Ballistic

by Mark Greaney

  Gentry’s brain worked like that. He had no reason to think he was in imminent danger, but as they strapped into their seats and the pilot fired the engine, Court devised a plan to kill, incapacitate, or disarm everyone in the aircraft around him in, he estimated, three seconds. He’d leave the pilot alive and conscious, would relieve him of his firearm, and hope the man would follow Court’s instructions to land the plane. If not, he’d just shoot the dude in the head and land the plane himself.

  Court was not a great pilot; he’d put a couple of planes down in a manner that made them worthless hunks of twisted metal and smoking oil and, in one case, completely unrecognizable as an aircraft.

  So he hoped like hell everyone on board minded their manners for this flight into the mountains of “Cowboy Country.”

  The aircraft bounced on the runway, and then it wobbled as it struggled for the sky. Gentry could tell they were headed south; the Pacific Ocean appeared on his right some time later.

  The flight remained uneventful; they landed in the mid-afternoon at another covert airstrip, this one at a small clearing ringed by tinroofed huts in the green mountains of the Sierra Madre Occidentales. Court wasn’t sure if they were still in Sonora or if they had made it down as far as Sinaloa, or even into Nayarit, where Court’s Mexican nightmare had begun at the grave of Eddie Gamboa.

  Wherever they were, he was certain Madrigal’s army of Vaqueros would be plentiful.

  And he was right.

  He climbed out of the aircraft, the fat man followed, and they were met by a large flatbed truck full of AK-wielding men in cowboy hats. Court stepped up into the bed and sat surrounded by the men; they were driven into a village and then up into thick forest. Gentry noticed that the road, while unpaved, was in exceptionally good condition. The bumping and jostling in the back of the truck he was subjected to had less to do with potholes and more to do with machismo and an anti-gringo attitude on display by los Vaqueros.

  The road was high quality because it was built and maintained by the Madrigal Cartel. This became obvious when the truck passed a bunker made from felled trees, behind which two men manned a .30-caliber machine gun that covered the road. Below the thick canopy of the Sierra Madre forest, rows of simple buildings appeared, around them men walked and worked. Bare-chested or clad in T-shirts and jeans, they all carried weapons.

  This wasn’t a drug-processing facility as Court had suspected. No, this looked more like a rebel base. It was a jungle fortress of sorts, though there were no walls or guard towers; the remoteness of the location along with the sheer number of guns and gunners meant nothing less than a battalion-sized element of U.S. Rangers would be needed to take the place.

  The truck stopped suddenly; Court pounded shoulders with the man next to him, suffered a few indecipherable angry comments, and then climbed down from the bed.

  Court was strip-searched again, right there out in the open; children and women and the elderly around the huts stood and watched the spectacle of the naked gringo. Dogs and chickens milled around him while he waited for his clothing to be tossed back his way.

  The men with the cowboy hats and the cuernos de chivos watched him dress again, and then they led him up a long narrow pathway, past gun emplacements and armed men on donkeys and horses. Men stared at Court from the woods and rocky dry streambeds that snaked along the route. Wooden steps had been added in a few places, and a razor-wire gate was manned by three men on a path. Court looked at the rocks above him, saw rifles and cowboy hats silhouetted by the sun behind them.

  Once Court was through the gate, the path opened into a set of large buildings under a canopy of pines and fir trees. The structures were simple cement blockhouses with tin roofs; a road ran through the middle, and armed men guarded individual doors. Many horses and a few donkeys stood at hitching posts and water troughs. Court was led by them on his way towards a large warehouse-type building halfway up the road.

  At the front door the man on Court’s right put the tip of his pistol to Court’s right temple. The man on the left put the tip of his pistol to Court’s left temple. A third man stepped in front of Court and placed his revolver’s muzzle on Gentry’s forehead, and a fourth gun prodded him in the back of his head.

