by Mark Greaney
DLR was bare chested, his lean and muscular body adorned with tattoos. The large Santa Muerte on his chest in red and black and blue, the names of his six children in ornate script across his back. Guns on his biceps, army unit patches across his midsection, the names of dead Black Suit colleagues wherever a clean space of physique had been found to inscribe them.
He remained kneeling in supplication, all alone in the candlelit room, until slowly his head rose.
He did not turn around as he said, in English, “She told me you would come.”
No one responded to this comment. DLR then said, “You knew that we were monitoring that telephone line. You had us send our sicarios to Concordia to get them away from here.”
The reply came now, the voice firm and authoritative. “You move a fucking muscle, and I’ll blow your head all over your girlfriend’s dress.”
The Gray Man moved silently closer across the white tile of the large sala, his Glock pointed at the back of Daniel de la Rocha’s head. As soon as he realized there was a second-story balcony overlooking the sala, he spun on the balls of his feet, swung his weapon along the sight line, and scanned quickly for threats above. But it was black and quiet on the balcony, just as it was here in the sala, and ahead in what Court could only imagine had been an open dining room before DLR converted it into a throne room for a silly skeleton statue.
“May I stand?”
“Slowly, first thread your fingers behind your head.”
DLR complied, Court closed to within twenty feet or so, but he kept his eyes darting around, confused by the lack of protection for the narco boss in front of him.
“May I turn around?” DLR asked. He seemed calm.
Court jacked his head and his weapon back to his six o’clock position, then up again to the balcony on his left and behind him.
Empty. Dark, quiet, and empty.
“Slowly.”
DLR turned, faced the Gray Man below him. “She told me you would come.”
“You said that. Where is Laura?”
“You did not give Nestor to Madrigal.”
“No, I did not.”
DLR smiled a little. “The Cowboy is going to be mad at you.”
Court was all business. “Where is the girl?” He spun around again, kept his weapon’s muzzle moving in a blur as he scanned all around.
“You would like to exchange my Nestor for your Laura, correct?”
“That’s correct. You can have him back, and then Laura and I will leave together. Everyone wins.”
De la Rocha just shrugged; Court began stepping backwards, hoping to make his way to a wall so his back would not be exposed to the balcony behind him.
As Gentry backed into a sofa in the middle of the floor, de la Rocha said, “Nestor told you his men were monitoring the phone line. And that is why you called it.”
Court did not respond.
“Nestor gave you this address as well. He has let me down by conspiring with you. He let me down more by working with Madrigal in the first place. Going behind my back to make a deal for you. I found out all about it this afternoon, and as a result of this knowledge, your bargaining chip has lost all its value.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . if you had brought Calvo with you tonight, I would have killed him myself.”
Court started moving sideways along the long couch.
“So you see, amigo, you come here with nothing to trade for the girl.”
Court’s brain worked through the problem. He said, “There is something.”
“What’s that?”
“In exchange for her life, you can have me. She walks out right now, we stand around and look at each other until I know that she’s safe, and then I lower my gun. Me for her. Okay?”
“One problem with your offer.”
“What’s that?”
“I already have you.”
Court heard the footsteps above and behind him. A dozen men stepped onto the balcony. Six filed over to his left, and six stayed behind. He assumed they’d been watching the conversation on a closed-circuit television.
They all carried M4 rifles.
Fuck.
FIFTY-FIVE
“I did not send all my sicarios to Concordia. In fact, this is not all of them. I actually retained the leader of my enforcement arm, just in case I needed his help this evening.” DLR looked to his left. “Spider?”
The curtain to the left of the throne opened. Behind it, Spider stood in his black suit. His arms were high in the air, and they held a long, shining machete.
Below him, on her knees, handcuffed and gagged, knelt Laura Gamboa. She looked to Court down in the sala, and then she strained against her bindings.
Court’s weapon turned to Cepeda’s forehead.
“You move that blade and I drop you.” His voice quivered and cracked as he spoke.
DLR laughed at him. “Think about it, amigo! You shoot Spider and then all the men around here fill you with machine-gun bullets. And then, as you lay dead or dying, I step over and chop her head off myself.” Daniel unlaced his fingers and dropped them down to his sides. “I know what the most difficult thing for you right now is, gringo. It is not saving her, not killing me, not getting away with your life. No, Gray Man, the most difficult thing at this moment is trying to not think of the phrase, ‘Mexican standoff.’ ” He laughed at his joke.
“We can work this out, Daniel. In just a few minutes this—”
“Quiet!” DLR shouted, then turned behind him, opened the curtain, and slid out a small trunk. He opened it and lifted an item out.
It was a black plastic bag, and Court immediately suspected it contained a human head. He was right. Daniel pulled it out and held it high above him. Court focused on the disgusting sight, stared at the face.
Elena?
No. It was a man.
Ramses?
No . . . the hair was lighter.
The flickering candlelight from one hundred sources could not bring life to the open, vacant eyes. Court’s jaw clenched. He said, aloud, “Jerry.”
