Ballistic cg-3

by Mark Greaney

  Car alarms in the neighborhood began sounding off.

  “Who is it?” DLR asked Gentry. “Madrigal’s men?”

  Court shrugged. He knew that it was, but the longer he could instill doubt the better. “Probably CIA. Outside chance it’s the Russian mob.”

  Court knew it was los Vaqueros because he had contacted Hector Serna himself while in the grotto at Los Arcos. Court told him he could find Calvo at this address. Serna had screamed at him about the change of plans, but Court hung up before listening to much of the man’s anger.

  DLR started to show concern as the AK fire continued. He barked an order to Spider. “Keep five here, send everyone else to the perimeter. Have the pilot ready my chopper.” Spider shouted an order to the men on the balcony and then another order into a walkie-talkie on his belt. All but five of the gunmen disappeared, and those who remained all moved to the eastern balcony. They kept their rifles trained on the Gray Man as they did so.

  DLR had returned to the trunk from which he pulled Pfleger’s head. Now he retrieved a large gun belt. A pair of silver .45 automatic pistols hung from it. He buckled the belt around his waist, tied the holsters around the thighs of his black slacks, and looked back up at the Gray Man.

  “You force my hand, fool.”

  Court turned his gun away from Spider and back towards DLR. “You give the order to Spider, and I kill you first.”

  Daniel laughed. “Typical cocky gringo. You are one man with a pistol. If I give the order to Spider, you won’t have a chance to shoot any—”

  A loud explosion just outside the house sent small snowflakes of stucco from the ceiling. All heads turned towards the noise.

  Except one. Court remained focused on his targets, even while his mind raced.

  Dammit.

  Court didn’t like his chances, but he saw no other option.

  He had one trick up his sleeve, though, and he’d have to play it for all it was worth.

  The gun in his hand looked exactly like a Glock 17, a common semiautomatic pistol. Surely DLR, Spider, and all the gunmen on the balcony had already identified it as such. But it was a Glock 18. The two weapons appear virtually identical, but the 18 is a rare handgun capable of fully automatic fire. Its ported barrel is able to spew 9 mm bullets at a rate of twelve hundred rounds per minute.

  Court thought it over in an instant, working on a plan of attack.

  Spider and his machete over Laura’s neck would have to go first; there were no two ways around that. The men high on Court’s left also wore Kevlar suits, just like their boss, and Court’s 9 mm rounds would not penetrate Kevlar, so he’d either have to sweep across all five with perfectly executed head shots or, at least, knock them back a bit with a round or two into their soft armor and then finish them off after reloading.

  DLR wasn’t pointing a weapon at him, as were the sicarios on his left, but his two .45s would be in the fight in under two seconds. Court would have to execute an emergency reload of the Glock with perfect speed and precision, all the while avoiding the fire of any of the men with the M4s who’d survived his initial barrage.

  Eighteen rounds of ammunition fired in full automatic mode at a rate of twelve hundred rounds per minute. His gun would be empty in a half second.

  Oh yeah, there was one more factor Gentry knew he’d need to bring to bear. As soon as he started shooting, reflex alone would send rounds from the enemy rifles right where he was standing. In order to have any chance at survival, he’d have to execute all this precision while diving out of the way, moving his body as quickly as possible from where the five weapons were aiming.

  Court felt confident there was no one on this earth with a better chance at executing this. Still, he put his chances at survival at less than 25 percent.

  In the gun world, this was referred to as “spray and pray.”

  Gentry was about to do both.

  FIFTY-SIX

  “Where is Elena Gamboa?” DLR shouted this time. Another explosion, just outside the mansion. Apparently, los Vaqueros had brought along a few RPGs.

  DLR said, “Spider, if he doesn’t answer in five seconds, kill the puta!”

  Court took a deep breath, blew it out, looked at Laura, and then back at DLR.

  He lowered the pistol from Daniel de la Rocha’s tattooed chest. DLR immediately began reaching for the silver .45s on his belt.

  Time to act. Once the .45s were trained on him, the equation would be unsolvable.

