Ballistic

Within seconds of the Eurocopter disappearing under the black water of the marina, a pair of heads emerged. Soon a man and a woman could be seen swimming ashore. The figures disappeared into the black, just as the siren’s wail of a harbor police boat filled the air.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Nestor Calvo Macias lay hog-tied on his side in the mine shaft. He shook and shivered, both from the cold and from fear. All night long big rats had scurried around and even over him. They were not afraid of him, and why should they be? He could do nothing to fight them off, bound as he was, and with the hemp gag in his mouth he could not even scream out to scare them away.

So he’d spent the night in the dark, in the cold, being walked on, pissed on, and even shit on by pinches ratones.

He assumed he would die here. He would starve or die of thirst or succumb to some other ailment in the next day. And if the Gray Man did return, what then? A bullet in the head?

Nestor lay and shook and thought of the rats and the disease, and of starving or dying slowly of dehydration.

He shivered and hoped that the Gray Man would just come back and put a bullet in his head.

A light up the shaft. The sound of an engine. Soon the Mazda truck appeared in the mine shaft and stopped. The Gray Man stepped out. From the truck’s lights Nestor could see that the American looked like hell. His clothes were torn; his face showed pain in each step. He limped over to him, knelt down next to him, and then drew his pistol.

Here it comes, thought Calvo. He cinched his eyes tight.

The cold barrel of the pistol pressed into his temple.

And then the hemp gag was removed from his mouth.

The Gray Man said, “De la Rocha is dead. Spider is dead. So where does that put you?”

Calvo did not open his eyes. “I . . . I do not know.”

“I think it ought to put you in charge of the Black Suits. Don’t you?”

Now his eyes opened, but they stared ahead, at the far wall. “I . . . I don’t know.”

“I’m willing to make a deal with the leader of the Black Suits.”

“Yes?” Calvo’s voice cracked. He looked up to the Gray Man now.

“If you call off the hunt for Elena Gamboa, I will let you go.”

“Of course! Of course I will! I never had any interest in—”

“If anything happens to any of the Gamboas, either here or in the States, then I come back.”

“I . . . I understand.”

The Gray Man cut Calvo free, then he climbed back into his Mazda truck and drove away without saying another word.

Nestor Calvo Macias stood in shock, slowly brushed dirt off of his black suit, smoothed his gray hair back on his head, and began walking slowly forward towards the exit of the mine shaft.

Court sat on a wooden a pew in the sanctuary in the Cathedral of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Puerto Vallarta. His feet shifted nervously while he looked around.

Waiting. Worrying.

Laura appeared through a side door of the sanctuary, scanned the cool bright room, and smiled when she saw him. She approached and they hugged, then she took him by the hand through a narrow archway that led into the small sacristy. Here they sat alone together on a wooden bench.

For a few minutes they talked about the various aches and pains they’d received the week before in Puerto Vallarta. They both looked a lot better now than the last time they’d seen each other: her crying at a roadside bus stop and he pulling away in his Mazda pickup. They’d had time since to clean up and tend to their wounds and figure out where they would go from here.

Court was worried about this conversation. He could not enter into a relationship with this girl, as much as he entertained that fantasy each and every night. He knew his life was in jeopardy, and he knew that, unlike her situation for the past few weeks, his problems would not be solved any time soon. He did not know how to tell her that he would have to leave her behind for her own good. It sounded like bullshit.

But he’d have to do it.

She came to the point quickly, forcing him to prepare himself to let her down as easily as possible. “Six. I have been thinking and praying about my future.”

“Right.” He said, “I want you to know—”

“My heart is certain. I know what I want. What I need. I know what will make me happy in my life.”

Holy shit, thought Court. Here we go.

A slight pause. Then she said, “I will enter the convent. I will become a nun. It is a long process, but my heart knows it is right for me. I feel the calling. I will begin immediately.”

“Holy shit,” said Court aloud.

“I would love for you to come and visit me. I will not be able to see you. I will have to remain cloistered. But it would be nice to hear about you from time to time.”

Court fought to compose himself. He certainly did not envision this course of events. “Yeah. Sure. I’d like that.”

“And I would also like to pray for you.”

Still reeling, he said, “Knock yourself out.”

She cocked her head. “What does that mean?”

“It means, yes, you have permission to pray for me. I would like that very much.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways. You, Six, are the most mysterious ‘way’ I have ever encountered.”

Court found himself wanting to believe God was working through him and not Satan himself. But he did not know. He did not understand.

But he did not lament the killing he had done, the measures he had taken here. He did not lament for one second one drop of the blood he had shed to save the woman in front of him.

She was beautiful. She was good. She was perfect.

And she was alive.

“Go with God, my friend,” she said, and she hugged him, looked into his eyes, stood, then disappeared back through the sacristy and into the sanctuary.

And she was gone.

Court sat for a few minutes alone, then stood and returned to the sanctuary himself for a moment more. The room felt big and empty, but welcoming somehow. He’d spent time in churches around the world but only for operational reasons, and his mind never drifted beyond the details of his work. Now he looked around, perhaps for the first time in his life, and he wondered about this place. Was there a point to all this?

His eyes turned to the crucifix. He stared at it a long time before whispering, “Thanks.”

His mobile phone rang. It was the number he’d given Hector Serna.

He walked out of the side entrance to the sanctuary, into a cool sunny afternoon. “Yeah?”

It was not Serna. It was Madrigal. He spoke in his mountain Spanish, and Court struggled to understand.

“You left Calvo alive?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I think you need some competition.”

A long pause. “I should have killed you when you gave me that gun!”

“Yes,” Court admitted. “You should have.”

“I will kill you!”