“Spider’s sicarios caught your American friend yesterday trying to board a cruise ship in Cancun. Under torture we found out the Gamboas crossed the border in Nogales and made it to Tucson. You were smart to not tell him more of their plans. Pfleger was weak. Still, they worked on him all night before they determined he didn’t know where you were.
“So, Jerry didn’t know where Elena went. He was, ultimately, useless.” DLR tossed the American embassy man’s head across the room, towards the huge windows off to Court’s right. It rolled into a dark corner and disappeared.
“I need Elena Gamboa. I offered the life of little Laura here to la virgen, but she only laughed. I offered her your life, but she told me your death would serve me, not her, and therefore, it is no gift at all.”
Court’s eyes scanned the room again while DLR said this. Other than the doorway he’d passed through to enter the sala there was one more entrance visible, an archway on his left that, no doubt, led to the front of the house. He suspected there was another archway behind the curtains in the dining room. That would lead towards the south wing of the huge building.
He wasn’t sure why any of this mattered, as the dozen dudes who had him in their sights would cut him in half if he made for any of the exits.
DLR said, “So, I will make you this one offer. You tell me where Elena is hiding; I will send my men there, and as soon as we get her, I will let Laura leave.”
“Keep me. I will tell you.”
DLR shook his head; he seemed almost weary with the discussion. “No deal.” He turned to Spider. “Are your arms getting tired?”
Spider kept them high over his head. “Sí, jefe.”
“It won’t be long now, my friend.” He looked at Court. “Your decision. Does she live or die?”
Laura’s big brown eyes looked up at Court. She was gagged with black cloth, but she chewed at it and tried to stand up. Spider held h
er down with one hand, kept the machete over her, ready to slice through the back of her sinewy neck.
Outside, in the distance, there was the unmistakable sound of a Kalashnikov rifle firing fully automatic. All bodies in the room stiffened at the noise. Another weapon kicked in a second later. They were a couple hundred yards away, but the volume of fire increased.
Car alarms in the neighborhood began sounding off.
“Who is it?” DLR asked Gentry. “Madrigal’s men?”
Court shrugged. He knew that it was, but the longer he could instill doubt the better. “Probably CIA. Outside chance it’s the Russian mob.”
Court knew it was los Vaqueros because he had contacted Hector Serna himself while in the grotto at Los Arcos. Court told him he could find Calvo at this address. Serna had screamed at him about the change of plans, but Court hung up before listening to much of the man’s anger.
DLR started to show concern as the AK fire continued. He barked an order to Spider. “Keep five here, send everyone else to the perimeter. Have the pilot ready my chopper.” Spider shouted an order to the men on the balcony and then another order into a walkie-talkie on his belt. All but five of the gunmen disappeared, and those who remained all moved to the eastern balcony. They kept their rifles trained on the Gray Man as they did so.
DLR had returned to the trunk from which he pulled Pfleger’s head. Now he retrieved a large gun belt. A pair of silver .45 automatic pistols hung from it. He buckled the belt around his waist, tied the holsters around the thighs of his black slacks, and looked back up at the Gray Man.
“You force my hand, fool.”
Court turned his gun away from Spider and back towards DLR. “You give the order to Spider, and I kill you first.”
Daniel laughed. “Typical cocky gringo. You are one man with a pistol. If I give the order to Spider, you won’t have a chance to shoot any—”
A loud explosion just outside the house sent small snowflakes of stucco from the ceiling. All heads turned towards the noise.
Except one. Court remained focused on his targets, even while his mind raced.
Dammit.
Court didn’t like his chances, but he saw no other option.
He had one trick up his sleeve, though, and he’d have to play it for all it was worth.
The gun in his hand looked exactly like a Glock 17, a common semiautomatic pistol. Surely DLR, Spider, and all the gunmen on the balcony had already identified it as such. But it was a Glock 18. The two weapons appear virtually identical, but the 18 is a rare handgun capable of fully automatic fire. Its ported barrel is able to spew 9 mm bullets at a rate of twelve hundred rounds per minute.
Court thought it over in an instant, working on a plan of attack.
Spider and his machete over Laura’s neck would have to go first; there were no two ways around that. The men high on Court’s left also wore Kevlar suits, just like their boss, and Court’s 9 mm rounds would not penetrate Kevlar, so he’d either have to sweep across all five with perfectly executed head shots or, at least, knock them back a bit with a round or two into their soft armor and then finish them off after reloading.
DLR wasn’t pointing a weapon at him, as were the sicarios on his left, but his two .45s would be in the fight in under two seconds. Court would have to execute an emergency reload of the Glock with perfect speed and precision, all the while avoiding the fire of any of the men with the M4s who’d survived his initial barrage.
Eighteen rounds of ammunition fired in full automatic mode at a rate of twelve hundred rounds per minute. His gun would be empty in a half second.
Oh yeah, there was one more factor Gentry knew he’d need to bring to bear. As soon as he started shooting, reflex alone would send rounds from the enemy rifles right where he was standing. In order to have any chance at survival, he’d have to execute all this precision while diving out of the way, moving his body as quickly as possible from where the five weapons were aiming.
Court felt confident there was no one on this earth with a better chance at executing this. Still, he put his chances at survival at less than 25 percent.