  In the dim light of the sala Court lifted his pistol in a blur, shifted his aim to the right, remained in place on his feet, and pressed the trigger on the Glock 18. As the pistol lined up on the nose of Spider Cepeda, it popped, and a single round left the barrel behind smoke and fire. With no hesitation or delay to check the results of his shot, Court spun his entire torso hard to the left, his knees went slack, and he dropped straight down towards the tile in front of the sofa. For two thousands of one second his weapon was trained on the bare chest of Daniel de la Rocha, but he did not fire. DLR was at the bottom of his threat matrix, his pistols were not even drawn, so the Glock’s muzzle remained silent and the sweep continued to the left.

  He heard a rifle crack in the room a fraction of a second before his own weapon went to work; he pressed the trigger as his butt hit the hard floor; his Glock went cyclic as the muzzle began sweeping across the five sicarios on the balcony above.

  Beyond the gray smoke pouring from the ports in the front of his machine pistol’s barrel, he saw black-suited men spin, lurch back, and stumble forward as his supersonic 9 mm rounds sprayed into their bodies from right to left.

  Too quickly the weapon locked open, Court had already begun rolling left on the floor to get farther away from return gunfire. As he rolled with his shoulders, passing behind the sofa, he reloaded with his hands, dropped the empty magazine with a thumb press to the release button on the side of the Glock, and pulled a long thirty-two round magazine from the hip of his cotton cargo pants with his left hand. After two full rotations of his body he rolled up to his feet but kept his body in a tight crouch. He ran backwards as he jammed the long black mag in place and dropped the slide forward, chambering a round, all the while trying to survey his handiwork.

  He heard another gunshot, which meant not everyone was down. He raised his weapon, while still tracking backwards, and saw Spider on the ground next to Laura, who had fallen to her side next to la Santa Muerte’s throne. Scanning to the left he caught a glimpse of de la Rocha’s tattooed back as he fled behind the curtains behind the throne where the life-sized skeleton bride sat. A rifle report from the balcony cracked a fraction of a second before Court fired a single round at the curtains. Court then whirled his aim back up towards the five sicarios. He held his trigger down and dropped again to his knees, fired the entire thirty-two-round magazine into the Black Suits position above him as he fell forward, prone onto the floor now, desperately trying to keep his body moving out of the weapon sights of his enemies.

  The pistol locked open and empty a second time, and Court vaulted back up to his feet while reloading with his last large mag. Again he moved through the candlelit room, this time laterally in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He headed towards Laura, his weapon back on target on the balcony. A single man hung over the railing; his rifle’s sling was caught in his suit coat, and it caused his coat’s tail to hang over his head. Court saw no one else, living or dead, but he fired a pair of short bursts up there anyway to keep any surviving heads down.

  As he quickly sidestepped his way across the room, he felt a rush of cool wind behind him, he saw the breeze move across the room as the candles and drapes fluttered. The sicarios’ rifle fire had blasted the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Bandaras Bay. A hearty sea breeze blew into the room, candle sconces teetered and silk draperies whipped around, and in seconds three separate fires had ignited around the sala.

  He looked down at Laura, his weapon still held high at the mezzanine. The small Mexican woman was still on he
r side, but she had managed to pick up Spider’s machete with her fingertips and was trying to cut through her bound wrists without being able to see what she was doing. Court was impressed with her initiative.

  “I’ve got it,” he said, and finished the job.

  The tan-colored wood was wet with blood around them.

  Court hoped it was Spider’s blood and not hers.

  Or his.

  Court didn’t check for a wound; he had no time. He helped Laura to her bare feet. She hugged him tightly, and his focus slipped away from scanning for threats in the room, the gunfire outside, the burning and whipping draperies. Instead he hugged her back, tightly, looked down into her eyes. They were wide and bloodshot but alive, and he embraced her with his free hand.

  She broke away from him after a moment, took off her gag, knelt down, and went through Spider’s suit coat. She pulled a micro Uzi free from a holster and stood back up.

  Court said, “Follow me close. I have scuba gear hidden at—”

  “We have to kill de la Rocha.”

