Ballistic (14 page)

“I live downtown. This morning I woke to the sound of a car with a PA system driving up my street; the announcer was telling everyone to get out to the memorial this morning and protest the government's assassins. They've been talking about it all morning on the radio. There's a boatload of ill will on the local stations towards the Policía Federal's assassination attempt, and the DJs are encouraging certain . . . elements to come out and make themselves heard. Supporters of de la Rocha and his Black Suits. The authorities are saying they are expecting thousands; they'll be roping off streets. It just sounds . . . off. I am going to be there just in case something happens. I'd like you to come, too. I'm not as young as I used to be.”

“You really expect trouble?”

“Organized trouble? Maybe not. But at this point in time, DLR has more fans in Puerto Vallarta than Eddie Gamboa does. Depending on the crowd, the disposition of the cops holding back traffic, the extent to which the pro–de la Rocha group fires up the audience, the number of drunks and lowlifes who stagger into the protest . . . Christ, I could see this getting out of hand really easily.”

With only a moment's hesitation, Court hefted his green canvas bag off the ground and slapped the older man on the shoulder. “Good call, Chuck. Let's go.”

They drove south in Cullen's red two-door CrossFox. Traffic was heavy, but the seventy-two-year-old American weaved through it expertly. Court recognized that he could not have driven these streets half as well as the old man.

Cullen filled Court in as they drove. “It's Monday, so there will be a cruise ship in port. Thousands of tourists down on the Malecon, the boardwalk lining the beach. Plus locals come into downtown on Mondays. The streets would be tight, even
without
this protest going on. I know a place I can park east of the event, just up the hill from the action.”

“The site of this rally. What's it like?”

“It's called the Parque Hidalgo. Used to be a park, but the city cleared out the grass and the trees and the market, so now it's just a flat, open cement plaza sitting on top of an underground parking lot. I guess the plaza is about fifty yards square, 'bout three blocks inland from the beach. There is a big staircase running off the plaza to the left that leads up to a street on the hill above. The Talpa Church sits up there.”

“Does the church provide overwatch on the location?”

“Overwatch? Hell, son, I never was a ground pounder, but I get what you mean. Yeah, it might. Not sure, to tell you the truth.”

“And in front of the plaza?”

“Just a busy downtown road. Three lanes, all one way, and gridlocked this time of day. Buildings on the other side. Commercial property. My dentist's office is right in there. There's some construction going on if I remember correctly. Everything is four stories high or so.”

“I need a phone,” Court said as a plan of action began to form in his head.

“Here, take mine.” Cullen reached towards the BlackBerry on his belt.

“No, I need my own, so I can contact you after we split up.”

“Why are we splitting up? We need to stay around Elena and the family. She's seven months pregnant; somebody throws a beer bottle, and she won't be able to get out of the way. Ernesto and Luz aren't as old as me, but they aren't as fit, either. Laura can handle herself, but Eddie's brothers are worthless; his uncles and aunts are mountain people who've probably never even seen a crowd this big before. We need to protect the family.”

“We will. Look, trust me. Let's do this my way.”

Cullen looked at Court out of the corner of his eye while he drove through thickening traffic. “Help me understand just what skills you are bringing to the table.”

Court's game face slowly hardened. “If I were armed, I'd be bringing more skills to the table.”

The captain sighed. “We don't want to do anything to make a bad situation worse. Somebody charging in in a blaze of glory is not going to—”

“I'm not looking for glory. If the shit doesn't hit the fan, you won't even know I'm there.”

“Good.”

“This rally . . . Do you expect the press to be there?”

“Most definitely.”

Court reached over to Cullen, pulled the USS
Buchanan
cap from his head. He put it on his own and pulled it down low.

Cullen looked at him as he drove.

By way of explanation, Court said, “I'm a little camera shy.”

“Do I want to know why?”

Court shook his head, looked out at the road. “You really don't.”

Cullen turned back to the road himself; the creases in his face deepened in thought and worry.

“What have you done, son?”

“I'm just like the other good guys down here. There are enough bad guys around that I don't want them to see my face.”

Cullen nodded, but it was obvious he was still suspicious. He reached into the backseat and pulled an identical
Buchanan
cap from the floorboard and put it on his silver-maned head.

They pulled into a supermarket, and Cullen rushed inside, came back a few minutes later with a cell phone and a wired earpiece in black plastic. Court had already ripped the devices out of their packaging before Cullen had pulled the CrossFox out of the parking lot.

The memorial had begun by the time they parked the car a few blocks behind the large stone Talpa Church, on a steep hill above the plaza. They followed the rumbling noise of the crowd, and canned patriotic music played on a tinny public address system as they walked down the hill. The music stopped, and a woman began speaking to the crowd. It was not Elena Gamboa's voice, but Court thought it sounded like one of the other police wives from the dinner the previous evening. She railed against the
narco
traffickers, the lack of opportunity for the youth of Mexico, and the corruption in the local police force. Gentry could not understand more than half of it, but it seemed pretty rambling and disjointed, even if it was delivered passionately. He and Cullen passed some Puerto Vallarta Municipal Police manning a wooden barricade just as the speaker called out their department as being in the back pocket of the “terrorist” Daniel de la Rocha. The cops glowered down the hill towards the protest with their right hands resting on their pistol grips.

