Ballistic

by Mark Greaney

  The assistant poured the alcohol on top, and el Carnicerito opened the bag of salt.

  Court even managed a quip. “I’ll take mine with no salt.”

  The three other Mexicans in the room watched with curiosity. They laughed and joked amongst themselves, but Court wasn’t in the mood to concentrate on translating their fun so that he could understand it.

  When the pitcher was full of tequila, salt, and lime juice, the torturer hefted it and walked forward to the naked prisoner. He held it up in front of Court’s face, slapped him a few times to make sure he had Court’s attention, and then the butcher fiddled with a tiny piece of broken glass stuck just below the American’s right nipple.

  “Can you imagine how this will feel inside your swollen open wounds?” The man smiled as he spoke.

  Gentry said nothing.

  “I will ask you where Señora Gamboa is hiding. But please . . . please, I beg you, do not tell me. I want to do this to you!”

  The narcos back by the elevator just laughed. Jerry looked away.

  Court nodded, took in a long breath, and then spit in the face of the cruel little Mexican. The Little Butcher’s assistant ran forward and punched Court in the nose.

  The fat man did not wipe the spit away. Instead he smiled and said, “You only make my job more enjoyable. In a couple of hours when I saw your head off of your living, breathing, flailing body, I will feel pity. A pity that the day is done.”

  And with that he lifted the pitcher, slowly poured the pungent mixture down the American’s nude and abraded body, rubbed the liquid with his hands into the open cuts, smeared it in, and cackled almost as loud as the prisoner’s screams.

  A minute later the elevator was called up to the surface. The two federale gunmen in the room put their hands to their earpieces, and the Black Suit looked down at his phone and saw that he’d missed a call, unable to hear the ring over the wails of agony in the small chamber.

  Before he could identify the call, one of the cops stiffened slightly, looked to el Carnicerito, and said, “DLR is here.”

  Court continued to moan in agony.

  Seconds later the elevator started back down; it took thirty seconds for the car to arrive with a thud. The wooden door rose. Three men in black suits emerged, appearing dim in the light.

  Court writhed in pain, forgotten by the others in the room. It was several seconds before he could recover from the residual twitching in his muscles enough to recognize Daniel de la Rocha at the center of the three new arrivals.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  DLR looked the gringo up and down. Jerry, el Carnicerito, his young protégé, Spider’s number-two man Carlos, the two police who had brought Court down from the car, stood to the side in the dark cold room. Daniel, Emilio, and Spider stepped up closer to the prisoner.

  Daniel stopped three feet from the tip of the American’s nose.

  “You? You?”

  The American stared back.

  In Spanish the impeccably dressed man said, “I was expecting . . . I don’t know. Rambo, maybe?” The room erupted in laughter. And then in English. “You’ve caused me some problems, amigo. I’m just curious . . . Why?”

  The Gray Man did not respond. He wasn’t sure if he could speak; he felt his teeth chattering.

  De la Rocha shrugged, looked down at the rolling cart with the machine and the surgical instruments, then up at the prisoner.

  “What kind of fun have you been having with my friend here, gordo?”

  “So far just some shocks. I also took advantage of the lesions on his body from the broken glass.” He held up the pitcher, now empty, and de la Rocha sniffed it. His eyebrows furrowed for a moment, and then he smiled.

  “A gringo margarita.”

  “Sí, Don Daniel.”

  “Muy bien.” Very good. “You have not yet used the donkey prod?”

  “Not yet. Would you like to watch?”

  Daniel rolled his eyes and looked back to his men. “Would I like to watch?” Back to Gentry. “Only a maricón would like to watch that. I pay him so I don’t have to watch a cattle prod shoved against your huevos and then electrified.”

  Court bit his lower lip to stop the quivering.

  DLR looked to his torturer. “Anything about the Gamboa woman?”

  “No. He spoke to the other norteamericano in English. I did not understand, but he has not said anything of value to me. This one is very strong.”

