Ballistic

by Mark Greaney

  “They are in Mexico City?” asked Cepeda hopefully.

  “I don’t know. I just know the gringo is.”

  “When will you meet with him again?”

  “Two p.m. tomorrow.”

  De la Rocha shook his head. “Seventeen hours. Any way to get to him faster than that?”

  “Yes, sir. I got his mobile number. I thought maybe you had a way to triangulate—”

  “Esteban.” Now Cepeda was the one interrupting Pfleger and calling across the room. Esteban Calderon was the technical guru of the Black Suits; he’d been the radio operator in their special forces team, and he had degrees in telecommunications and electrical engineering. He hustled over, and the Mexicans discussed the technical hurdles involved in finding someone by their mobile phone signal in a city as congested as the Distrito Federal.

  Finally, when it was settled that with enough equipment and men and a little time the location of a mobile phone could be pinpointed, de la Rocha returned to Pfleger. The American had been all but forgotten for the previous five minutes, by everyone except Emilio and the guards along the wall, that is.

  Jerry had gulped a full glass of chardonnay and then another half while he waited.

  De la Rocha said, “What do you want, amigo?”

  “Your undying appreciation.”

  Daniel just stared at him. De la Rocha could see from the man’s mannerisms that he was a user of some of the product in which the Black Suits dealt.

  When he saw how flat his humor fell, Jerry became serious. “Honestly, nothing much. I just want the American.”

  “The American? You want us to take the family, and you want the gringo to go with you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is your interest in him?”

  “Apparently, he is wanted by the U.S. government. The embassy was buzzing this afternoon about some guy on the loose down here. If he’s the guy they are after, and I think he is, then there is a reward. I was thinking I provide you the information, then you could provide . . . a group of men to pick them up. You take the Gamboas, and you pass the American over to the embassy. Then you pass me the reward money for my information.”

  De la Rocha took a long sip of his wine. “Why do the norteamericanos want the gringo?”

  “I don’t know. Something classified. There’s a guy who showed up this afternoon hanging around the embassy, definitely a CIA spook. Apparently, this spy and the wanted gringo used to work together, and he’s hanging around waiting to ID him if he’s picked up by the federales.

  Daniel nodded thoughtfully, and caught Calvo’s eye. Both men stood and removed themselves from the table, found a quiet corner of the banquet room.

  Nestor said, “If la CIA want this gringo so bad, they may be willing to deal for him.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. What do they have that we want?”

  “It’s the Central Intelligence Agency. Any hard intelligence they have about Madrigal could be useful.”

  DLR stroked his goatee. “They would know who his government contacts are in Peru, in Ecuador, in Colombia.”

  “They certainly might know all that.”

  “Would they trade that information for this gringo assassin?”

  “I will begin immediately to find out. I will set up a chain of intermediaries to contact the embassy, to get us in touch with la CIA. We will judge how much passion they have for this man.”

  “Either way, we need to get Jerry to lead us to Elena.”

  Nestor was excited by the prospect of trading the gringo for CIA information. It would be a huge intelligence coup against his organization’s archrival.

  He was less enthusiastic when his boss returned to the original mission, the killing of the police officer’s pregnant wife.

  Still, Calvo agreed, and his phone was out of his pocket in seconds. Before dealing with American intelligence he would need to establish a series of cutouts, and this would take time.

  Daniel addressed the banquet room full of his men. “Everyone, we leave immediately for the D.F.!”

  Jerry Pfleger rose, held his wineglass up high in toast. The Mexicans in the banquet room ignored him; instead they quickly assembled on de la Rocha, so that they could file out as one unit and limit the chance of an assassination attempt against their patrón.

  THIRTY-SIX

  At ten o’clock both Court and Laura were awake; they sat across from one another on their twin beds; they nibbled on their tepid dinner and listened to a soft rain blow against the window of the hotel room. Laura had showered, and her wet bangs drooped in her eyes. She had dressed in her new clothes, a black polo-type shirt and blue jeans.

  Her rosary hung from her neck.

  Court thought it was an efficient outfit, and she looked amazing in it.

  They were in for the night; Gentry had unplugged the television and pushed it and the TV stand against the door, along with an oaken chest of drawers. Anyone coming through would not only need a key but also a shoulder and several hard shoves.

  There was little conversation until they finished their meal, but once the remnants were in the garbage can, Laura told stories about her family and her youth in San Blas. If she expected Court to talk about his childhood, she was disappointed.

  When her stories trailed off and his did not begin, she asked him directly, “My brother. Was he like you?”

  “In what way?”

  “In any way? I mean . . . the way you can fight. The way you have protected us. Was Eduardo the same?”

  “Eddie was a good guy. A tough guy. But when I knew him? No . . . he was not like me. He was not a killer.”

  “I don’t think you are a killer,” she said.

  “Then you haven’t been paying attention.”

  “No. I understand you have killed people. Of course you have. But only to save us and to save yourself. You have only done what is right. What is necessary. Men around here who are killers do not do it for good reasons. Only for bad.”

