Ballistic (60 page)

He passed the two boats twenty minutes later, traveling sixty feet below them and breathing as slowly and as shallowly as he could to minimize bubbles above. Twenty minutes after that he was below the surf, the ocean floor crept up towards the beach, each wave that surged him forward was followed by an undertow that pulled him back, but he kicked to maximize his progress and, after ten minutes of heavy exercise, he worked his way ashore. He'd let the current push him south of the lights of the building, south of the beach and into the rocks.

He took off his scuba gear, turned off his tank, and stowed it between boulders at the water's edge. He pulled off his fins and his clammy wetsuit. Underneath his neoprene he was dressed head-totoe in black cotton. He slipped into soft-soled shoes, pulled a black ski mask over his face, put his extra magazines in the cargo pockets of his pants and a black Glock into the holster on his belt.

At midnight he began climbing up the rock, careful to stay out of view of the sentries on the beach, the spotlights from the boats, or any guards in the windows of the house.

His progress was slow and arduous, but he made it to the south side of the villa and then proceeded silently to the front, careful to move in shadow and concealment.

Daniel de la Rocha knelt before his throned idol in the candlelit dining room, the huge high-ceilinged main
sala
of the villa was open and empty behind him; both rooms were illuminated by the light of over one hundred white candles as well as a little ambient light that filtered through the
sala
's window overlooking the bay. On the floor, on tables, on wall sconces, and on tall narrow stands, the burning candles emanated not just light but pungent aromatic wax as well.

DLR was bare chested, his lean and muscular body adorned with tattoos. The large Santa Muerte on his chest in red and black and blue, the names of his six children in ornate script across his back. Guns on his biceps, army unit patches across his midsection, the names of dead Black Suit colleagues wherever a clean space of physique had been found to inscribe them.

He remained kneeling in supplication, all alone in the candlelit room, until slowly his head rose.

He did not turn around as he said, in English, “She told me you would come.”

No one responded to this comment. DLR then said, “You knew that we were monitoring that telephone line. You had us send our
sicarios
to Concordia to get them away from here.”

The reply came now, the voice firm and authoritative. “You move a fucking muscle, and I'll blow your head all over your girlfriend's dress.”

The Gray Man moved silently closer across the white tile of the large
sala
, his Glock pointed at the back of Daniel de la Rocha's head. As soon as he realized there was a second-story balcony overlooking the
sala
, he spun on the balls of his feet, swung his weapon along the sight line, and scanned quickly for threats above. But it was black and quiet on the balcony, just as it was here in the
sala
, and ahead in what Court could only imagine had been an open dining room before DLR converted it into a throne room for a silly skeleton statue.

“May I stand?”

“Slowly, first thread your fingers behind your head.”

DLR complied, Court closed to within twenty feet or so, but he kept his eyes darting around, confused by the lack of protection for the
narco
boss in front of him.

“May I turn around?” DLR asked. He seemed calm.

Court jacked his head and his weapon back to his six o'clock position, then up again to the balcony on his left and behind him.

Empty. Dark, quiet, and empty.

“Slowly.”

DLR turned, faced the Gray Man below him. “She told me you would come.”

“You said that. Where is Laura?”

“You did not give Nestor to Madrigal.”

“No, I did not.”

DLR smiled a little. “The Cowboy is going to be mad at you.”

Court was all business. “Where is the girl?” He spun around again, kept his weapon's muzzle moving in a blur as he scanned all around.

“You would like to exchange my Nestor for your Laura, correct?”

“That's correct. You can have him back, and then Laura and I will leave together. Everyone wins.”

De la Rocha just shrugged; Court began stepping backwards, hoping to make his way to a wall so his back would not be exposed to the balcony behind him.

As Gentry backed into a sofa in the middle of the floor, de la Rocha said, “Nestor told you his men were monitoring the phone line. And that is why you called it.”

Court did not respond.

“Nestor gave you this address as well. He has let me down by conspiring with you. He let me down more by working with Madrigal in the first place. Going behind my back to make a deal for you. I found out all about it this afternoon, and as a result of this knowledge, your bargaining chip has lost all its value.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . if you had brought Calvo with you tonight, I would have killed him myself.”

Court started moving sideways along the long couch.

“So you see, amigo, you come here with nothing to trade for the girl.”

Court's brain worked through the problem. He said, “There is something.”

“What's that?”

“In exchange for her life, you can have me. She walks out right now, we stand around and look at each other until I know that she's safe, and then I lower my gun. Me for her. Okay?”

“One problem with your offer.”

“What's that?”

“I already have you.”

Court heard the footsteps above and behind him. A dozen men stepped onto the balcony. Six filed over to his left, and six stayed behind. He assumed they'd been watching the conversation on a closed-circuit television.

They all carried M4 rifles.

“I did not send all my
sicarios
to Concordia. In fact, this is not all of them. I actually retained the leader of my enforcement arm, just in case I needed his help this evening.” DLR looked to his left. “Spider?”