  Daniel regarded Pfleger for just a moment, then looked to Carlos. Carlos spoke English, and he had been in the room during the conversation between the Americans.

  “Nothing, jefe.”

  DLR turned back to look over the man shackled to the fence. “That is a beautiful scar on your hip there. I see an old bullet wound on your thigh, too.” He stepped forward and looked at it. “A year old at most.” He then turned Court’s head to the left with his fingertips. “A burn on your neck. Much older. Five years?”

  No answer.

  “These little cuts on your face and arms? The bruising on your chest?” Daniel shrugged. “You are no stranger to pain, I see. You may resist our efforts to pry information from you.

  “No matter. We have the sister-in-law. I hear you two slept together last night. Did you enjoy your taste of our culture, amigo? Latin women can be very fiery, very passionate, yes? If you don’t talk, we will start work on her. The techniques at our disposal will remove that passion within minutes. We will turn her into a zombie in an hour.” DLR smiled at Gentry.

  Then asked, “Where is Elena Gamboa at this moment?”

  Court shrugged as best he could with his arms pulled wide.

  “Obviously, we know you were attempting to arrange for her to get into the United States.”

  Nothing from the tortured man in front of him.

  “She will not leave Mexico.” Then the handsome man in the black suit said, “Why do you care? She is not your family. Do you have family?” No response from Court. DLR continued, “I believe family is the most important thing in the world. Don’t you?”

  Gentry took a moment to control himself. Tried his best to sound strong. “I believe your family is going to miss you when you’re dead.”

  “Ha, ha. A threat? He finally speaks and he threatens me? Carnicerito?”

  “Sí, patrón.”

  “It’s cold down here. Turn on the heat.”

  “Sí, patrón.” The fat man turned the dial without placing the remnants of the wallet in his victim’s mouth, and Gentry went wild: his body was out of his control, his mind cleared of all thoughts except a frantic desire to escape pain and find relief, his heart pounded in his chest like when he was underwater with the crocodile above him and he could not find his shotgun and the gnashing teeth were coming closer and close—

  The Little Butcher eased back the dial.

  Gentry’s head dropped forward in exhaustion. Looking down, he saw he was pissing all over the floor. Sweat dripped off his nude body along with his urine and drips of blood. He was thankful he had managed to avoid biting off his tongue.

  When he finally pulled his head back up, he saw Laura being shoved into the room from the stairwell, her hands bound in front of her, a single Black Suit pushing her forward from behind. The man handed her off to Spider, then turned around and disappeared back up the stairs.

  Even in agony, Court felt the shame and humiliation as his bladder emptied in front of her.

  She was dressed in simple blue cotton warm-up pants and a white tank top. Her right eye was black and red. Her lip fat. Even in the dim light where she stood, Court could see her fists were scuffed and bloody.

  She’d been fighting back.

  Good girl.

  Daniel leaned close. “You almost pissed on my suit. That would have made me very angry.”

  De la Rocha turned to the man holding Laura by the shoulders. “Spider, bring her into the light, put her on her knees in front of her gringo. We will see how deep is their love.”

  The man shoved the tin
y woman onto the cement, just a few feet in front of Gentry. The leader of DLR’s enforcers pulled out a silver .45 automatic pistol and handed it to his patrón. Daniel de la Rocha took the weapon and pressed it into Laura’s black bob of hair.

  “If you do not tell me, right now, where my forces can find Elena Gamboa, I will blow off this pretty head. I will not count to three; I will not threaten to wound her; I will simply kill her, right here, right now, unless the next words out of your mouth tell me where Major Gamboa’s widow is hiding.”

  Laura shouted in the small room, “Don’t say—”

  De la Rocha pounded the grip of the .45 into her head. Laura went down onto the filthy concrete. Dazed, she struggled back up to her knees.

  Court’s head rose, and he looked at Daniel de la Rocha.

  Slowly, very slowly, he nodded, and softly he spoke. “Okay. Okay. Listen very carefully.”

  De la Rocha pulled the hammer back on the pistol, pressed it tighter against her head. “Oh, I am listening, amigo.”

