by Mark Greaney
“Tell us what happened today, Señor de la Rocha.”
“I came to the park to speak out against the corruption of the attorney general’s office. Their unfair persecution of me. The memorial for the assassins who were killed acting on its behalf was an outrageous—”
Ernesto sat on the couch just to the right of where Court stood. His Spanish was native, obviously, so he understood what was going on before the American. He shouted aloud, startling Court. “¡Chingado! The monster is still alive!”
No, thought Court, no way that asshole took two to the chest and is giving an interview three hours later. This was a live broadcast, and the smug bastard did not seem to have so much as a scratch on him. Court had seen him plainly during the shooting, both in person and just now on the television replay. He knew the man had not been wearing body armor, not even a Kevlar vest.
“After I was shot, I thought it was over for me, I thought of my wife and my little ones, but as my associates drove me towards the hospital, I said, ‘Hey, guys, wait a second. I don’t even think the bullets went into my body.’ It was some kind of a miracle, thanks be to God.” He crossed himself in the Catholic fashion and then wiped tears from his eyes. The reporter handed him a Kleenex. He took it with a nod. To Court it all appeared to be an act, as if he were hitting predetermined notes of faith, sadness, vulnerability, charm. DLR smiled at the reporter. “Gracias. I’m sorry. It has been an emotional day for me.”
Gentry looked around to find Luz and Elena and Laura in the room with him now. Diego came in from the hallway, and even Ignacio came in from outside after hearing his father’s shout. Court saw the red anger in their faces; he wished there was something he could do for them; they were in more trouble now than he’d thought.
But shit . . . he had to go.
By the end of de la Rocha’s interview he had the reporter eating out of his hand. She asked with a concerned look on her face, “What else would you like to tell the viewers, Señor de la Rocha?”
“Government agents working for the Madrigal Cartel have tried to kill me two times in the past two weeks because I have information linking them together. I lament the incredible loss of life today at the Parque Hidalgo, but it is only the beginning if the policía are allowed to kill anyone they want on behalf of the narcoterrorista Constantino Madrigal. It is obvious to me, and I am sure to the federal authorities in Mexico City, that Señor Madrigal ordered the massacre in Puerto Vallarta this morning in order to punish the GOPES for failing to kill me two weeks ago. This tragedy will continue as long as Constantino Madrigal remains a free man.”
While he spoke, all of the Gamboas sat in rapt attention except for Luz. The sixty-five-year-old woman disappeared down the hall towards the kitchen; she came back seconds later carrying a tray with plates of fried empanadas, beans, plantains, and salad. Leftovers from the night before. Court groaned inwardly as she tried to hand him his lunch.
Laura turned to Court. “What do we do now?”
Gentry looked behind him, back over his shoulder, to see who the hell she was talking to. There was no one else. “¿Cómo?” Huh?
“What now? What is our plan?”
“What are you asking me for?”
Laura looked confused. “I thought . . . I thought you would tell us what we should do.”
“I don’t have any idea what you guys need to do now. I’m not even supposed to be in Mexico. I’ve got to get out of here myself.”
“Go? You are going to leave us here?”
“You live here.”
“You think we should stay?”
Of course they shouldn’t, Court knew. But he had neither friends nor connections in Mexico. In truth he had no real friends anywhere.
“You don’t want to go with me; I guarantee you that. Find someplace safe. Contact some friends who can help you.”
Elena stepped past her sister. The pregnant woman said, “We do not know who we can trust.”
“I don’t know, either. I’m not from around here.”
“We trusted the GOPES until Eddie was killed. We trusted Capitán Chuck. And we trust you.”
Shit.
Court said, “Surely Eddie had some friends here, in the government, the army, who can protect you.”
Elena’s voice rose, a growing panic in her heart as she realized the man who had saved their lives was about to hit the road. “His unit was wiped out. It seems likely his bosses were involved in the corruption. Who can we turn to now?”
“What about in the U.S.?”
Elena shook her head. “Eddie worked undercover for thirteen years. Almost all of it overseas. You don’t make friends working undercover. He had friends in the Navy, but I don’t know them. I can not just show up, pregnant and running from killers, and ask people I do not know for help.”
Court felt completely on the spot. The entire family stared at him, and he took an unconscious step backwards, bumped into the cement block wall. Softly, he shrugged. “I . . . don’t know. I think you guys should get away from here. But where you go . . . what you do . . . who you trust? I have no idea. I can’t help you. I wish I could.”
No one spoke for a long time. Gentry looked longingly across the room at the front door. It seemed miles away.
Young Diego shook his head in disgust, turned, and disappeared up the hallway. He did not understand all of the English, but he’d picked up the fact that Joe had decided to leave.
Laura said, “You can help us. You did help us. You took charge. The shooting and everything in Puerto Vallarta. You—”
Court wanted them to understand. “The shooting and everything . . . that’s pretty much my specialty. I don’t know how to do much of anything else. My plan ran out when the bad guys disappeared. You all need to just leave town. Get away from the Black Suits. I won’t be any help to you with that.”
