Ballistic

and a niece, two brothers, and several friends from the area.

Cesar Gamboa, one of Eddie’s uncles, put a cold bottle of Pacifico beer in Court’s hand and exchanged pleasantries with the American in the hallway at the back of the house, while Elena disappeared to greet more guests. As they talked, Court looked around at the pictures in the hall. The walls were adorned with Eddie and Elena’s wedding photos. Court remembered that wide grin from Laos—back then he found it amazing that the guy could have smiled at a time like that. There were also several pictures of Eddie with a white-haired American man on a fishing boat. Together they held a massive marlin in one picture. Suntans, Ray-Bans, and smiles covered their faces.

Then Gentry scanned the framed pictures of a much younger Eddie with his SEAL team. The men posed with their weapons. Eddie looked impossibly young and fit, and though the rest of the men with him were a head taller than the Mexican American, Eddie Gamble looked comfortable and “in charge.”

Elena tapped Court on his shoulder from behind. Court turned around to find himself standing in front of the old man he’d just seen in the picture with Eddie and the marlin. He was short, seventy or so, and he wore a blue U.S. Navy cap.

Fuck, thought Court. A gringo.

Elena spoke in English. “Jose, I would like to present you to one of Eddie’s dear friends, Capitan Chuck.”

“Chuck Cullen, United States Navy, retired,” the old man said as they shook hands. His grip was long and fierce in an obvious attempt to intimidate; his eyes were anything but trusting. He was old, but he was trim and fit, and he sure looked like he took damn good care of himself.

Elena continued speaking, perhaps sensing an initial mistrust between the two men. “Jose was a friend of Eduardo’s.”

Cullen’s craggy suntanned face wrinkled in a sour smile. “Well, any friend of Eddie’s is a friend of mine,” Cullen said, but Court could tell he didn’t mean it. Gentry considered his own appearance, knew he looked too much like the roadie of a heavy metal band to garner the respect of a seventyish ex–naval officer. With the overt suspicion on display now, Cullen asked, “How exactly did you know Eddie?”

“I met him when he was in the DEA.”

“So, you are DEA, or did he arrest you once?” Cullen asked with a smile as if it were a joke, but Gentry sensed the old man considered the “long hair” in front of him to be a human being worthy of suspicion. Cullen began to say something else, no doubt another chiding remark. But Elena returned and interrupted the conversation.

“I almost forgot. Come, Joe. We have more people to meet. You two can talk at dinner.”

It was a short walk down the narrow hallway to the kitchen. Here a half dozen women of various ages prepared the meal; they used every possible flat surface in the small room to slice fruits and vegetables, ice down beer, stir large pots of soups and rice, and butter bread fresh from the oven. Two were introduced as Eddie’s aunts, another as a sister-in-law.

At the sink a woman with short black hair washed sweet potatoes; she wore an apron and her back was to Court and Elena, but she turned to ask Eddie’s wife a question.

Court’s eyes locked on hers, and he found himself unable to pry them away. She was beautiful, extraordinarily so, but not like Elena. She was smaller, with cafe au lait skin that was a bit darker than that of Eddie’s wife. Her sparkling brown eyes were massive, half-hidden under bangs that she blew out of the way as she toweled off her hands. She was almost boyish in frame and mannerism, and her shoulders showed hints of muscularity under her simple white blouse, which had a hand-sewn floral print.

Elena said, “This is Joe from los Estados Unidos. Joe, this is—”

Court finished the sentence. “Eddie’s little sister. Lorita,” he said it softly, reverently. He could see a lot of his old friend in her. In a flood of memories the weeks in the shit-splattered Laotian cell came back to him. Eddie had spoken of her nonstop, and his one regret about running to America had been leaving the little girl behind. He sent most of his meager enlisted-man’s pay back home, supporting his parents and sister from afar, but it was painfully clear that he felt he’d abandoned the kid by leaving her behind here in San Blas.

Lorita finished wiping her hands on a rag and stepped forward; she shook Court’s hand, and he felt her eyes on him. He mumbled something in Spanish about being an old friend of her brother’s. His words sounded stupid to him.

She spoke to him in English. “No one calls me Lorita for long time. I’m Laura. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Igualmente.” Court said likewise in Spanish, indicating to her she could continue in her mother tongue if she wished.

“You were with Eduardo in the Navy?” she asked, but quickly Elena stepped in.

“He can’t talk about how he knows Eduardo. Some kind of secret mission, I think.” She winked at Court. There was sadness in her eyes but a conspiratorial playfulness as well.

Court nodded, and said, “It was a while ago. He was a great guy.”

Laura nodded. “Yes.”

He looked in her eyes and caught himself backing away. He continued in Spanish for her benefit. “I spent . . . a lot of time with Eddie. He talked about you. You were just a kid then, I guess.” He stammered for something else to say, but nothing original came. “He talked about you.”

She smiled at first, but in seconds her round eyes narrowed to slits and her face reddened. She began to cry.

“Lo siento,” I’m sorry, she said with an embarrassed smile. She lifted her apron and wiped her dripping eyes with it, then left the room quickly.

Elena ignored the display of emotion; she had already moved and began working on the sweet potatoes in the sink.

Court stood there by himself in the center of the kitchen, now afraid to say one more fucking word.

Dammit, Gentry.

LAOS

2000

For ten minutes Court leaned his back against the wall next to the door to the stairwell with the water bottle in his hand. He’d filled the empty plastic bottle with fuzz from the wool blanket and the gauze from Eddie’s head, and he’d wrapped the outside with a piece of the blanket enshrouded in the white medical tape. This exertion threatened to put him to sleep for hours. He fought it with all his might. He’d just begun to nod off when he heard someone coming down the stairs.

Gentry hurried to his feet. He sucked in musty air tainted with the stench of his own waste, filling his lungs with the oxygen he needed to give him a burst of strength for the coming moments.

The door opened. A guard came through with a pen. He stopped as he was closing the door, noticing now that the prisoner was not in the cell.

Court Gentry moved from behind the door, slammed into the man in a bear hug, knocked him to the ground with body weight.

Court made it up to his knees. Grabbed the stunned soldier’s head with both hands, lifted it, and smacked it against the stone floor. Once, twice, three times.

The young man’s eyes remained locked open in death. Court fell on top of him. Utterly exhausted.

Seconds later he reached back with his bare foot and pushed the door shut. He finally recovered enough to pull the Chinese-made Type 77 pistol from the Laotian’s gun belt. It fired a weak 7.65 ? 17 cartridge, which Gentry would have hated to bet his life on, except in the situation in which he now found himself. He struggled back across the floor, fought a wave of diarrhea that wanted to expel from his bowels as he moved, and finally made it to the door and to his water bottle. He jabbed the muzzle of the weapon into the neck of the stuffed plastic device, satisfied himself it was as secure as possible, and tried to climb back to his feet.

Nothing doing. He had neither the energy nor the balance to stand.