“This shit could turn ugly,” Court said as they began pushing through street vendors and stragglers at the top of the long stone staircase that ran alongside the big square.

“Yep,” Cullen said tersely; he looked over the edge of the railing down towards the podium, searching for the Gamboas.

Moving down the big staircase was an exercise in both diplomacy and aggression. Court would tap one person on the shoulder and politely ask permission to pass, and then physically adjust the next person to make way for himself and the old man. The plaza below to his left was every bit as crowded, easily two thousand people crammed into a single city block to listen to the speaker. Court worried there were some in the crowd here to encourage trouble, and likely others who were just trouble-loving spectators hoping for a little excitement.

Finally, at the bottom of the steps, Court said, “Why don't you get close to the family? Be ready to move them away and out of the action if this all breaks bad.”

“Alright. But what about you?”

Court turned slowly, 360 degrees. Then he looked back to Cullen. “I need to stay on the perimeter. Get a feel for the action, the crowd, the streets. The vibe.”

“How is that going to accomplish anything?”

“I'm pretty good at this. You brought me here because you think I might be able to help. Let me help.”

Cullen nodded. “Call me if you see something.”

“Let's establish coms right now and keep the line open between us.”

Cullen called Gentry, popped his earpiece in his ear, and Court put his earpiece in and answered. “Good luck,” the Gray Man said into his mike, and the men set off in different directions.

Moving west through the mass of humanity, away from the stage, Court immediately ID'd troublemakers in the crowd. There were groups of dissenters here and there; around him he heard angry comments, arguments, even some pushing and shoving. A woman mumbled that the Policía Federal shouldn't be blowing up boats in the bay, and another woman snapped back that DLR was a son of a whore and the only pity was that he survived.

Within sixty seconds of leaving the captain's side Gentry spotted men who clearly did not belong. Heavies, stone-faced tough guys watching the others around them instead of focusing on the speaker. He passed two of these individuals within yards of each other, picked them out as undercover operatives working for the police, the government, or maybe even one of the drug cartels.

Court saw bulges on their hips, evidence the men were wearing guns secreted into the waistbands of their blue jeans. Plainclothes police agents were common at Latin American protest rallies; it was nothing Court hadn't seen before in Brazil or Guatemala or Peru or a half dozen other places. Often they weren't as dangerous as they looked, but still he knew to keep an eye out for these assholes.

Court spoke into his mouthpiece. “Chuck, have you made it to Elena yet?”

“Just about. I'll get up on the dais with the family. One more speaker after this broad and then it's Elena's turn. When she's finished at the podium, I'm going to do my best to get everyone back up the stairs and away from this crowd.”

“Roger that.”

Court arrived at the three-lane street just below the Parque Hidalgo. There were a few cars and trucks parked along the curb, but no traffic flowed. Instead, PV cops had the street blocked to the north, and easily two hundred people stood in the middle of the road or on the sidewalk next to it, their eyes riveted to the stage.

The speaker finished, and she received polite applause from some and angry whistles from others. Gentry passed another tough-looking hombre who neither clapped nor paid attention to the speaker; instead he made eye contact with the bearded gringo pushing to the east before turning his eyes towards another part of the audience.

Court's gaze settled on a building that overlooked the park. The first two stories were finished; they housed a dental office, a travel agency, a pharmacy, and a few other offices. But high above street level the third and fourth stories were construction; iron beams, rebar, cinderblock, electric wires, scaffolding, and big, dark open windows that overlooked the entire crowd and the stage. To a man like Court Gentry, it looked promising. Here was an overwatch, a place where he could get a bird's-eye view of the event.

He began walking towards the building.

The next speaker at the podium was male, a state prosecutor. He began extolling the brief but illustrious career of Major Eduardo Gamboa, in advance of the late-officer's wife saying a few words.

Finally free of the gridlocked crowd, Gentry headed down an alley that ran west all the way to the beach. On his left an archway opened to a hallway that ran under the partially finished building. At the arch he passed the doorway to a pet store; a dozen bird cages hung from the roof off the hall alongside the shop's windows, forcing him to duck as he walked on. Moving slowly down the narrow hallway, he stepped around more chirping finches and budgies in their wooden cages, which jutted out into his path. Pigeons sauntered around at Gentry's feet as he moved slowly towards a light ahead. A stairwell at the end of the dark hall.

And then, thirty feet in front of him, a shadow from the left. Court stopped in his tracks. A man crossed the hallway in the light, from a room on the left to the stairwell up on the right.

The man was dressed from head to toe in black, and his face was covered with a black ski mask.