by Mark Greaney
Luz cried out, sat down on the bed, and began to wail.
Elena herself cried. “How?”
“Thank this asshole right here.” He pointed towards the American tied to the toilet.
Elena looked at Pfleger, and Pfleger just turned away from her, gazed at a long centipede crawling across the grimy fake-tile flooring.
“What . . . what are we going to do now?” asked Diego.
“We’re going to get you all into the United States. And then I’ll go and get her back.”
“No! No, I am not leaving without Laura,” said Elena.
“Yes, you are. I need you and the family out of the way.”
“How are we going to get my tía back?” asked Diego.
Court sat on the bed next to Luz. He said, “I am going to make de la Rocha give her back. I am going to make de la Rocha’s life miserable, and I will not stop making his life miserable until he releases Laura. And then when he does . . . I take her, and I leave.”
“You will leave him alive?” asked Diego.
“My only objective is to save Lorita.”
“De la Rocha killed Eduardo,” said Elena.
“I know that, and I would love to make him pay. But I don’t expect that will be possible, so I am going to concentrate on rescuing Laura.”
Elena Gamboa stared long and hard at Court. He did not understand the look she was giving him at first, but slowly it dawned on him. He had said something, conveyed something, given off some sort of emotion about Laura that Elena recognized.
He turned away, but she came to him, took both of his hands, and squeezed them tightly. He kept his eyes on the wall, then down on Pfleger, who was writhing on the tile next to the toilet.
He heard Eddie’s wife sniff back tears. She understood that this was personal now; she had read into Court’s words and actions.
Elena must have recognized she was making him uncomfortable, so she turned away without speaking, sat with her mother-in-law, hugged her deeply; tears dripped down both of their faces. Luz looked up at the man she knew as Jose. “Thank you, Jose. Thank you so much.”
In Spanish he said, “I haven’t even started yet.”
Jerry had spent literally the entire twenty-four-hour bus ride and the next morning in Tijuana working on his plan to get the Gamboas into the United States. He hadn’t quite solidified his scheme before the American killer had taken Pfleger to rent a scooter, then returned him to the motel, tied him to the shitter, and left him alone for hours.
Heartless bastard.
The evening before, on the bus north, Jerry had arranged for a criminal contact in Tijuana to vouch for him to a veteran coyote. The cayote told him he was arranging for a large group of forty pot smugglers to cross into the U.S. near Tecate late in the evening in two days’ time. Jerry was told his group could tag along if they would haul packs of marijuana wrapped in hemp cord during the hike, and Jerry readily agreed. He was then given the exact time and place of the crossing.
Next he used an acquaintance in Nogales who owed him a favor. The man put him in touch with a drug ring working the plaza there. He was told of a tunnel that ran from Nogales over the border into Arizona, and the entire morning in Tijuana he worked his new mobile phone to make contact with the right people in the right places. Finally, after the Gamboas were collected and he was cut free from the toilet by the Gray Man, Jerry Pfleger completed the arrangements with more calls to Nogales and Tucson, and promises to everyone he spoke with.
Promises that were mostly lies.
The lies Jerry Pfleger had told in the past twenty-four hours would have a lot of people out to kill him, of this the American embassy officer had no doubt. His plan would fuck over some of the scummiest, most vengeful, and most dangerous men in northern Mexico, a region known for dangerous men. All these men knew his real name, knew his business associates, and knew where he worked. There would be no going back to business as usual when this ordeal was over.
But Jerry Pfleger was more terrified of the Gray Man. If he somehow survived this ordeal, he would deal with whatever came after. For now he had a job to do.
FORTY-THREE
Court, Jerry, and the Gamboas drove a stolen Ford Lobo truck east through the morning, arriving at Nogales before noon. There they checked into a motel that was hardly any better than the one they’d left in TJ.
They sat around all afternoon, ate, talked. The Gamboas prayed, and Court and Jerry picked at their raw and red wounds, waiting for nightfall.