  “Bueno,” said the man in charge. He stood in front, spoke Spanish, “We go into the room slowly. One step at a time.” He began moving backwards, and the entourage moved along in a cluster. Court felt like he was the torso of a spider, arms and legs all around him and moving more or less in unison.

  As they passed through the doorway, everyone’s weapons pressing and bumping against his face and head, Gentry said, “You guys are about the most chicken-shit bodyguards I’ve ever seen.”

  The man in front smiled and said, “If we were chicken shit, we would have shot your white ass back in Altar.” The procession kept moving into the big room; the man in front walked backwards as he said, “Por favor, don’t make us blow your head all over Señor Madrigal’s lunch.”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Court looked over the man’s shoulder and saw the room was some sort of meeting hall. Against the far wall a row of picnic tables full of food and soft drinks was laid out. A dozen armed men stood around, watching the procession moving towards them across the dirt floor. Seated at the end of the tables, facing Court, was a lone man with a plate of beans; he was sopping them up with corn tortillas. He finished his tortilla then took a long swig of Tecate beer from a can.

  A half dozen men stood behind him; they all wore either simple straw hats or baseball caps.

  Only after he had placed the can back on the table did he look up at the American surrounded by his men with their guns pressed to his head. The man in front scooted to the side, lowered his pistol somewhat, but he kept it trained on the chest of the Gray Man.

  Finally, Court got a good look at the man he’d come to see.

  Constantino Madrigal looked more like a campesino, a peasant, than a drug lord. He was in his fifties, heavy, more big than fat, with a mustache and bushy hair that was still more black than gray, but just. His denim shirt was open, and his hairy chest gleamed from sweat on either side of a simple wire cross medallion.

  He wore a ball cap on his head.

  He folded up another tortilla, dipped it in black beans, tore a bite from the soggy bread. Through chews he said, “Gray Man, they call you. El hombre de gris.” Madrigal lifted his beer and used it as a pointer. Jabbed it out at Gentry. “Nobody gets a meeting with me. Nobody. But everyone is talking about you. Everybody is asking me, ‘Did you see that gringo on TV in Puerto Vallarta?’ You are like a movie star. I had to meet you.”

  Madrigal stuck a wet finger into a small pile of white powder on the table next to his lunch, then he jammed the finger into his mouth, sucking off the cocaine.

  This act was followed by a swig of Tecate.

  Court said, “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “You have killed a lot of the Black Suits’ sicarios. More than my men have.” He looked around him at the gunmen as he sipped more beer, as if waiting for an explanation from his staff. No one said anything.

  Court looked to his left and right, on both sides the muzzles of stainless steel revolvers pressed into his cheekbones. “Can you ask your men to lower their guns? I’d hate for one of them to sneeze. I came here showing you respect; I only ask you to give me the same courtesy.”

  Madrigal smiled as he folded another tortilla. “I am showing you lots of respect, gringo. You don’t think this is respect? You should see how I treat men I do not respect. I know what you can do. You may have a way to kill me still; I don’t know.”

  “I couldn’t kill you if I wanted to.” Court was not above a little ass kissing at the moment.

  “Then if that wasn’t the plan, what can I do for you?”

  “I came to offer my services, free of charge.”

  “¿Tus servicios?” Your services?

  “Yes. I would like your help, and your blessing, in going after Los Trajes Negros.”


  Madrigal waved his men back; they lowered their weapons and stepped to the side. Still, there were twelve men with firearms within five steps of the American assassin. The narco drummed his thick fingers on the picnic table. “Haven’t you been doing that all week without my help?”

  “I am talking about a larger-scale operation.”

  The drug lord shrugged, motioned for Gentry to sit down. Court took a metal chair on the opposite side of the table. Madrigal spoke while a man with an AK-47 popped open a can of Tecate and placed it in front of Court. “I am not at war with de la Rocha. I don’t want war with de la Rocha. There is enough war going on now. DLR has his plaza, and I have mine, and I have enough troubles fighting the army. I’d rather just watch you kill his people without getting involved.” He laughed. “That’s more fun.” The men in the room laughed behind their gun barrels.