Elena began begging him to stay.
“Leave him alone,” shouted Laura, interrupting her sister-in-law. “He is done with us! That’s fine.” She looked at him. “Thank you for everything. We’ll be just fine.” Court’s interpersonal communication skills were not refined enough to discern whether or not she was being sarcastic, but he had his suspicions.
Court nodded. Shook everyone’s hand, wished them luck, and left through the front door.
TWENTY-ONE
Gentry walked through the mercado that ran along the road north of the town square in front of the church of San Blas. He felt miserable for the Gamboas, but he had no doubt that if he didn’t get the hell out of here right now, he would be found and killed by the CIA or Gregor Sidorenko’s henchmen or, in what was a pretty lousy best-case scenario, thrown into a Mexican jail for not having papers or for murdering federal police.
He justified his leaving the imperiled family behind by telling himself that his presence around them did them more harm than good. Ernesto had a good relationship with the local cops that would deteriorate if they realized he was harboring a man on the run from both the American government and the Mexican police.
And if Russian assassins dropped into San Blas? Well, that would really annoy the local constabulary.
They’d be okay. Laura and Elena and Diego and Luz and Ernesto. The locals would gather around them, just as they had last night, and protect them. De la Rocha had made his point with the shooting in Vallarta; the Gamboas would be in the spotlight now, so they would be safe.
As Court had explained to Elena and Laura, he was helpful in a shoot-out. But, he told himself, his presence was pretty much a hindrance in most other situations. He’d been on television for God sakes.
And the motherfucking Gray Man did not go on motherfucking television!
He passed the church and neared the bus station, his arms swinging freely as he moved. His canvas bag was back in Chuck Cullen’s car, so he had no belongings other than a wallet and the hidden revolver with three live rounds. He passed a barbershop and a beauty supply store, kept walking for a moment, and then slowed.
A large
yellow sign on the wall of a bodega caught his eye. It looked like the other advertisements around, for a school or car insurance or a soft drink.
But it wasn’t.
It was very different.
“Join the ranks of the Cowboys of the Madrigal Cartel,” it said. “We offer benefits, life insurance, a house for your family and children. Stop living in the slums and riding the bus. A new car or truck, your choice. Members of the police, the army, or the marines will receive a special bonus for joining us.”
A phone number was written below next to photos of a smiling, happy family.
Court stopped in his tracks. Read it again, checked his comprehension. Yes, he’d understood it perfectly.
What the hell? The drug cartel is openly hiring?
This place is fucking insane.
“Narcobanderas, they are called. Help-wanted advertisements for the cartels. ¿Increíble, no?” An old man sitting on a bench in front of the convenience store had noticed Court reading the ad. Presumably, he noticed Court’s jaw hanging open; otherwise, he might have assumed the bearded man was interested in a job for himself.
Court looked at the man. “Madrigal can post these ads, and the police don’t take them down?”
The elderly man shrugged. “Sometimes they do.”
Thank God. Not everyone was corrupt. “That’s good to know.”
“Sí, the police who support DLR sometimes take down the Madrigal ads. Or else they will write on them, put a note at the bottom to say the Black Suits offer a better life insurance plan than the Cowboys.”
Court shook his head in disbelief.
The narcos were everywhere, even here. Like a malignant cancer, the cartels’ insidious reach had taken hold in all aspects of life on Mexico’s Pacific coast.
He could not kid himself. Laura and Elena and the rest did not stand a chance.
But just what could he do about it?
Court looked up the street towards the bus station, took a couple of steps in that direction, and stopped again.
Indecision. Complete and utter indecision.
Dammit, Gentry.
After a protracted family argument right there in the living room, Laura Gamboa Corrales took temporary control of the surviving members of her family, plus Elena Gamboa Gonzalez, her late brother’s wife. Laura had announced her decision that they should leave San Blas that afternoon, that they should go to a family friend an hour or so inland in Tepic. This man was a prominent attorney, and he would help them, she was certain.
Elena had tired of arguing, had acquiesced to her sister-in-law’s wishes, and then had lain down on the sofa to rest her tired back and her swollen feet. At first Ernesto and Luz fought the decision to run; San Blas was their home, after all, but when Laura promised them that if they did not go, she would not go, they reluctantly agreed.
Diego had lost his parents today. He was nominally in the custody of Ernesto and Luz, but he was mature enough to make his own decisions. He could have walked out the back door and jumped on a bicycle and pedaled away if he so desired. But he stayed with the family.
He knew that his abuelo Ernesto was old, and he knew that his tío Ignacio was a worthless bum.
Diego knew that he would have to be the man. It was not an easy decision for him to make. He himself had peddled Sinaloan pot to American surfers and backpackers in PV and Sayulita, so he was actually a member of the Madrigal organization, although at the absolute bottom rung of the ladder. But that was behind him now. This wasn’t about money or right and wrong; this was about family, about survival. He would do whatever it took to make his family safe.