Jerry’s plan was all about his own preservation. He would tip off the DEA at the last minute to the invasion of pot smugglers near Tecate, he would insinuate heroin was being smuggled along with the pot, and he would exaggerate the number of mules from forty to one hundred.
And he would hope like hell that this took any heat away from the Arizona side of the Nogales tunnel for the time the Gamboas needed to get over the border.
It was the best way to increase the Gamboas’ chances because the Gamboas’ fate was, to Jerry Pfleger, a matter of life or death.
At eight in the evening Court tied Jerry to the toilet in the bathroom, and he left the motel with the Gamboas. They drove the Lobo up to the border to International Street, made a right, and then drove down a little hill. On their left was the border fence, rusted tin and a few layers of chain link and barbed wire. On their right were some simple homes on the hill. The asphalt road ended, and they continued on gravel and dirt for fifty yards, then parked in front of a wooden shack.
One man stood outside. Even before Court climbed out from behind the wheel, he could tell the man had a gun under his lumberjack shirt.
This was the cayote. He’d be crossing with the family, meeting with their ride to Tucson. He would accompany them all the way there.
The cayote eyed the gringo, said nothing at all.
Court didn’t like this one damn bit. The lives of these three, four if you counted Eddie’s unborn son, all depended on the actions of this drug-running, piece-of-shit scumbag giving him the stink eye.
But neither Court nor the Gamboas had any other options. They had to trust Jerry. Not his honesty or fidelity. No, he wasn’t doing this for those reasons. He was doing it for self-preservation, so Court felt his motivation was sufficient.
The cayote motioned the Gamboas forward into the shack, and Court stood with them a moment in the darkness on the dirt road. “I will never be able to thank you,” Elena said to him. She sobbed.
“Just make it over there. Look up some of Eddie’s old friends. Navy men, DEA guys. They are good people. They will help you. Have that baby.”
She smiled. “I will do that.”
She hugged him, tears filled her eyes. “Please save Laura. You are her only chance. And please be careful yourself,” she said.
She turned and headed for the shack. Court shook Diego’s hand next. “You are in charge; you understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your uncle Eddie went to the U.S. as a young man, and he made a success of himself. No matter how his life ended . . . he had a life.”
Diego nodded, looked into the starry sky. “I would be proud to live like my tío Eduardo.” He turned and disappeared into the shack.
Luz hugged Court a long time. She said a short prayer then crossed herself, turned, and walked away.
Court caught himself trying to understand the words she had said. To take solace in them. To feel empowered by her divine plea.
But he did not understand her. And he felt no different.
When the family was gone, Court turned around. He could see over the fence here, more or less. On the other side were a few warehouses; their lights were on but it was still and silent now. A road ran up a hill of scrubland; it was visible in the moon and starlight, a long piece of ribbon candy winding to the north, into the distant night.
That was America. Right there. So close he felt he could reach out and touch it.
Court had not seen his own country in five year
s. It was no longer home; it was likely the most dangerous country in the world for him.
Except, perhaps, for Mexico.
Still, he looked out over the undulating scrubland longingly, as if the dirt and sand and tumbleweed ahead of him was the land of milk and honey.
It was fucking beautiful.
He was jealous of the three Mexicans he had just sent over the border.
He loved his country, though powerful elements of his country did not love him back. He’d bled for that country. He’d killed for that country.
He would die for that country, if he did not end up dying for something else.
He had a score he’d need to settle someday with Denny Carmichael and others in the upper echelons of the CIA.
But that was for later. Much later.
Court’s sad, wistful eyes and the dreamy look of longing on his face hardened, morphed into cold eyes and a gritty expression of determination. He climbed back into the truck and headed to the motel to await a phone call.