  Court did not respond. He just sipped water from a bottle.

  Laura continued. “God is working through you. You should know that.”

  The sound that came out of Court’s mouth was something between a chuckle and a gasp. Water dripped down his chin. “I don’t know about that.”

  “I am certain. He sent you to watch over us.”

  “You make it sound so simple.”

  She considered that comment for a long time, looking into his eyes so intently that he was forced to look away from her. “No . . . maybe it is not that simple. But I believe . . . I believe you were sent to us when we needed you.”

  “There were about a dozen of you who needed me, and now there are four. What about the others?”

  Laura began to cry.

  Gentry looked up at the ceiling. Shit. Why the fuck did I say that?

  Her sobs softened, and she stood, crossed over to his bed, and sat next to him. Facing him with her legs crossed Indian style. “Do you believe in good and evil?”

  Gentry could feel his heart rate increase with her nearness. He looked across the room. “I believe in what I have seen with my own eyes.”

  “Which means?”

  “I believe in evil.”

  “You have seen no good in this world?”

  Court looked at her again. Felt blood coursing through his body and warming his face and hands. “I’ve seen good, sure. Just not enough.”

  “Well, I believe what I see with my own eyes. And I see much good in you, Joe. You are a good man.”

  “I think we should try and sleep. We will be on the road all day tom—”

  Laura moved closer. Interrupted Court. “Do you have someone?”

  “Wha—what?”

  “A wife. A girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “You cannot be alone forever.”

  He smiled. Looked away. “I won’t live forever.”

  “I mean . . . on this earth. God doesn’t want man to live alone.”

  Court d
id not reply.

  “I have been alone for five years. Since Guillermo died. I know about loneliness, about how difficult it can be to keep everything inside you because there is no one else to share your life. But I have my faith. If I did not . . . Joe, I do not know how your heart can survive.”

  “My heart is fine,” Court knew this because he could feel it pounding in his chest.

  “There is not just darkness in the world, Joe. There is much that is bright.”

  “I travel in different social circles than the happy stuff.”

  She did not completely understand, but she answered as if she did.

  “You are doing God’s work.”

  “I’m just a guy, Laura. I’m not anything special.”

  “No. You are special. The devil is fighting for this earth. He does this with evil. You fight against evil here on earth.” She shrugged again. “You are fighting the devil.” She completed the logic of her thinking. “You are doing God’s work.”

  “Thanks,” he said. Sometimes he wondered what the hell he was doing. This girl had her opinion, and it was only that to Court, but it was nice to hear nonetheless.

  “We better get some sleep,” he said it again. But she did not get up from his bed.

  “May I stay with you? Like last night? May I stay close to you?”

  “Sure,” he said it with a phony air of nonchalance, which, he was pretty sure, she had seen right through.

  He reached over, flipped off the lights, and laid back, his shoes and pants and shirt still on. His handgun on the table next to him.

  She curled up next to him, rested a hand on his chest, and placed her damp head on his shoulder. Even though she was only five feet tall, together their bodies took up the entire twin bed. Soon her leg moved and draped across his lower legs.

  The lights were off, but Court’s eyes were open. He stared at a ceiling he could not see and tried to keep his breathing slow and shallow.

  “Are you afraid,” she asked him, and he thought she was referring to his pounding heart.

  “No,” he answered back quickly. “Not at all.”

  “You mean, all the people trying to kill us, and you are not scared? I’m terrified.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah. I just . . . I am trained, I guess, to use the energy of fear to my advantage. I am scared when I’m engaged in action . . . but I was trained to channel it and not freeze up.”

  “It sounds like some sort of science.”

  “It is.” He liked talking about this. It took his mind off of her leg, which was bent at the knee and resting on his thighs now.

  “I am lucky to have you protecting me.”

  “I saw how you fight. You’ve had some training yourself.”

  “Yes, when Eduardo was alive, he took me shooting a lot. It was important for him that even though I was only tourist police, I was ready for anything. I trained in kickboxing as well.”

  “I noticed you were in good shape.”

  “You did?” she said it with a smile in her voice, and Gentry could feel his face warm from embarrassment. Her hand on his chest began moving back and forth slowly.

  “I mean, I could tell you exercised. Good for you. You might need those skills again before this is all over. If we run into the Black Suits on the road, we can’t expect them to—”

  “Joe?”

  “Yeah.”

  “May I kiss you?”

  Yes, he thought. But said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  Court did not know why not. He stammered out something about Eddie, about needing to sleep, about her not knowing who he was or what he was.

  “That is crazy, Joe. Eduardo wanted me to find someone else. To find a good man.”

  “Laura. I’m not a good man. I am just a man. Just a guy trying to help.”

  “Then help.”

  “Help wha—”

  “Help me.”

  She climbed on top of him, leaned down into his face, and kissed him softly on the lips. His eyes widened, and he did not contribute, but he did not pull away. Again she kissed him, his face and his body went rigid as stone, until the third kiss when his eyes closed slowly.