  Court nodded again. Then he shrugged. “Shoot the bitch. I don’t give a fuck.”

  De la Rocha just stared, his mouth slightly open. He looked back to the Black Suit behind him. “He is a cold fucker, no, Spider? Reminds me of you.” Then back to Gentry. “It is a bluff. A very good bluff, but you are bluffing. You care about what happens to her.” He thought for a long moment; clearly, he had not expected this reaction from the American.

  Gentry said, “I didn’t sign up for this shit. The old American guy, Cullen, paid me five grand to watch over his dead buddy’s family for a couple of days. Two large in advance, three more after we got back from Puerto Vallarta. He didn’t say anything about a goddamned cartel hit on them.”

  Now de la Rocha’s dark eyebrows furrowed. He took in the English. Weighed the words carefully. “You are private security? A bodyguard?”

  “I was. I just retired.”

  DLR conferred with Spider for a moment. Court could not understand what they were saying. Then de la Rocha turned back, shook his head.

  “No. No, señor. I do not believe you. It was a nice try, but my associate’s men tell him that you escaped the hacienda, and then went back, at great personal danger to yourself, to rescue la familia Gamboa. That does not sound like the actions of any hired gunman I have ever heard of.”

  Court started to speak, but Daniel continued talking. He was not a man accustomed to being interrupted.

  “You know what? Maybe I won’t kill her now. Maybe I’ll have my sickest, most fucked-up sicarios rape her puta culo until she dies. It will take a little longer, yes, but it will be more rewarding for my men. Maybe I’ll have el Carnicerito do it right now in front of you.”

  Court looked over at the fat bald man in the leather apron. The torturer licked his lips.

  A mobile phone rang. Emilio pulled it from the front pocket of his suit pants and looked down at it. He offered it to his boss. DLR took it, looked at the face, and with a sigh, he flipped it open. “Nestor, can it wait?” A short pause and then, “Está bien.” He took the pistol away from Laura’s head and replaced it with his foot. He pushed his Italian loafer hard on the back of her skull, shoving the tiny girl to the concrete floor. When she was down on the urine-soaked concrete, he turned and walked back into the stairwell.

  The Little Butcher spoke with the Spider. Court tried to make eye contact with Laura, but she remained on her knees, her bound hands flat on the concrete in front of her, her head down. He wanted to speak, to tell her the only chance she had to survive was for him to act like he didn’t care whether she lived or died. It was a long shot, a hell of a long shot, but he’d seen no alternative.

  He had to be cold as ice. He had to play like her life held no leverage with him.

  Then she looked up at him from the ground, her eyes full of confusion and, yes, even heartbreak. Court had the impression she did not understand his ploy was for her benefit; she actually bought his bullshit about not caring about her.

  Court turned away from her sad eyes and looked up to the narco lord across the room. He could hear snippets from DLR’s side of his phone conversation, but much of it was either too fast or spoken with too much Mexican slang for Gentry to understand. Still, he picked up some of the exchange.

  “No deal. I need time to extract the information. Twenty-four hours—Okay, they can send one man to come look, but they cannot touch—Kill him? That’s fine ... Okay, but they only get the body when we have what we need from him. Make that clear.”

  DLR hung up the phone and stepped back in the dungeon, conferred softly with Spider for a moment. There was even a brief argument between them, but it settled down quickly. He then spoke to his prisoners. “Change of plans. Someone is coming to identify this piece of mierda.”

  Jerry spoke up from the corner. “Who?”

  “Some gringo with la CIA.”

  Jerry’s next comment squeaked out in a plaintive whine. “The CIA is coming here? Now?”

  De la Rocha nodded. “They insist on making sure this is the cabrón they are looking for. If he is the correct person, then el hombre de la CIA will go away, and we can work on this pinche gringo here to get the information we need.” He looked up at Gentry now. “Then they want us to kill him and dump his head near the embassy.”

  Pfleger shot out of the dark corner, up to de la Rocha. “Wait! No! If the spook is on the way, I’ve got to get out of here! I can’t let them see me! I’ll go to prison for working with you guys!”