  Court did not understand everything Madrigal had said; he had a thick Mexican mountain accent peppered with impenetrable colloquialisms, and Court had learned the majority of his Spanish in Spain and South America. A young man was called from across the room; he sat down next to Madrigal.

  “My son will translate. We call him Chingarito.”

  Court silently translated the boy’s nickname then wondered what kind of man would call his son “Little Fucker.” Court did not ask the question aloud.

  The kid was barely sixteen; he wore a ball cap with a gold marijuana leaf emblem stitched on it. He looked somewhat excited to be called to the table for this responsibility. He translated his father’s reticence about war with the Black Suits.

  Court switched to English. “Did you know DLR was given intelligence on your contacts in South America by the Central Intelligence Agency?”

  The boy translated. Madrigal shook his head. “No. How do you know this?”

  “A man in the CIA told me, and DLR himself told me. He wants access to some of your production.”

  “He won’t get it.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe he will just do what he can to hurt your production. That would strengthen him, wouldn’t it?”

  Constantino Madrigal called another man over. Spoke into the man’s ear for a moment. Then he looked back to Gentry. “Daniel de la Rocha’s father was a wise man. A competitor, of course, but a good businessman. Daniel is loco, insane. He has tried to implicate me in the assassination attempt of him by the GOPES on his yacht, and then he tried to implicate me in the assassination of the families of the GOPES officers. But that is his style, not mine. High profile, high body count. Psychological warfare. All that time in the military cooked his brain, made him a mad killer. An unreasonable man. Now they say he worships a street idol from the barrios.” Constantino Madrigal shook his head in disgust. “The business and intelligence end of his operation is actually run by his consigliere, a gentleman named Calvo. Calvo is my enemy, but I respect him. He is smarter than any ten of these stupid pendejos I have working for me.” He waved his arm around the room, and a couple of his men chuckled.

  The younger Madrigal relayed all this to Gentry, and then the father continued. “If Calvo found out who I was working with in South America to fabricate the product and to get it to Mexico, and if de la Rocha decided he wanted to go to war with me, it would cost me much time and money. Money, I have, but that is not how I want to spend my time.”

  “I can prevent that,” Court said before the son finished the translation.

  “By shooting a few of his men?”

  “No. With your help I can harass his operation a lot more than that. I can turn his attention to me, away from you, and you can take steps on your side to protect your interests in South America. He won’t even know you are involved.”

  When the translation was finished, Madrigal sat quietly for a moment. The man Madrigal conferred with earlier was still standing behind him; the man leaned forward but the narco boss stayed him with his hand while he thought.

  His son did not say another word.

  Finally, Madrigal looked at Gentry. “You are alone. You are not working for the American government. This I know.”

  Court nodded.

  “Then why are you doing this?”

  “DLR has something I want.”

  “The Gamboa woman?”

  Gentry was pleased that these rough-looking cowboys up here in a remote mountain hideout knew about Laura. It meant los Vaqueros had an intelligence arm with some access to info on the Black Suits.

  He nodded. “I have one mission, and that is to get DLR to release Laura because it is too expensive and dangerous for him to keep her.”

  “Young Daniel can be very stubborn.”

  Gentry did not blink. “And so can I.”

  “What do you want from me?” asked Constantino.

  “Intelligence and material support.”

  “Men?”

  “No. I work alone.”

  “What do you mean, ‘material support’?”

  “Guns and a pickup truck.”

  Madrigal smiled widely. Did another finger of wet cocaine, followed by another swig of canned beer. He laughed as he said, “You sound like a man from Sinaloa.”

  Court smiled himself. “So, we have a deal?”

  “I was born in a villa in Sinaloa called Mátalo.” Court translated the town’s name silently. The village was called “Kill Him” in Spanish.

