by Mark Greaney
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 this?”
“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.
* * *
Gentry woke from a sleep deeper than any he had experienced in years. He felt the sun warm the bed around him.
She was there, wrapped up tightly against his body, her little face in the crook of his arm, her left hand flat on his chest. Her breathing, her body’s warmth, the smell of her skin. It was all amazing.
Court had not even known that skin had a smell.
She did not move. He looked down at her face and just saw her full lips and the tip of her nose. Her short, jet-black hair lay tussled; a small rubber band held the longest strands tight behind her ears.
He thought about Eddie, and a panic washed over him. Was this wrong? Emotions of romantic guilt attacked him from nowhere; he’d never felt this way in his life. He thought of standing at his friend’s burial plot, just there to say good-bye, and then, three days later, screwing his friend’s younger sister, the thing in this world his dead friend had most endeavored to protect while alive.
Her eyes opened, and she looked up at him.
“Are you okay?” he asked tentatively.
She kissed him. He forgot his panic.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Late. We need to get moving.”
“Where are we going?”
“We need a car. We need it gassed and ready to go. As soon as we meet with Pfleger and get the docs, we are heading up towards the border. We’ll sleep in shifts, go straight on through the night. We should make it by three p.m. tomorrow to meet with your family.”
“We are stealing a car?” she sighed. “You are going to have to help me find a job in the U.S. to pay back all these people for their vehicles.”
Court realized she assumed he’d be crossing the border with her family. He’d told them he didn’t have papers, but for all she knew that was something he’d arranged with Jerry.
Shit. He didn’t want to mislead her. But he could not tell her that he would be in as much danger in the United States as she was here in Mexico. New guilt hit him from a new angle. Did she only make love to him because she thought they would be together when this was over?
Was there any way he could be with her when it was over?
She squeezed him tight as she yawned and stretched.
“Do we really have to get up now?” she asked with a smile in her voice.
Court heard footsteps in the hallway. He tuned them out to answer her.
“Yes, we do. Grand theft auto in an unfamiliar city is going to require a little time.”
“Can we go across to la Iglesia de Nuestra Señora? Just for a few minutes?”
Court sighed. He should have expected that. Somehow with all the sex he forgot about her penchant for church.
“For fifteen minutes, no more, or we won’t be able—”
Court stopped talking.
“¿Qué?”
Silently he turned his attention towards the door across the room.
“¿Qué?”
He sat up quickly, grabbed the Beretta pistol on the side table. Aimed it at the door. It was half hidden behind the television and the chest of drawers. He cocked his head a little but said nothing.
All was silent for several seconds. Laura did not speak again, even her breathing stopped as she looked at the muscular back of the American sitting on the bed. She noticed a nasty scar on his left shoulder blade, but her heart was in her throat. Had he heard something?
Court did not move. Kept his weapon trained on the door, his head cocked for noise. He stood slowly, wearing only his boxers, turned his head to the right to get a look out the window at the street below. He kept his pistol trained at the front door.
He looked down onto Calle Donceles. A few parked cars, no traffic. No passersby. All was quiet. Too quiet for a normal—
Black boots in his face, dropping from above, swinging towards the window. He started to raise the pistol at the threat but he heard the door explode behind him. His gun barrel was swinging still, caught between the two threats.
The glass window crashed in; three feet from his bare chest and face, crystalline shards exploded, and the black boots swung in and hit him squarely.
Gentry flew backwards, the pistol left his right hand and he cartwheeled back. He caught a split-second’s glimpse of the federale who had rappelled through the window; the man had landed hard on his back but he recovered quickly, sat back up, and lifted an MP5 towards the man on the floor across the room.
To his left Court heard a second explosion, the TV and the chest of drawers flew across the room and crashed against the wall. Behind the wreckage Court saw men file into the room: two, then four, then six. Federales in masks and goggles with sub guns and body armor. They appeared more ominous through the haze of smoke from the charges that had blown in the door and the obstructions.
There was the crunching of glass as the rappeller scrambled back to his feet.
Laura was screaming.
Court raised his hands and spoke to her. “Don’t move! Do what they say! They’ve got us.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
It was hot on the floorboard in the back of the sedan. Three pairs of black boots on Court’s back, ass, and legs kept him facedown; the electrical tape over his mouth, the cuffs securing his hands behind his back, and the black hood over his head only added to the stifling conditions. A few times the sweat in his eyes burned so badly he cried out, muffled as it was by the tape. Each time he made this noise a boot heel in the back of his head quieted him. He felt the cuts on his chest from the window glass, felt the warm wetness of his blood and perspiration on the rubber floor mats under him. He tried to shift his weight forward to his shoulders to relieve the pain, but this just pressed his face tighter into his hood and made it nearly impossible to breathe.
He felt the tip of the suppressor of an MP5 pressed into the small of his back; it jabbed into his lumbar with every bump in the road.
The car radio played banda music at full volume; if there was conversation between the men above him, he could not hear it over the loud accordions and crashing cymbals.
Court assumed Laura must have been tossed into another vehicle; he’d caught a glimpse through the window of several nondescript four-doors pulling in front of the hotel as he was being cuffed and taped up in the hotel room. He’d also stolen a g
lance at Eddie’s sister just before the hood was slipped on and the lights were turned off. Laura’s already big eyes were wide with panic; the men had flipped her facedown on the bed and cuffed her there.
She was naked.
Gentry had no idea if these were real cops or, even if they were real cops, if they were good guys or bad. He did not know where they were taking him; even a born-and-bred ciudadano of Mexico City would not have been able to discern their location after dozens of turns while hooded and facedown.
Finally, the car stopped, and he was dragged out by his shoulders; the perspiration all over his body made the men’s gloves slip as they wrestled to take hold. Court was frog-marched forward, and he felt the sunlight leave him and heard the echoes of a large room. He continued on, stepped into what felt and sounded like a freight elevator, and went down what must have been at least three floors.
Once off the elevator, he was pushed forward a few yards and then spun around, his hands were unfastened, and then his body was pressed up against cold metal bars. A fence, perhaps? His arms were simultaneously outstretched and cuffed wide away from his body, two men on each appendage. The insides of his legs were kicked until he spread them, and his ankles were shackled in irons, with his legs spread wide open.
His back and arms and legs and butt pressed up against cold metal.
A pair of long, cold sheers entered his boxer shorts. He tried to recoil from the sharp metal, but he could not get away. His underwear was cut from his body. He was totally naked now, chained spreadeagle against cold metal.
He began to shake in the cold.
Only then was his hood pulled off his head. Steam obstructed his view for a moment as it poured from his hair and beard; thick beads dripped from his eyelashes onto his cheeks and tickled as they trickled down through his facial hair to his chin.
The room was a square, stone basement, twenty by twenty, with a low ceiling and a cement floor. A bare overhead bulb in the center illuminated the middle of the room and the majority of the walls, but left the corners completely black. He smelled the mold in the room, but that was not all.
He also smelled the unmistakable scent of death. This was a kill house, a torture chamber. There was dried blood on the walls, and the cement floor was stained with black rivulets of blood that led towards the drain in the center of the room.