by Mark Greaney
This was the type of intel that Gentry had picked up in the thirty or so other areas of operation in which he’d worked or traveled in his career, both as an asset of the CIA and as a private hit man. “So . . . the good guys wear the masks around here. I’ll have to get my head around that.”
“Yes, but so do a lot of the bad guys.”
“Perfect.”
Court looked at four local cops hanging out on the patio, leaning against their beat-up mountain bikes. Laura was standing among them, refilling their plastic cups with milky horchata poured from a plastic pitcher. “How come the cops on our side are the ones with the sticks and the bicycles, and the cops on the other side have the guns and the helicopters?”
“Maybe we picked the wrong team.”
Court drank his tequila down. “I’m beginning to think maybe Eddie did.”
Cullen looked at him thoughtfully. “I wish I knew who you were, Joe.” The old man even said the phony name in a way that demonstrated that he knew it was bullshit.
Court changed the subject again. “Why did Eddie come back home? Did you ever talk to him about that?”
Cullen waved a hand. “To save his country. To fight the narcoterroristas . To bring his skills from the USA down here where they could do the most good.”
“But?”
“But that’s not why he came back.” Cullen turned back to the driveway, pointed at Eddie’s little sister, Laura Gamboa. “That’s why he came back. For her. One hundred percent. Laura’s husband was killed five years ago up north. He was a lieutenant in the army. His truck was ambushed by matamilitares, special bands of sicarios who kill military men. He was beaten, his eyes were gouged out while he was still alive, and he was shot like a dog. His body was burned in a fifty-five gallon drum, and his head was stuck on a fence post within sight of the Arizona border. Laura was a mess afterwards.
“She has two other brothers, but they are both worthless losers. Drunks. One is an out-of-work auto mechanic and the other is an out-of-work appliance salesman.” Cullen pointed to the two fat men standing by the door to the kitchen, smoking and drinking. Rodrigo and Ignacio. They both looked shitfaced. Court had read their body language during dinner; he could tell neither man wanted to be here. “When Laura’s husband died, Eddie left the DEA, moved down here to San Blas, started working with the Feds.” Cullen took a long breath. “I’ve got to assume little Laura blames herself for Eddie’s death now. She’s taken it even harder than Elena or his parents.”
“Shit.” It occurred to Court for the first time tonight that close family ties had drawbacks as well as benefits.
As if on cue, Elena stepped out of the back door and walked across the yard to the two men. In English she said, “Joe . . . I’ve made your bed; I can show you where it is when you and Capitán Chuck finish your drinks.”
“Thank you, but I need to get back to Puerto Vallarta.”
Elena shook her head. Court had only met the woman a few hours earlier, but already he knew her to be intensely strong willed. “You are staying with us. Just one night. Francisco, Eddie’s uncle, is driving down to Sayulita early in the morning; I’ll have him run you to the bus station in Vallarta.” She took his hand and squeezed it; she seemed genuinely offended that he would consider leaving her home in the dead of night.
Court glanced at Cullen, and Cullen smiled, raised his eyebrows, and nodded.
Gentry said, “I guess I can stay.”
Cullen switched to Spanish to speak to Elena. Court could not tell if he was just proud of his command of the language or if he was trying to keep the other American out of the conversation. “Listen, Elena. Have you given any more thought to skipping the protest tomorrow?”
Court butted in, but in English. “What protest?”
Elena answered. “I told you. In Puerto Vallarta.”
“You called it a memorial.”
She shrugged. “To me, to the other family members here, it is a memorial. We will speak out for our dead loved ones. But Capitán Chuck thinks it will turn into a rally against Los Trajes Negros.” She looked at the older American. “He does not want me to go.”
Cullen said, “They are expecting a big crowd. I just don’t see it as a great idea for a woman seven months pregnant to be down in all that rabble. There is a lot of anger, a lot of tension after . . .” His voice trailed off.
“After Eduardo died fighting against them. I know that, Chuck. That’s why I should go.”
Court could not help but take sides. “I agree with the captain. You are pregnant; you don’t need to be in the middle of a riot. Pushing and shoving—”
“It’s not a riot, and I will be on the dais, not down in the crowd. I will be fine.”
Cullen shook his head. “I don’t like it. Eddie wouldn’t want you to get in the middle of that.”
“Eduardo would have gone, and you know it.”
“Yes,” Cullen said, “Eddie would have been there with a tactical team and an assault rifle, and he would have protected the protest from all threats from the monsters who support DLR. But he would not want you to be there, his family to be there, his unborn son to be there. It’s too dangerous.”
Elena smiled at the older man for a long time. “You worry too much about me, Capitán Chuck.” Then she smiled. “You have been a good friend to the family.”
Cullen sat up straighter in the chair. “And I will be as long as I live. Eddie’s death did not change that.”
Court liked the old man, even if the old man wasn’t as crazy about him. Court wished there was something he could do for Elena and the Gamboas, but he couldn’t think of a thing. He said good night to Cullen as the old man headed out front to his car; Court followed Elena inside, past at least a dozen others finding little corners with blankets and pillows to bed down for the night. She took him upstairs to a small bedroom, where she’d laid out a mattress with a blanket and a pillow for him.
The walls of the room were a fresh coat of baby blue. Court imagined Eddie had painted it himself for the son that he would never get to see.
THIRTEEN
LAOS
2000
The afternoon humidity clung to his skin like barnacles on a ship’s hull. Gentry drifted in and out of consciousness for the rest of the afternoon. The fever from his malaria caused him to shake some of the banana leaves off his hide, but he managed to shield himself from the sun by pulling the foliage back over his exposed skin.
Night brought relief from the sun. It also brought out a breeze that was strong enough to blow away his protective covering but somehow not strong enough to keep away the mosquitoes. With a weary hand he scooped mud off the ground next to him, wiped it thickly across his face and neck to try and cover as much skin as possible, but it didn’t really work.
The bug bites kept him awake all night, spiders scurried across his body, and he had nothing left in the tank to kill them or even flick them off. He just lay there like a fallen log as creatures made trails all over him.
The fever caused his brain to swell inside his skull, and with the swelling he lost touch with reality and began seeing visions. Several times he believed he had died; he felt no more pain or heat or hunger or weakness, only a lightness and a peace. But the visions were cruel, like a desert mirage they teased him with their tranquility, and just like in the desert, when they dissipated, they brought about renewed despair.
He saw a big Chevy pickup truck pull up next to the pond. From it stepped his father and Chase, his younger brother. They beckoned him to get up and jump in the cab; they told him they were heading into town for pancakes, and they wanted him to come along.
Court spoke back to them, and with the movement of his scratchy vocal chords, the vision dissipated, leaving him right where he’d lain for fourteen hours.
Dammit.
He wanted to die. He did not want to be alive when the sun rose the next morning.
In the bright moonlight a helicopter hovered just overhead, landed next to the pond, and from
it leapt Maurice, his CIA principle trainer and long-time mentor.
“Get your lazy ass up, Violator!” the old Vietnam vet shouted, calling Court by his code name.
Court did not reply at first. He just shook his head. He thought to himself, I’m too damn tired.
“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 n
ow. 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 going 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.
