Ballistic

by Mark Greaney

  Gentry groaned, fought a third wave of nausea, and pulled out the camera phone.

  Ten minutes later he was back in the huge sitting room of the casa. He’d positioned Martin on the rear mirador and Ramses at the front door; each man now was responsible for one hundred eighty degrees of territory, which was far from ideal, but Court knew that he needed to get the Gamboa family together. Court sat on a chair in front of Elena, Laura, Ernesto, Luz, and Diego.

  It had occurred to him that he should just keep this information to himself, to not completely kill the spirit of those in the house by giving someone terrible news. But information was important. There was so little of it right now, and he needed to know who had been discovered by the sicarios and killed. Was he an informant, someone whose death might shine some sort of light on who the enemies and the friends were in this struggle?

  No, Court decided, this was a secret too important to keep.

  Court knew there was no chance in hell that he would say the right things right now, that he would break anything to anyone in any sort of way that could be construed as comforting or kind. He told himself that he was not trained to provide comfort and that there was no sense in wasting time on pleasantries when there were matters of life or death to attend to.

  But it was not lost on the American assassin that this was just an excuse he used to avoid even trying to communicate with other human beings in a normal, compassionate fashion.

  He decided that now, for the good of this operation, he would, at least, give an effort in delivering this news in the best way possible.

  “We’ve been given a message.”

  “What kind of message?” Elena asked, and Court worried that she would be the one who knew the dead dude on the soccer ball and that the shock might somehow affect her pregnancy. He couldn’t help it, he told himself now. He felt his body tightening, leaving the plan of the gentle delivery behind.

  “Look. I’m sorry, but I’m just going to say it. Some hombre has been killed by the sicarios; his face has been cut off and sewn onto a soccer ball. The ball was kicked over the back wall, and right now it is in a bag in the garden shed; it’s up high, and it’s safe from animals. I took a picture of the face in case one of you is able to identify it.” He hesitated. “I mean . . . identify him.”

  The family just sat there. Stared at him blankly.

  “It’s going to be someone who means a lot to one of you. Maybe all of you. I’m sorry.”

  His audience understood the significance now, and the fresh worry turned faces already contorted by stress into masks of horror and pain. But Ernesto nodded, said softly, “Show it to me. If I don’t know who it is, I will pass it on. There is no use in everyone looking if they do not have to.”

  Court nodded, pulled up the image on the camera phone, and handed it to Eddie’s dad.

  The old man’s wrinkles deepened a bit, but he showed no other emotion. He turned the phone to the right and then to the left with his left hand; his right hand was useless to him now because of the wound on his right shoulder. He took a long time trying to discern a face in the stretched strip of flesh affixed to the ball. After a long moment, a moment in which, Gentry saw, the man wanted to save the rest of his family the pain of having to look, he just shrugged.

  “Lo siento,” I’m sorry, he said. “I do not know this young man.”

  Diego reached out and took the phone from his grandfather. He put a hand to his mouth in shock but took it away, did his best to recover; his young machismo was bruised by what he obviously considered a display of weakness.

  After ten seconds he said, “I don’t know.”

  Luz Gamboa took the camera, looked, and quickly passed it on. The brown bags under her eyes, days of sadness and stress and lack of sleep, seemed to tighten some, but she shook her head. Then it was Laura’s turn, and she did not cry, but her face reddened. She crossed herself and mouthed a silent prayer for the dead man. But she did not know who it was.

  Elena was last. Everyone wanted to protect her, but she took the camera and looked at the image. She sobbed softly but shook her head.

  Shit, thought Court. It has to be someone; why go to all the trouble if we don’t even know the poor bastard? He asked everyone to make sure, to look again; he found himself pissed off that they couldn’t figure out who’d been murdered just to get to them.

  But no, no one in the room knew the face.

  He wondered if it could have been someone related to the Corraleses. The Black Suits could not know for sure who had been killed in the house, maybe they just—

  No. That’s not it.

  It dawned on him slowly; he wished he’d considered it before forcing the poor people in front of him to look again. But he thought of it now, so he sent Laura up to Ramses’s position and Diego to Martin’s post. He told Elena and Luz and Ernesto to go to the cellar and try and get some rest.

  A minute later the two GOPES officers sat in front of him. Court explained the situation, and both men understood. Ramses took the camera roughly from the American, held it in his good arm, looked at it while Martin stared over his shoulder. Court just watched their faces; he caught himself wanting to see recognition from one of the hardened military men.

  And he got his wish. Martin Orozco’s face reddened and his eyes shuddered, lowered as his mind left the present and thought back on a memory. Gentry could see it all in his face. It was someone he knew, someone close, someone he’d known for a long time.

  A loved one. Just from the expressions on Martin’s face Gentry said, softly, “He’s your brother.”

  “Pablito.” Martin sobbed the name. Tears ran freely from his eyes as he muttered, in Spanish, “Oh my God, the sons of whores killed my little brother.” The federal commando’s face flickered between rage and horror and utter despair. “He is just . . . he was just a merchant in Cuernavaca. He was not a soldier . . . He was nothing to them.”