  Madrigal continued. “The Black Suits are army officers, city dwellers, college graduates. Men from Mexico City, primarily. They are cruel. Sí, they are very cruel. But de la Rocha and his organization are not outlaws. We, los Vaqueros? We are the mountains. We are outlaws. Our people have been fighting and killing for hundreds of years. We’ve been cattle rustlers; we’ve been highway robbers; we’ve raided Indian camps for their women, army barracks for their guns; we’ve robbed banks for their money.” The big man sipped beer and smiled. Mentally, Gentry realized, the man was in a happy place.

  “Now it is drugs to the USA, so there is more money involved, but I don’t care. I am a warlord. I don’t give a damn about the money. It is the fight that I love.”

  “I’ll fight the hell out of DLR for you, Señor Madrigal.”

  Another pause from the narco boss. He stroked his mustache and sipped beer. “We . . . I mean the leaders of the enterprises here in Mexico, do not touch one another’s families.”

  “I am not planning on going after his family. I am only asking for information about his drug operations. It will get very, very bloody. But it won’t get personal.”

  Chingarito translated. Madrigal sipped his Tecate and thought some more. Finally, he motioned over his shoulder. “This is Hector Serna. My intelligence chief. I will have the two of you work directly together. Less chance for ratones.”

  “Rats?”

  Serna’s English was superb. He said, “Informants. All organizations have them. We are no different.”

  “So you have access to rats in the Black Suits? People who can give you information on their whereabouts?”

  “We monitor the movements of the leadership of Los Trajes Negros; of course we do. They do the same to us.”

  “So you know where they are at all times?”

  “At all times? No. But if they communicate their movements to anyone who might also be on our pay, then yes, we hear of it. For example, we know the Black Suits will be in Puerto Vallarta tomorrow; they have contacted their people in the local police and have let them know. If they need to go to a hotel for a meeting, if they need a street blocked off for their security, if they need cars moved out of a parking lot so that they can eat at a restaurant adjacent to it—then we will hear of it from our contacts in the local police.”

  “Interesting,” said Gentry. Then he looked at Madrigal. “Could you arrange for me to get to Puerto Vallarta?”

  “Of course,” Madrigal said as he stood and extended a hand.

  Court put out his hand. Shook the hand of a murderer of men, women, and children; a torturer of hundreds; a man who epitomized most every reasonab
le person’s personification of evil.

  “Gracias, amigo.”

  FORTY-SIX

  At eight o’clock the next morning, Court Gentry sat in an old black Mazda pickup truck in a parking lot in the Puerto Vallarta marina. Twenty yards from his dirty windshield, tens of millions of dollars of yachts and other pleasure craft gently rocked in unison on the water. The morning sun warmed a pair of iguanas on the rocks along the promenade. Out his driver-side window, a posh apartment building loomed five stories high. Out his passenger-side window, a long row of tiendas and businesses that had not yet opened for the day sat dark and quiet.

  Gentry was on the phone with Ramses Cienfuegos Cortillo. Ramses had hooked up with men in Mexico City he trusted. He was still lying low, but Court had called his old phone number, and a recorded message directed him to a new mobile. Court called that, and Ramses called him back minutes later.

  Court had contacted the federal officer to give him a warning. Court let him know he was getting intelligence and support from the Madrigal Cartel, but he wanted his friend in the federal police to know he wasn’t working for los Vaqueros.

  As far as Court Gentry was concerned, he was working for Laura.

  “Look, Ramses. This is going to get ugly. I don’t know what you have told those around you about me, about you working with me.”

  “I have said nothing. I moved my family to a friend’s apartment in Miami, and the people I am working with only know that Martin and I survived the attack on the yacht, but Martin was killed in Tequila. These men know better than to ask more questions.”

  “You trust these guys?”

  Without hesitation Ramses said, “I trust them. They have all suffered greatly at the hands of Los Trajes Negros.”

  “Good.”

  “These are honest men. We can help you go after Laura.”