  “No! We don’t! I’m here for you! I’ve got you! Let’s go!”

  Her eyes were wide with emotion, but Court couldn’t tell what was going through her head now. The fires had spread to the sofa and chairs, the sea breeze’s fuel turning small flames into swirling vortexes of smoking and burning debris. “I’m not leaving him alive.” She turned away from him and disappeared behind the curtain.

  “Fuck,” Court shouted, but he followed her.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Court caught up with Laura at the top of a staircase. It was dark here and quiet save for a raging battle going on around the villa’s grounds. Police sirens wailed along with civilian car sirens, and the nonstop pop, pop, pop of rifles punctuated the madness below them. Smoke from the sala followed along at the ankles of Gentry and Laura as they headed up a dark hallway. Laura whispered that she’d been kept in the wine cellar since her arrival and admitted she had no idea where they were going.

  Fully automatic fire came from inside the house now; it sounded like Madrigal’s men had pushed DLR’s men into the main sala. Laura found another stairwell, and Court noticed a blood trail; he wondered if he’d hit Daniel in the back with his blind shot through the curtains. They moved slowly and carefully at first, but when they heard a helicopter’s rotors spooling up above them, they ran upwards through the dark.

  As they opened the door to the roof, both Court and Laura raised their weapons and opened fire. A man in a pilot’s uniform stood outside the black helicopter with a gun in his hand. Laura missed with her weapon, but Gentry brought the man down with four single shots from his Glock. As his body crumpled to the ground, the Eurocopter’s propellers sped up and the craft rose a few inches into the air, spinning on its axis, turning its nose out to the bay.

  “It’s de la Rocha!” Laura screamed, running for the helicopter.

  “He’s gone!” Court answered back over the wail of the propellers.

  But Laura ignored him and sprinted across the roof, towards the lifting chopper.

  Court cussed loudly and then raced after her again.

  * * *

  Daniel de la Rocha had been shot in the upper left shoulder by that pinche Gray Man gringo, but he’d be okay, if only he could get away. He was a well-trained helo pilot with over one hundred hours in this model of Eurocopter, and all he needed now was to put some distance between himself and the attack by los Vaqueros. He knew the Gray Man and the girl were chasing after him up the stairs, so he’d kicked the pilot out of his chopper, handed him one of his .45s, and gave him orders to shoot anyone on the roof until DLR could get the fuck out of here.

  As he rolled the sleek chopper to the left and began gaining lift, the back door opened up behind him. It was too loud to be heard without screaming at the top of his lungs, but as he lifted off, he did just that. “I told you to wait on the roof for—”

  He felt the hot barrel of a submachine gun press into the back of his head. “Land!” It was the girl, screaming into his right ear.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  He looked back over his shoulder, saw the girl, and then, behind her, the Gray Man himself climbed up through the open door. DLR increased the throttle and pushed the cyclic stick forward, almost throwing the American back out the door. Finally, the American fell in for good, rolling all the way across the floor and grabbing onto a cargo tie against the wall. Laura had a good hold on DLR’s seat, and though the gun wavered from his head for a moment, she jammed it back seconds later. “Land! Land, or I shoot!”

  “You gonna shoot the pilot, you dumb bitch?” he asked, screaming and laughing at the same time. He had no idea if the Gray Man could fly a helicopter; it was a fair bet he could, so de la Rocha increased speed and jacked the chopper violently to the left and right, desperate to keep the aircraft on the verge of falling out of the sky. This way, even if the gringo assassin could pilot the bird, he wouldn’t be able to take the controls in time to avoid a crash.

  He planned on heading into downtown Puerto Vallarta. He owned the cops there, and they would protect him from these two pendejos locos.

  The chopper shot to the north, zigzagging and shooting just feet above the ocean waves. Though concentrating most of his faculties on flying, DLR did take his left hand off the collective for a moment to pull the .45 pistol on his left hip. He kept it hidden from view of Gamboa and the Gray Man, and placed it under his left thigh where he could access it in an instant.

  * * *

  Laura kept the gun on DLR’s head as she looked at Gentry. “Can you fly this?”