  Ramses Cienfuegos hugged his compadre with his uninjured arm, shook his head in sadness and disgust.

  “But you are something to them,” said Court. “You are here.”

  Martin nodded, his face distant.

  “They know you are alive.” He turned to Ramses. “Which means they probably—”

  “Know I am alive, too,” Ramses said it gravely. Court could only imagine what was going on in his head. Surely, he was thinking of a wife, brothers, sisters, parents, children.

  Times like these Court Gentry appreciated being alone.

  “Those pendejos are going to pay,” Martin said, still looking at the photo of his young brother’s torn face.

  Gentry thought over the situation for a moment as he took back the cell phone. He quickly made a determination and put his hand gently on Martin’s shoulder. “Listen carefully, amigo. I need you to leave. I need you to go protect the rest of your family.”

  The Mexican shook his head forcefully. “No. I am here to protect Major Gamboa’s—”

  “You know that you are compromised. If they can get to one member of your family, they can get to them all. I can’t have you in here, thinking about what’s going on out there. I can’t worry they will do something that will make you turn on us—”

  “I will never—”

  “I believe you. I believe you believe. But I will not allow you to stay in this operation. You can best help this operation by getting away, taking away the leverage of the enemy. You know that, my friend.”

  Martin understood. Nodded slowly.

  “You need to try and escape immediately,” Court said.

  Martin nodded. His eyes remained distant. “Thank you.”

  Court looked to Ramses now. “You, too, amigo. If they know Martin survived the yacht explosion, then they probably know you did, too. They can’t patrol the entire perimeter all the time; if you can make it to the wall without being seen, if you guys go to opposite sides of the hacienda, you can wait for the right moment to climb over and make a run for it through the agave fields.”

  Ramses s
hook his head. “Joe, you and the Gamboas won’t survive one hour after nightfall. No one else has any training or ability to—”

  “It doesn’t matter. Look. They’ll go after your family if they haven’t already. They will kill them, torture them; you know how these fucks operate.”

  “I will not leave you to die.”

  “I need you to make a run for it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Gentry said, “I have a plan, but I can’t tell you in case you get caught by the Black Suits.”

  Ramses thought it over, nodded slowly. He took a phone out of a pocket of his chest rig. He winced with the movement, the bullet wounds in his arm clearly painful. He handed his phone to Gentry. “I want you to keep this with you. If I get out of here, I’ll get to a phone. I’ll make contact with the guy at the American embassy who can get the Gamboas visas into the United States. If you can get to Mexico City, I will set up a meeting.”

  “Perfect.”

  “But you will have to get them out of the hacienda, away from all the sicarios out there, by yourself. How the hell are you going—”

  “I’ll get it done.”

  Martin had not been part of this conversation. He’d just looked blankly at the tile floor in front of him. His gaze unfixed; his thoughts, Court assumed, were on his young brother Pablo. Court got Martin back into the discussion by going over ideas for the two of them to sneak out of the hacienda in broad daylight. Court thought it unlikely that they would both make it out, but they all agreed, if they went in opposite directions at the same time, one of them would stand a decent chance.

  Of course, using their motorcycles would be suicide. There was over two hundred yards of driveway from the casa grande to the front gate, and the enemy would know of the escape attempt in plenty of time to assemble there and kill the biker before he could get away.

  So they would have to try and escape on foot, they’d have to do it simultaneously, and all three decided, Martin and Ramses needed to go right now.

  THIRTY

  The two GOPES commandos embraced each other in the front driveway. They’d already said good-bye and good luck to the gringo and the surviving Gamboas. They’d packed water bottles and rolls into the pockets of their pants, taken fully loaded weapons from the dead marines lying around the house; they’d synchronized their watches and discussed the timing for going over the walls—Martin to the east and Ramses to the west. The men walked past their Suzuki crotch rockets and headed off in opposite directions, and Court stepped back inside.

  It was only nine in the morning, and Court was dead tired. He had a plan to get out of here, sort of, but it was thin as hell and he knew it. It was so thin he’d decided to wait as long as possible to tell the Gamboas about it, because he was certain they would freak out. But he also knew it was the only possible way they could survive.

  Court stopped in the kitchen for some fresh coffee, took it with him to the rear mirador, and sat on the tile there and sipped.

  He looked to his watch. Ten minutes from now Ramses and Martin both planned to be at the wall, on opposite sides of the hacienda. Court could not see either from his vantage point, so he just sat and waited. Hoped like hell he did not hear any gunfire.

  Five minutes now. Laura had come up to see him, had asked him if he thought it was okay for her to take a nap in the cellar. He told her to catch a few hours because she’d need it later, and then she’d lingered a minute longer. She thanked him for all he had done. He’d said no problem; they looked into each other’s tired eyes a few seconds longer, and then she’d drifted back down the stairs.

  His tired eyes followed her. Damn she was beautiful. Tough and resolute but kind and gentle. He wondered what it would be like to touch her, to feel her touch him, to just be somewhere quiet and safe, and to be together.