The curtain to the left of the throne opened. Behind it, Spider stood in his black suit. His arms were high in the air, and they held a long, shining machete.

Below him, on her knees, handcuffed and gagged, knelt Laura Gamboa. She looked to Court down in the
sala
, and then she strained against her bindings.

Court's weapon turned to Cepeda's forehead.

“You move that blade and I drop you.” His voice quivered and cracked as he spoke.

DLR laughed at him. “Think about it, amigo! You shoot Spider and then all the men around here fill you with machine-gun bullets. And then, as you lay dead or dying, I step over and chop her head off myself.” Daniel unlaced his fingers and dropped them down to his sides. “I know what the most difficult thing for you right now is, gringo. It is not saving her, not killing me, not getting away with your life. No, Gray Man, the
most
difficult thing at this moment is trying to not think of the phrase, ‘Mexican standoff.' ” He laughed at his joke.

“We can work this out, Daniel. In just a few minutes this—”

“Quiet!” DLR shouted, then turned behind him, opened the curtain, and slid out a small trunk. He opened it and lifted an item out.

It was a black plastic bag, and Court immediately suspected it contained a human head. He was right. Daniel pulled it out and held it high above him. Court focused on the disgusting sight, stared at the face.

Elena?

No. It was a man.

Ramses?

No . . . the hair was lighter.

The flickering candlelight from one hundred sources could not bring life to the open, vacant eyes. Court's jaw clenched. He said, aloud, “Jerry.”

“Spider's
sicarios
caught your American friend yesterday trying to board a cruise ship in Cancun. Under torture we found out the Gamboas crossed the border in Nogales and made it to Tucson. You were smart to not tell him more of their plans. Pfleger was weak. Still, they worked on him all night before they determined he didn't know where you were.

“So, Jerry didn't know where Elena went. He was, ultimately, useless.” DLR tossed the American embassy man's head across the room, towards the huge windows off to Court's right. It rolled into a dark corner and disappeared.

“I need Elena Gamboa. I offered the life of little Laura here to
la virgen
, but she only laughed. I offered her your life, but she told me your death would serve me, not her, and therefore, it is no gift at all.”

Court's eyes scanned the room again while DLR said this. Other than the doorway he'd passed through to enter the
sala
there was one more entrance visible, an archway on his left that, no doubt, led to the front of the house. He suspected there was another archway behind the curtains in the dining room. That would lead towards the south wing of the huge building.

He wasn't sure why any of this mattered, as the dozen dudes who had him in their sights would cut him in half if he made for any of the exits.

DLR said, “So, I will make you this one offer. You tell me where Elena is hiding; I will send my men there, and as soon as we get her, I will let Laura leave.”

“Keep me. I will tell you.”

DLR shook his head; he seemed almost weary with the discussion. “No deal.” He turned to Spider. “Are your arms getting tired?”

Spider kept them high over his head.
“Sí, jefe.”

“It won't be long now, my friend.” He looked at Court. “Your decision. Does she live or die?”

Laura's big brown eyes looked up at Court. She was gagged with black cloth, but she chewed at it and tried to stand up. Spider held her down with one hand, kept the machete over her, ready to slice through the back of her sinewy neck.

Outside, in the distance, there was the unmistakable sound of a Kalashnikov rifle firing fully automatic. All bodies in the room stiffened at the noise. Another weapon kicked in a second later. They were a couple hundred yards away, but the volume of fire increased.

Car alarms in the neighborhood began sounding off.

“Who is it?” DLR asked Gentry. “Madrigal's men?”

Court shrugged. He knew that it was, but the longer he could instill doubt the better. “Probably CIA. Outside chance it's the Russian mob.”

Court knew it was los Vaqueros because he had contacted Hector Serna himself while in the grotto at Los Arcos. Court told him he could find Calvo at this address. Serna had screamed at him about the change of plans, but Court hung up before listening to much of the man's anger.

DLR started to show concern as the AK fire continued. He barked an order to Spider. “Keep five here, send everyone else to the perimeter. Have the pilot ready my chopper.” Spider shouted an order to the men on the balcony and then another order into a walkie-talkie on his belt. All but five of the gunmen disappeared, and those who remained all moved to the eastern balcony. They kept their rifles trained on the Gray Man as they did so.

DLR had returned to the trunk from which he pulled Pfleger's head. Now he retrieved a large gun belt. A pair of silver .45 automatic pistols hung from it. He buckled the belt around his waist, tied the holsters around the thighs of his black slacks, and looked back up at the Gray Man.

“You force my hand, fool.”

Court turned his gun away from Spider and back towards DLR. “You give the order to Spider, and I kill you first.”

Daniel laughed. “Typical cocky gringo. You are one man with a pistol. If I give the order to Spider, you won't have a chance to shoot any—”