  Court was still trying to get his bearings. Climbing into the helicopter while DLR tried to shake him out had kicked his ass. He felt bruised or broken ribs and an incredible pain in his right knee where it made hard contact with the metal floor as he slammed down inside the cabin.

  She repeated her question, screaming over the noise. “Can you fly a helicopter?”

  Court crawled over to the door, careful to hold on to a handle behind the copilot’s seat so that he couldn’t be pitched out, and then he pulled the door shut. It was quiet in the craft suddenly; the three could now speak in near normal voices.

  “Six! Tell me, can I kill this cabrón? Can you fly the helicopter?” She pressed the barrel of the Uzi hard into the narco’s short hair. He screamed and cussed at her while he kept flying north, jacking the collective left and right.

  Gentry had been trained on rotary wing craft, yes, but that was a long time ago, and the few craft he’d flown had not been nearly so complicated as this big machine. Now, as he looked around at computer screens and dials and switches and levers and lights, he knew the answer to her question. “No! Don’t shoot him!”

  De la Rocha laughed loudly, pulled back on the cyclic stick, and the chopper quickly began gaining altitude. “You hear that, bitch? If I die, then you die!” De la Rocha smiled with open eyes and flared teeth.

  Laura held the Micro Uzi against DLR’s head. He flew the helicopter higher and higher, feeling safer by the second. He headed north out into the bay and closer to the lights of downtown Puerto Vallarta. “You can’t shoot me, Laura!” he repeated, as if he wanted to be certain she understood the stakes. “If I die, then you die!”

  They were five hundred feet in the air now.

  Laura looked to Court with her big brown eyes.

  Gentry saw the eyes turn to narrow slits.

  Fuck.

  She turned back towards Daniel de la Rocha. Shrugged. “Then I guess I die, pendejo.”

  “No!” screamed Daniel de la Rocha.

  “No!” screamed Court Gentry.

  Their shouts were drowned out by a short but loud burping burst of the Uzi. The back of de la Rocha’s head exploded and sprayed across the lighted instruments and screens and the large glass windscreen. The remainder of DLR’s lifeless body sagged forward in its harness. A .45-caliber pistol dropped out of his left hand.

  The helicopter’s forward momentum slowe
d and ceased, and then it twisted slowly to the right until the lights of the Malecon were in full view. It tipped forward, nose down. The bloody windscreen left the bright lights of the resort city and went dark as the black ocean rushed up to meet it.

  Laura crossed herself and began to pray.

  Like a wild animal Court scrambled and crawled over Laura Gamboa on his way to the copilot’s seat. He used his hands and knees and elbows; he felt weightless for a moment, clenched the seat back with his right hand to hold steady just as he grabbed hold of the cyclic control in the center of the console in front of the seat. He pulled this back hard — too hard, in fact — and the craft righted itself quickly, sending Gentry chest first into the radio controls between the seats. The breath was knocked out of him, but he kept crawling forward, twisting his body and diving now to get his hand on the collective on the far side of the seat. He turned it, increased the pitch and the throttle, and he felt the helicopter surge forward again, arresting its downward spiral.

  But now he found himself facedown on the seat of the helicopter he was piloting, and the hard turn to the right was keeping him pinned there by centrifugal force. He let go of the cyclic for an instant, just long enough to reach down to push the left antitorque pedal to the floor. This brutal movement caused the high-tech aircraft to stop spinning suddenly, and Gentry rolled forward in the seat, finding himself all but upside down now as his feet were in the air, hanging over the headrest.

  “What are you doing?” Laura asked. She had stopped praying enough to watch the American’s odd actions.

  “Help me!” he screamed frantically. She took his feet and pushed them over to DLR’s lap, again the helicopter lost momentum and lift while Court struggled into the seat, but he finally got both hands and both feet where they belonged and brought the Eurocopter to straight and level flight with no more than twenty-five feet between the belly of the helo and the ocean’s surface.

  They streaked north over Bandaras Bay; one hundred yards off their right side the lights of the Malecon disappeared and the hotel district of Puerto Vallarta came into view.