  De la Rocha shrugged. Clearly, he didn’t give a shit about Jerry Pfleger. Still, he said, “You are staying here with your prize; that’s what you asked for, wasn’t it? Somebody give Jerry a mask.” One of the federales pulled a balaclava from the side pocket of his cargo pants, tossed it to the American, who pulled it over his head, struggling to orient the holes for the eyes. When he had himself situated, he looked up at Gentry. Clearly, the prisoner could out him still, mask or not. This plan didn’t make much sense. Through the nylon mask he said, “Mister de la Rocha, what if—”

  “Enough from you!” Daniel pointed the .45 at Jerry, and Jerry shut his mouth. He stepped back against the wall with his hands up in compliance.

  De la Rocha looked to Court now. “You don’t make very many friends, do you? La CIA is desperate for me to kill you.”

  Gentry asked, “And what do you get in return?”

  “La CIA will provide us intel from the DEA on the Madrigal Cartel’s connections with governments in South America.”

  Jerry took a step back towards the light again. “And money, right? I still get—”

  DLR pointed the pistol at Pfleger again. “Plata o plomo?” Money or lead?

  “Money, jefe. Definitely money.” Pfleger backed up again.

  De la Rocha continued. “So I am going to leave you now; my associates insist I not be here when la CIA arrive. But I am going to take your little puta with me. The spy will be brought here to identify you and then taken away. The Little Butcher will have the next twenty-four hours to find out what you know about Elena Gamboa, and I will have the rest of my life to find out what little Lorita knows about Elena Gamboa.”

  It was quiet in the room.

  “The only question is, which one of us will have the most fun with our work?”

  Spider took the girl by the hair and pulled her up to her feet. She screamed with the movement. DLR looked at Gentry one last time as he started for the door. “You have cost me much, and now you will repay me.”

  As he entered the stairwell, he called back to the room, “Carnicerito, help our American friend Jerry here and torture this prisoner so bad he won’t be able to speak when the spy comes to identify him.”

  The fat man replied, “Sí, jefe.” And he turned the dial on the table to its maximum voltage.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The Black Suits picked up the CIA man in Chapultepec Park; as prearranged he wore a red tie and stood on the steps of the National Museum of Anthropology. He was a thick man, blond
hair that ran just past his collar and a chunky neck from which the tip of his chin barely peeked. He was getting thicker by the minute, too. He’d just finished a dulce de leche ice cream cone, purchased at a stand across from the steps, and had just wiped his thick hands clean of the sticky residue as the Black Suits pulled up.

  He’d been one fit and fine son of a bitch a while back, but he’d let himself go.

  His current job did not require staying in shape.

  A gray van pulled to a stop in front of him on Las Grutas Avenue, the side door slid open, and the thick man from la CIA climbed in.

  Four sets of well-practiced hands went to work on him immediately as the van drove off to the south towards Paseo de la Reforma. His briefcase was taken and searched, he was hooded and frisked, his wallet was pulled from his poplin pants, and his white button-down shirt was lifted up to check for a wire.

  The hands that felt him up, he knew, would also be the hands that killed him if they were so instructed by their masters.

  The van turned left, which the CIA man noted from under his blindfold, but he really did not expect to be able to discern where he was being taken.

  He’d been to Mexico City before, yes, but this was not his turf.

  He sat quietly between his minders as they drove through traffic; he’d ridden hooded in vans, surrounded by a local gun crew, more times that he cared to remember. In Beirut, in Kosovo, in Thailand, in Somalia, in other shit-splattered dumps around this godforsaken planet.

  Usually, he was bundled like laundry into a car or van to be hauled to some secret location to meet with a contact. But this was different. He was here, in Mexico, and not some other poor agency sap, for one reason and one reason only.

  He had an ability that very few others possessed.

  He had the ability to positively identify Courtland Gentry, code name Violator, call sign Sierra Six, nickname the Gray Man, in one second flat.