  Fuck. I’m getting delirious.

  Court shook his head, tried to clear his thoughts. Still, he knew now that Eddie had been right about his sister all those years ago. She was something special.

  Court looked at his watch. It was time. Right this second both men should be on the top of the wall—one on the east side, one on the west side—looking for a break in the patrols of the corrupt federales , hoping to beat the odds and make a run for freedom.

  No gunshots. That was good. Not so far any—

  A motorcycle’s engine revved in the driveway on the opposite side of the casa grande. What the fuck? Who the hell—

  Court leapt to his feet, ran from the veranda into the bedroom and into the hall, took the stairs three at a time into the sitting room, sprinted past the kitchen. Diego was there, and he ran behind Court as they made it into the entry hall and opened the front door.

  Martin Orozco Fernandez shot out of the parking circle on his Suzuki, sending dust and gravel high into the air behind him. He passed the wrecked truck with Ignacio’s body, raced down the driveway at high speed, a Heckler Koch MP5 submachine gun in his right hand and held out in front of him. The bike bounced on the stones, but he kept control with one hand as he raced down the drive into the forest and out of sight, heading right for the front gate.

  Right into the hands of the enemy, who would certainly be converging on the noise, positioning themselves there, ready to blast the biker into oblivion.

  And this would allow Ramses, on the western wall, time and opportunity to escape.

  Gunfire erupted in the distance now at the front gate, sounding over the whine of the motor. Court stood on the front porch, his shotgun in his hand, and he shook his head. Martin was giving his life to buy his compadre a few precious seconds to reach freedom. Somewhere to Gentry’s left, a couple hundred yards away, Ramses would hear the bike, the gunfire at the front gate, and he would realize what his friend was doing for him right now.

  Court could imagine Ramses Cienfuegos, with two gunshot wounds, rolling over the wall and running across the dirt road there, sprinting into the agave fields with tears in his eyes.

  The gunfire in the distance continued.

  The motorcycle’s engine stopped.

  And then the gunfire slowed, and then it trailed off completely.

  Court hoped like hell that Martin had earned a measure of his revenge, had killed some of the bastards, had gotten some payback for the torture and murder of his innocent brother Pablo.

  Gentry and Diego went back into the house without a word between them.

  Ten minutes later, with no more gunfire over on the side where Ramses had made his getaway, Court knew that Martin had succeeded in his last mission.

  Ramses had escaped.

  Court and Laura were the only two awake in the house at noon. Luz and Elena were asleep in the dark downstairs cellar, Diego was crashed on the couch in the living room, and Ernesto napped in a chair on the mirador above the front door of the house, a Mexican Marine’s MP5 on his lap. His shoulder wound had begun to sting and burn, but his wife had given him enough aspirin and tequila to deaden the pain slightly, and the old man had insisted on being involved in the property’s defenses.

  He’d absolutely refused to hide in the cellar with the women any longer.

  Court remained at the rear mirador; he sat on cool tile in the shade. He’d nodded off a couple of times but had not gotten over sixty seconds of rest. He tried to think up some way out of here for everyone, but the single solution he could come up with seemed like a complete shot in the dark.

  A noise on the patio below caught his attention; he leaned forward, knelt between stone columns that had been shot up pretty thoroughly in the first gunfight, when Ramses had used this high ground to fire down on the men on the patio bathed in the light of the Ford truck. Eddie’s prized possession now sat like a dead animal in the bushes, listing to one side and showing no possible signs of life. The truck had easily taken one hundred rounds of rifle fire or buckshot pellets.

  There, on the patio below him, he saw Laura. She knelt over a dead man in a Tequila municipal police officer’s uniform. At first Court wonde
red if she was scavenging from the body more weapons or cash or anything she could put to use.

  Court started to interrupt her from above, to assure her he’d gleaned everything of value from the bullet-ridden body. Just as he began to speak though, Eddie’s little sister crossed herself with her rosary in her hand and began to pray.

  Praying for the souls of the men who had just killed her brother and had tried to kill everyone here in the casa grande.

  Gentry shook his head. He absolutely did not comprehend this level of compassion or forgiveness.

  It was not his world at all.

  It was not his world, and he had decided he was going to make a run for it.

  He found Elena in the kitchen, pouring herself water from a large jug. He asked her to come to the living room. Ernesto remained on watch, Luz remained in the cellar, but Gentry wanted to talk to Elena, Laura, and Diego.

  “Listen, even if Ramses makes it to a town, to a phone, or to a car, we can’t count on him doing it before nightfall. The federales will hit as soon as it’s dark; you can bet your life on it.”

  “So what are we going to do?” asked Elena.

  “I’ve got to try and break out, to get some help or find a car—”

  “Go, Joe. You have done all you can. We would not have made it this far without you. Thank you so much for everything.” It was Laura; she spoke as if she had expected this. He felt defensive.

  “You are leaving us,” Elena worded it as a statement. Court saw she had no illusions that she or her baby would survive without him.