Ignacio had gotten half drunk on beer and tequila in the past hour. He agreed to go with the family to Tepic without argument. He had no family of his own, and he had nowhere to go but back to his house, just up the coast from Puerto Vallarta.
Even with four shots of reposado tequila and a couple of beers in his system, he wasn’t too drunk to realize that that was no option at all after today’s events.
Laura was satisfied that they now had a plan, but she still would have felt a lot better if Joe had stayed to help. She was disappointed in the American stranger for leaving them. He had saved all of their lives; she had not seen what he’d done in the Parque Hidalgo, but according to the news reports, someone had killed a half dozen of the sicarios shooting in the crowd. Laura had only shot one, so she reasoned this mysterious American must have taken out the rest.
There was an attraction there, as well, but she quelled it now that he was gone. She had not so much looked at a man in years, not since her husband had been tortured to death by the narcos up north. But she had looked at Joe. She could not say why. She wondered if it was just that he had known Eduardo in those years when her only relationship with him had been occasional phone calls and colorful postcards of faraway cities. This made her feel close to the American, almost like they were friends from the past.
And now the mysterious American had come and gone, had appeared and disappeared in the space of less than twenty-four hours, and he had taken himself out of her life.
With everything else that had happened today, she did not really understand why she cared.
She had the family prepare to leave. The six of them would pile into Eduardo’s big F-350 Super Duty. Her father began packing, her mother shuffled into the kitchen to begin getting together food and drinks, and Diego took the truck up the street to fill it with gas and to add some oil.
Elena rested on the couch, and Ignacio went out back to smoke and drink.
The phone in the living room rang for the first time since the family had returned home. Elena answered the call.
“¿Bueno?”
“Good afternoon, Elena. How is the family?”
“Who is this?”
“My name is Daniel.”
Elena sucked in air before speaking. She recognized the voice. “Daniel de la Rocha?”
“At your service. We did not meet formally today. I didn’t get to meet your husband formally, either. Such a pity about Eduardo.”
Elena was breathless now. “I . . . I saw you get shot.”
He laughed. “Señora, if your tough husband, trained to murder by the gringos, could not do me in, do you really think it would be so easy to kill me? No, there is not a scratch on me.”
“Why are you calling me? What do you want?”
“I’ll tell you what I want. You won’t like it, but I’ll tell you. I want your baby. For the crimes of your husband, your son must pay. You give me your child, and you can have your life. I will no longer threaten you or your family.”
“My baby? You will kill my baby?”
“Yes, but it is not so bad. Listen, I will make it very easy. You can go to a doctor, and I’ll talk to them and explain the situation. They will take care of you and just take from you what I want. If you do this, you can spare your own life, the lives of the rest of your family who made it out of the Parque Hidalgo this morning, and you can save the lives of everyone who tries to stop me from taking your baby. Your mysterious gringo included.”
“You want my . . . child? Are you mad?”
“I am far from mad. I am a reasonable businessman. And I am extending you a limited-time offer. Agree now or you will regret it.”
“You are insane. Leave me, my family, and my unborn son to grieve for all that you have stolen from us!”
De la Rocha’s urbane tone changed, turned acidic. “Listen, bitch! Your husband tried to take from me! His life did not pay me back for the trouble he caused. His life was not worth the shit on my shoes! You give me that baby or I will kill every—”
Elena Gamboa slammed the phone down, brought her hands to her face, and emitted a shrieking cry. Laura took her sister-in-law in her arms and hugged her tightly. Began praying aloud standing right there in the living room.
“God, protect us!”
The front door opened and together the women turned towards it. It was Joe, the American. Stunned, Laura stamme
red in her confusion. “Did you . . . forget something?”
He nervously shifted from foot to foot. “I can just watch over you tonight. Tomorrow if things haven’t cooled down yet, I can hide out back in Eddie’s boat if the cops come.”
Immediately, Elena told him of the call from de la Rocha. Luz, Ernesto, Diego, and Laura all surrounded Elena while she spoke. Court’s jaw muscles flexed when the pregnant woman relayed the drug kingpin’s demand for the life of the unborn child.
“Why?” he asked. “Why the kid?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because he is Eduardo’s only offspring.”
“His legacy,” Court said softly, shaking his head. “This prick is from another fucking century.” He thought for a few seconds. “You need to run. You need to get the hell out of here right now.”
Laura said, “We are going to Tepic. We have a friend there; he is a prominent attorney. He can—”
“No,” Court said. “No friends. The Black Suits can track you to any friend who lives nearby. You need someplace out of the way, someplace where you can just disappear for a day or two while we figure out who is on your side.” He hesitated. “If you can think of someplace like this . . . I’ll come along, just to make sure you get there.”
Ignacio scratched his huge belly and looked at Court. “We have cousins who have a place in Mazatlan. We can go there.”
“No. No friends, no family.”
Laura stepped in. “I know a place.”
“Where?” asked Gentry.
“It’s an old farm high in the Sierra Madres, three or four hours from here, depending on the roads. Owned by my late husband’s family, but they are old now, and they moved away to the city. As far as I know, the hacienda is unoccupied.”