Ballistic

FIFTY-FIVE

“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. “Si, 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—”

A loud explosion just outside the house sent small snowflakes of stucco from the ceiling. All heads turned towards the noise.

Except one. Court remained focused on his targets, even while his mind raced.

Dammit.

Court didn’t like his chances, but he saw no other option.

He had one trick up his sleeve, though, and he’d have to play it for all it was worth.

The gun in his hand looked exactly like a Glock 17, a common semiautomatic pistol. Surely DLR, Spider, and all the gunmen on the balcony had already identified it as such. But it was a Glock 18. The two weapons appear virtually identical, but the 18 is a rare handgun capable of fully automatic fire. Its ported barrel is able to spew 9 mm bullets at a rate of twelve hundred rounds per minute.

Court thought it over in an instant, working on a plan of attack.

Spider and his machete over Laura’s neck would have to go first; there were no two ways around that. The men high on Court’s left also wore Kevlar suits, just like their boss, and Court’s 9 mm rounds would not penetrate Kevlar, so he’d either have to sweep across all five with perfectly executed head shots or, at least, knock them back a bit with a round or two into their soft armor and then finish them off after reloading.

DLR wasn’t pointing a weapon at him, as were the sicarios on his left, but his two .45s would be in the fight in under two seconds. Court would have to execute an emergency reload of the Glock with perfect speed and precision, all the while avoiding the fire of any of the men with the M4s who’d survived his initial barrage.

Eighteen rounds of ammunition fired in full automatic mode at a rate of twelve hundred rounds per minute. His gun would be empty in a half second.

Oh yeah, there was one more factor Gentry knew he’d need to bring to bear. As soon as he started shooting, reflex alone would send rounds from the enemy rifles right where he was standing. In order to have any chance at survival, he’d have to execute all this precision while diving out of the way, moving his body as quickly as possible