  They opened. “Wait,” he said.

  “No,” she replied, and she pressed her weight against him, wrapped her arms behind his neck, and kissed him more deeply now.

  He could see her. When he opened his eyes, they had adjusted to the darkness of the hotel room, and he saw her eyes shut tight, and her wet bangs swaying with the movements of her head as she kissed him: his lips, his cheeks, his eyes, his neck.

  Suddenly, she stopped, sat up; her weight pressed against his waist. He noticed his hands had roamed to her hips, and he held her there.

  She looked down on him, and he could see her clearly now in the light from the window. “Your name is not Joe.”

  Gentry just shook his head.

  “Tell me your real name. I do not want to call you Joe while we are making love.”

  Court blinked. We’re making love? He shook his head again.

  She said, “Tell me what your friends call you, what people used to call you when you were young, something that means something to you.”

  Court almost said Violator, his code name. It was almost the same in English and Spanish. But he didn’t want her calling him that. He thought for a moment more and whispered. “You can call me Six.”

  “¿Seis?” she asked, confusion mixing with the lust in her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “Bien. Seis.” Satisfied, she pulled off her polo shirt, unfastened her bra, and let it fall to the floor between the two beds. She unbuttoned Court’s shirt; he put his hands on hers for a moment, tried to pull them away from the buttons, but in truth, he did not want her to stop. He thought about Eddie and Ernesto, men who would do anything to protect this woman, and then he thought about the men who wanted to hurt her. He had been protecting her, but now he did not know if he was hurting her by giving in to her advances. She leaned forward and kissed him. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, not at all confident that he was getting any better at this.

  His mobile phone rang.

  He ignored it.

  She ignored it.

  It kept ringing. Stopped. Started up again.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  She ignored it.

  “It must be the embassy guy.” He barely got the words out; he reached for the phone, but she held his head tight and kept her lips pressed against his.

  He almost had to fight her away. “Hello?”

  “Hey there, fellow countryman. Sorry for the late call, I’m burning the midnight oil up here in my office and had a couple of questions.”

  “Yeah. No problem.”

  Jerry asked Court a few odds and ends about past professions of the four Gamboas. He said it was necessary to have some sort of occupation for their work visas, and although they could make something up, the more accurate the information on the documents, the better they would hold up to scrutiny on the other side of the border.

  Court conferred with Laura and answered Pfleger’s questions. Half of him hoped that this interruption would quell the heat between himself and Laura; he felt guilty for his actions and intentions with his old friend’s kid sister. But the other half of him hoped they could just pick right back up where they left off before the cell phone rang.

  Five minutes later Gentry and Lorita had picked up where they’d left off. She stayed on top of him, kissing his face like it was some sort of precious treasure, and his strong arms kept her body tight against his while she did so.

  When she pulled him up to slip off his shirt, he became nervous. He knew how long it had been since he’d taken a woman to bed. He said softly, and more to himself than to Laura, “I’m not . . . trained.”

  “Trained? What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.” Shut up, Gentry. Just stop fucking talking.

  “Do you think most people go through training for th
is?”

  “No . . . I just—”

  “Do you think I am an expert of some kind?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “You are strange, Six. I really like you. But you are very strange.”

  “Yeah.”

  Court was self-conscious for a while longer, even distracted when he heard footsteps in the hallway. But the footsteps melted away, and his inhibitions followed them down the hall.

  He felt her small fingertips on his belt, then he felt it removed from around his waist. She unbuttoned his khakis, and he did not stop her—he just watched. When his pants were off, she began moving back up his body. She put her right hand on his left thigh, and he winced loudly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, then inspected his leg. Drew a delicate finger tip up and down the length of a deep cut that was, by now, nearly three weeks old.

  “What happened?”

  “Crocodile,” Gentry said, his mind a million miles from the Amazon tributary right now.

  Laura laughed. “Crocodilo.” She said it in Spanish and laughed again. “I don’t believe you. So many secrets you keep.” She put her hand on his chest, over his heart. Then she moved it away and began kissing him there. “You can have your secrets, Six; you can hold them in your heart. But please make a little room in there for me, too. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said, and now he could resist no more. He sat up slowly, kissed her lips, and rolled her gently onto her back.

  Her body felt warm and firm, but the tense, hard muscles were shielded by soft, compliant flesh. He felt her racing heartbeat, and it comforted him, made him realize that they were in this together, that she was not just dispassionately watching him like an instructor grading his actions. When he slowed down, she grabbed at him, pulled him forward. When he took a deep breath, she covered his mouth with hers. When he turned his head towards the door or the window, she took his head in her hands and turned it back to her. When he winced with the pain in his thigh, she just pulled him down on top of her and kissed him until the pain went away.

  Until, finally, there was no more door and no more window. No more danger and no more pain. There was only the two of them, here, on a little bed and safe from all harm.

  They made love for hours.