by Mark Greaney
De la Rocha laughed aloud, a roar in the tight confines of the full SUV. Calvo was funny when he was frustrated, and Daniel knew that he frustrated the man to no end, which gave him great pleasure. The leader of Los Trajes Negros actually appreciated honesty and candor from his men, but the natural order of things had all but eliminated the personal opinions of his underlings from daily discourse. He’d killed employees and associates with whom he did not agree, many times, and although he’d found it necessary to do so, he recognized that this stifled outspokenness in his workforce.
But Nestor Calvo had been his father’s best friend, and Calvo was a genius when it came to the world of the cartels. As intelligence chief of Los Trajes Negros, he served as a go-between in DLR’s relationships between him and the government, the police, and the military, and Calvo, therefore, knew he was immune to violent retribution. De la Rocha loved the grumpy old goat like his father, may la Santa Muerte keep his eternal soul, and he’d listen to Nestor say anything he wanted. Even if it was blasphemous.
Daniel pointed to the bruise on his throat. “Do you see this, Nestor? Do you see where this second bullet hit me?”
“In the knot of your necktie?”
“¡Sí!”
“In the knot of your Kevlar necktie?”
“Dammit, Nestor, I know the tie was bulletproof, but the bullet came one inch from hitting above the tie, striking my throat.”
Nestor shrugged. “Therefore, your conclusion is that a resin skeleton in women’s clothing somehow controlled the trajectory of the bullet? If you had not insisted on coming to the rally in the first place, standing on top of a truck with a megaphone, thereby making yourself an easy target, I imagine you would not need the magic of your bony girl. Even without this attempt on your life, the hit teams Spider arranged to attack those on the dais created a dangerous environment to which you should not have exposed yourself.”
Spider Cepeda spoke up angrily. “My men knew where the trucks would be, and they knew to keep all fire towards the dais. The man who shot don Daniel was not one of my sicarios.”
De la Rocha started to enter the argument, but Nestor grabbed his vibrating mobile phone to answer a call. So Daniel turned to Emilio, the leader of his protection detail, who was seated to his right. “The man who shot me. Did you get him?”
“I think so, patrón.”
“You think so?”
“I was on the other side of the truck, but one of my men swears he killed el chingado cabrón.” The fucking asshole.
“Your job, don’t forget, is to kill los chingados cabrones before I get killed or hurt. If I was hurt, you would be dead now. You know that, don’t you?”
Emilio said, “La Virgen de Muerte has honored us both with a gift today.”
Daniel stared the man down for a long moment, then smiled broadly, reached out, and hugged him. “Indeed she has, amigo.”
Now de la Rocha’s mobile buzzed. He looked down at the screen and answered it. It was his wife. “Hola, Mami. No, no, I am fine, thanks be to God. Oh, some pendejo tried to shoot me but he failed. Emilio and his men took care of him. How are the kids? Excellente. Bueno, mi amor, give them each a kiss for me. I will be home soon.”
De la Rocha hung up the phone, took a sip of water that burned going down due to the bruising on his throat.
“¿Jefe?” It was Nestor Calvo; he was putting his phone back into his pocket.
“What is it, nonbeliever?” he asked with a smile.
Calvo did not return the smile. “That was my contact with the local cops. There was a gringo there, at the Parque Hidalgo.”
“Yes, I saw him, the old man in the blue hat on the stage.”
“No, not him, another. A young hombre with a blue hat and a beard. He killed five of our federales and one of the Puerto Vallarta police working for us.”
De la Rocha just stared for a long moment. His face reddened slowly. Finally, he shouted back at him. “Six sicarios? I haven’t lost six men at one time in two years fighting Constantino Madrigal and the government. Who the fuck was this gringo?”
Spider hung up his own phone and addressed the question. “I’ve learned that he escaped with the Gamboa family. I don’t know who he is, but I will find out.”
Calvo called out from the rear seat. “I’m on it, too.”
“What about the families of the police assassins?”
“At least twenty dead.”
De la Rocha shook his head, still confused by the fact a foreigner had appeared from nowhere and taken down an entire squad of Spider’s federale hit men. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. The sicarios federales were supposed to shoot everyone on the stage and then disappear. Now there were dead police back there who could be identified. Some may even be tied to his organization. Still, he knew there would be no major investigation. The government here was in his pocket, as was the media and many officers of the military garrison at the northern end of town. This would be a mess, but it would blow over.
Anyway, he had Nestor to take care of the political fallout; that was not de la Rocha’s main concern. His role in the next day or two would center on public relations.
And appeasing la Santa Muerte by killing Major Gamboa’s unborn son and laying the body on her altar.
TWENTY
Court Gentry drove the church van north, out of Jalisco State and into Nayarit State. They had dropped the surviving members of other families off along the way, at the airport and the bus station and a rental car office. Everyone just wanted to get the hell away from Puerto Vallarta.
Left in the vehicle with him now were the survivors of the Gamboa family: Eddie’s wife, Elena; Eddie’s sister, Laura; his brother Ignacio; his nephew Diego; and his parents, Ernesto and Luz.
The van’s radio was tuned to a station that reported on nothing other than the shooting in Puerto Vallarta. The reports said first eleven, then twenty-two, and finally twenty-eight people had been killed, including prominent businessman and suspected drug lord Daniel Alonzo de la Rocha Alvarez, three Puerto Vallarta municipal police, five federales, a German citizen, and an American citizen. Another thirty-odd civilians and police had been wounded. The initial presumption had been that after de la Rocha had been shot by either government assassins or sicarios from the Madrigal Cartel, the assassins, police, and bodyguards in the crowd had all opened fire on one another, causing the largest bloodbath in the nation in nearly five months.
Laura Gamboa sat behind Court and fed him driving directions and periodic instructions. “Make a left here.” And “It will be dangerous in front of the army base; let’s take the beach road.” And “There will be a roadblock at Sayulita; we can get back on the highway after that.” She seemed peculiarly well acquainted with the roads and highways and traffic patterns of Puerto Vallarta, and oddly professional and in control, as opposed to the five others in the van, who did nothing but shout and cry. Court wondered if Laura was in shock or denial, or if she had just experienced enough turmoil and danger and loss in her life to where she could, more or less, take this in stride.
Elena was on her fourth phone call now. Gentry had let it go for a while, he knew her frenzy to find out who was alive and who was dead would be all consuming. But he couldn’t take this flagrant security violation any longer. “Get off the phone,” Court demanded. Elena just ignored him, kept calling friends and hospitals and clinics in Puerto Vallarta trying to find out about Eddie’s brother and aunts and uncles.
So far she hadn’t learned a thing from her phone calls. Only by retelling the events amongst themselves in the church van could the family get an idea about the fate of their loved ones.
“Rodrigo was killed. I have lost another son!”
“I saw tío Oscar; he was shot in the stomach. I think he is dead!”
“Tía Esperanza was right next to me; she was screaming, but she just went quiet and fell.”
“I think the Ortega family was in front of us, but they weren’t in the church. I hope that they—”
<
br /> “I saw Señor Ortega lying in the street; his leg was bleeding, but he was alive.”
“Capitán Chuck is dead. Did you see?”
Court did not enter the conversation; their frantic shouted Spanish was all but indecipherable to him. And his mind was on their escape.
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.