The call came at seven in the morning. It was Elena—they’d made it. The Gamboas had left the coyote behind and were on their own in Tucson, they had bus tickets to San Francisco, and she gave Court the phone number of the mobile phone she’d just purchased in the bus station. Gentry had given them a prearranged codeword. If they were safe, she would tell him they were going to find a hotel. If they were under duress, she would use the word motel. She said “hotel,” and Court blew out a long sigh of relief. Still, he made her put Diego on the line. Gentry listened hard to him for any sounds of duress, but he, like his aunt, just sounded tired.
He hung up the phone and looked to Jerry. Pfleger sat on the other bed in the small motel room. He’d not slept a wink. His foot throbbed, and his fear over his own impending death had kept him up.
Jerry looked back at the Gray Man. “You’re going to kill me anyway, right?”
Court shook his head. “No. You did what I asked you to do. I’m not going to kill you.”
Jerry didn’t believe him. “Right. I get up, turn to walk out the door, and you shoot me?”
Again Gentry shook his head. “No, Jerry . . . You can stay here. I’ve paid up through tomorrow. I’m leaving.”
Pfleger looked confused. Slowly he nodded and said, “Whatever you say.” He did not believe Court.
“I do want you to quit your job. You are done working for the United States. You got that?”
Jerry nodded quickly. Surprised and hopeful now. “You got it. I can’t go back there, anyway. The cartels would fight each other for the chance to kill me now. But . . . What should I do?”
Gentry shrugged. “Whatever. Limp all the way to Copenhagen for all I care. I just don’t want to hear about you working for the U.S. in any capacity.”
“You got it, dude. I’m out.”
“And I need another favor from you.”
“Okay.”
“Madrigal.”
“What about him?”
“I need to talk to him. Face-to-face.”
Jerry Pfleger just put his head back on the wall behind the bed. “Man, nobody talks to el Vaquero in person.”
“Bullshit. Make it happen.”
“Look. I know lots of Cowboys. Some of them are pretty high ranking carteleros. But I don’t know anyone who can get you in front of Madrigal himself. He’s a ghost. A phantom.”
“I need to talk to him. Man to man.”
Jerry just shook his head like it was out of the question. But slowly, he stopped. Looked at the man staring him down. “Let me guess. This is another thing you need me to do, or else you will shoot me again.”
“You are getting the idea, Jerry.”
Pfleger looked off into space, his eyes unfixed, for a long time. Finally, he said, “Let me make some calls.”
FORTY-FOUR
Gentry sat on the curb, the bright sunshine and the dust and the exhaust from the passing buses and cars insinuated itself into every pore of his exposed skin.
A boy trotted past on a horse. Looked down at the man on the curb, mystified to see a stranger in his town.
Court glanced down to his hands. They quivered. No, they shook. His hands had always been steady, no matter the adrenaline coursing through his body. He’d learned to control his fear, to put it in the back of his mind, to direct his energy towards the problem at hand, to believe in himself. To believe that, no matter whatever perils lay before him, he’d get through it.
But he found himself not believing now.
There was a lump in his throat.
Nerves, Gentry. Just fucking nerves. No problem.
He took a sip of his Coke and a bite of his torta. The pork was thick and tangy, but the bright sun of the Sonoran Desert coupled with his worry sapped him of the majority of his appetite.
And the men all around him were seriously pissing him off.
He’d been in town less then five minutes, just off the bus from Hermosillo, when the first intimidator struck. A muscled young man in a straw hat walked up next to him while Court walked towards the center of town.
“Who are you?”
Court kept walking.
“What is your name?”
Court did not even look at the young man.
“What are you doing here?”
Again, no response from the visitor to town. If Court was raising eyebrows amongst the local heavies now, how would they react when they heard his American accent?
The young man stepped on Gentry’s foot.
Court stopped. Turned and looked at the guy. Instantly, he thought of the four ways he could kill the man in under two seconds.
But no. He wanted to move to his destination in as low key a manner as possible. Killing folks wouldn’t do.
