard of his black Mazda pickup.

  He’d killed the banker with one shot. The.338 Lapua round was overkill from only four hundred yards — it could be counted on to drop a man at more than six times the distance — but Gentry found the shack on the hillside not far from the airport’s ramp suitable to his needs, and the Sako was the only long-range weapon given to him by Hector Serna.

  He wasn’t worried about overkill; he was worried about the result. And the result was clear.

  With less than an ounce of lead he had eliminated sixteen years of expertise in money laundering.

  Yes, Daniel de la Rocha had other bankers, and there was no shortage of qualified men in Mexico ready and willing to replace the corpse that now lay on its back on the tarmac while a frantic bodyguard futilely attempted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But the banker’s death was a body blow to the finance end of the operation.

  Court did not spend one second on remorse or regret. No, he looked at his watch and stepped down harder on the accelerator.

  He had two more jobs to do before the day was done.

  * * *

  “Gilberto Moreno was killed by a sniper at noon today.”

  It was eleven thirty in the evening, and de la Rocha knelt at the icon of la Santa Muerte. He’d been praying silently in his chapel here at Hacienda Maricela, but Nestor Calvo had entered the room behind him, had exchanged glances with Spider, and then had called out the bad news to his kneeling patrón.

  “The Gray Man?”

  “Undoubtedly. And that was only the opening shot. At five thirty, a small explosion set fire to one of our warehouses in Colima; it destroyed an entire shipment of ephedrine from India. It will push back production of foco for a week.”

  “Dammit,” DLR said, his eyes not
leaving the skeleton bride in front of him. “He works fast.”

  “And then he struck again just minutes ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Again in Colima. He hijacked a truck containing poppy paste. Killed the driver. The truck was driven off a cliff.”

  “How much paste?”

  Calvo shrugged. “Our heroin shipment was not as badly hurt as the foco… maybe two days to make up the production.”

  DLR prayed for a moment more, and Calvo stifled a sigh. He kept his face impassive, Spider was looking at him, and he did not need Spider telling their boss that his old advisor was annoyed by Daniel’s displays of fealty to the dumb doll in the corner hutch.

  De la Rocha looked up at la Santa Muerte. “She is angry.”

  Calvo shook his head. “No, Daniel. He is angry. This is about the Gray Man, remember?”

  Daniel stood, walked back across his darkened chapel towards his consigliere. “One man, in one day, affects my finance operation, my heroin operation, and my methamphetamine operation.”

  “Sí, Daniel.”

  “I trust we have men in Colima looking for him?”

  “The entire police force plus other assets in the area. But I assume the Gray Man is gone by now.”

  “Gone where?”

  Calvo shrugged. “I do not know. But I wonder if he will go after other aspects of our enterprise. Marijuana, transportation, aircraft, shipping, kidnapping. As long as he is alive, we won’t know where he will turn up next.”

  “Who is supplying him with the intelligence about our enterprises?”

  “Someone with knowledge of the full scope of our operations. I would say either someone in the federal police or perhaps even someone in the Madrigal Cartel.”

  “I know it is Madrigal.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  DLR walked out of the room, Spider close on his heels. Calvo followed.

  “It’s Madrigal,” repeated DLR to Nestor.

  “She told you that, did she?”