In the gun world, this was referred to as “spray and pray.”
Gentry was about to do both.
FIFTY-SIX
“Where is Elena Gamboa?” DLR shouted this time. Another explosion, just outside the mansion. Apparently, los Vaqueros had brought along a few RPGs.
DLR said, “Spider, if he doesn’t answer in five seconds, kill the puta!”
Court took a deep breath, blew it out, looked at Laura, and then back at DLR.
He lowered the pistol from Daniel de la Rocha’s tattooed chest. DLR immediately began reaching for the silver .45s on his belt.
Time to act. Once the .45s were trained on him, the equation would be unsolvable.
In the dim light of the sala Court lifted his pistol in a blur, shifted his aim to the right, remained in place on his feet, and pressed the trigger on the Glock 18. As the pistol lined up on the nose of Spider Cepeda, it popped, and a single round left the barrel behind smoke and fire. With no hesitation or delay to check the results of his shot, Court spun his entire torso hard to the left, his knees went slack, and he dropped straight down towards the tile in front of the sofa. For two thousands of one second his weapon was trained on the bare chest of Daniel de la Rocha, but he did not fire. DLR was at the bottom of his threat matrix, his pistols were not even drawn, so the Glock’s muzzle remained silent and the sweep continued to the left.
He heard a rifle crack in the room a fraction of a second before his own weapon went to work; he pressed the trigger as his butt hit the hard floor; his Glock went cyclic as the muzzle began sweeping across the five sicarios on the balcony above.
Beyond the gray smoke pouring from the ports in the front of his machine pistol’s barrel, he saw black-suited men spin, lurch back, and stumble forward as his supersonic 9 mm rounds sprayed into their bodies from right to left.
Too quickly the weapon locked open, Court had already begun rolling left on the floor to get farther away from return gunfire. As he rolled with his shoulders, passing behind the sofa, he reloaded with his hands, dropped the empty magazine with a thumb press to the release button on the side of the Glock, and pulled a long thirty-two round magazine from the hip of his cotton cargo pants with his left hand. After two full rotations of his body he rolled up to his feet but kept his body in a tight crouch. He ran backwards as he jammed the long black mag in place and dropped the slide forward, chambering a round, all the while trying to survey his handiwork.
He heard another gunshot, which meant not everyone was down. He raised his weapon, while still tracking backwards, and saw Spider on the ground next to Laura, who had fallen to her side next to la Santa Muerte’s throne. Scanning to the left he caught a glimpse of de la Rocha’s tattooed back as he fled behind the curtains behind the throne where the life-sized skeleton bride sat. A rifle report from the balcony cracked a fraction of a second before Court fired a single round at the curtains. Court then whirled his aim back up towards the five sicarios . He held his trigger down and dropped again to his knees, fired the entire thirty-two-round magazine into the Black Suits position above him as he fell forward, prone onto the floor now, desperately trying to keep his body moving out of the weapon sights of his enemies.
The pistol locked open and empty a second time, and Court vaulted back up to his feet while reloading with his last large mag. Again he moved through the candlelit room, this time laterally in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He headed towards Laura, his weapon back on target on the balcony. A single man hung over the railing; his rifle’s sling was caught in his suit coat, and it caused his coat’s tail to hang over his head. Court saw no one else, living or dead, but he fired a pair of short bursts up there anyway to keep any surviving heads down.
As he quickly sidestepped his way across the room, he felt a rush of cool wind behind him, he saw the breeze move across the room as the candles and drapes fluttered. The
sicarios’ rifle fire had blasted the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Bandaras Bay. A hearty sea breeze blew into the room, candle sconces teetered and silk draperies whipped around, and in seconds three separate fires had ignited around the sala.
He looked down at Laura, his weapon still held high at the mezzanine. The small Mexican woman was still on her side, but she had managed to pick up Spider’s machete with her fingertips and was trying to cut through her bound wrists without being able to see what she was doing. Court was impressed with her initiative.
“I’ve got it,” he said, and finished the job.
The tan-colored wood was wet with blood around them.
Court hoped it was Spider’s blood and not hers.
Or his.
Court didn’t check for a wound; he had no time. He helped Laura to her bare feet. She hugged him tightly, and his focus slipped away from scanning for threats in the room, the gunfire outside, the burning and whipping draperies. Instead he hugged her back, tightly, looked down into her eyes. They were wide and bloodshot but alive, and he embraced her with his free hand.
She broke away from him after a moment, took off her gag, knelt down, and went through Spider’s suit coat. She pulled a micro Uzi free from a holster and stood back up.
Court said, “Follow me close. I have scuba gear hidden at—”
“We have to kill de la Rocha.”
“No! We don’t! I’m here for you! I’ve got you! Let’s go!”
Her eyes were wide with emotion, but Court couldn’t tell what was going through her head now. The fires had spread to the sofa and chairs, the sea breeze’s fuel turning small flames into swirling vortexes of smoking and burning debris. “I’m not leaving him alive.” She turned away from him and disappeared behind the curtain.
“Fuck,” Court shouted, but he followed her.