Court walked on. Soon enough a small heard of local men followed him. Many had guns. One yanked Court’s ball cap off and threw it like a Frisbee into the dirty street. Another, a teenager, ran up behind Gentry quickly and kicked him hard in the ass with the toe of his cowboy boot. Court stumbled forward but caught himself and kept walking on.
Now he sat on the curb in front of a tienda in the center of this little town. The men who had surrounded him had just melted away. No doubt someone got a call or a text, and the order was passed through the locals to hit the road. Court had not heard anyone speak; he imagined a look or a gesture was all it took to get those assholes moving on up the street and out of the way.
His hands shook when he held his drink to his mouth. The burns on his wrists from the electricity weren’t bad, mere sunburns, but the entire experience had left him rattled, even four days later. And now he was about to put himself back at the mercy of merciless men, which added to his shakes and his nerves.
A sedan approached slowly. A brown four-door pulled into the gas station across the street, rolled on past the pumps, and stopped. Two men stepped out, cuernos de chivos in their hands. They were dressed like cowboys. Pointed boots, white shirts with red piping. They wore thick mustaches but no beards, and their boots were made from gray ostrich hides.
They were Cowboys. Los Vaqueros. They were henchmen of Constantino Madrigal.
The two riflemen crossed the street, approaching the gringo, who stood slowly, his hands away from his body.
A municipal police car drove by, slowed slightly, but kept going.
It was that kind of town. Dudes with assault rifles crossed a busy street and pointed guns at a man whose arms were raised.
But that was not an affair that interested the police around here.
After all, this was the city of Altar, in the Sonoran Desert, the turf of the Madrigal Cartel.
Los Vaqueros held their weapons at the hip, but the barrels were pointed at Court’s chest.
In minutes Court was searched and piled into the sedan; he was driven south, out of town; and the car pulled into a gulley off the side of the road. Here Court was told to get out, and he did so. The car shot off to the south, leaving him there in a cloud of dust.
The dust had
not cleared away before a Cadillac Escalade pulled up; it had obviously been trailing them from the city. A back window rolled down; Court thought this might be Madrigal, but no, it was just another Cowboy. This guy was fat and young; he wore Ray-Bans, kept his straw cowboy hat in his lap, and waved a huge Colt Python revolver up by his face so Gentry could see it.
He spoke English. “I want to see some tan lines, gringo.”
“Excuse me?”
“Take off your clothes. All of them.”
Court shoulders slumped. “Of course.” He stripped to his underwear, but the fat guy flicked his gun at Court’s underwear. He took it off, stood in the hot dirt in his socks, until the fat guy ordered him to remove his socks. He then bounced on one foot and then the other; he had enough burns on his wrists and ankles, he didn’t want them on the balls of his feet as well.
Three men climbed out of the SUV, and they went through his clothes like they were checking them for lice. After each garment was examined thoroughly by all three men, it was tossed back to Gentry so he could get dressed. But they searched the clothes out of order, his underwear was the last item to be returned to him, so he just held the lump of dusty clothing in his arms while he waited.
Finally, he dressed; the sun stung his scalp through his short hair as he did so. He climbed into the back of the SUV, next to the fat guy, and the Colt Python was jabbed into his ribs.
Gentry said nothing, just looked ahead, and the SUV rolled off towards the south.
They parked at a tiny airstrip at the edge of a no-name hamlet. It was flat and dry, and the farms around were perfectly square and maintained by donkeys and cheap labor. The airstrip was dirt; the aircraft at the end of it looked forty years old. It was a Cessna 210, a small prop plane that was perfect for running drugs up the length of Mexico. Due to its hardy undercarriage and high wings, it could land at the most rugged of the unregistered runways carved out of the landscape by the carteleros.
Court and the fat man boarded the plane. Along with a pilot in a ball cap with a .45 crammed in a leather holster next to his seat, there were two other men in the Cessna. They both held Kalashnikovs in their laps, and Court wondered if they’d ever even considered the difficulties in firing these weapons during flight in the tiny six-seat cabin.
