Ballistic

was standing among them, refilling their plastic cups with milky horchata poured from a plastic pitcher. “How come the cops on our side are the ones with the sticks and the bicycles, and the cops on the other side have the guns and the helicopters?”

“Maybe we picked the wrong team.”

Court drank his tequila down. “I’m beginning to think maybe Eddie did.”

Cullen looked at him thoughtfully. “I wish I knew who you were, Joe.” The old man even said the phony name in a way that demonstrated that he knew it was bullshit.

Court changed the subject again. “Why did Eddie come back home? Did you ever talk to him about that?”

Cullen waved a hand. “To save his country. To fight the narcoterroristas . To bring his skills from the USA down here where they could do the most good.”

“But?”

“But that’s not why he came back.” Cullen turned back to the driveway, pointed at Eddie’s little sister, Laura Gamboa. “That’s why he came back. For her. One hundred percent. Laura’s husband was killed five years ago up north. He was a lieutenant in the army. His truck was ambushed by matamilitares, special bands of sicarios who kill military men. He was beaten, his eyes were gouged out while he was still alive, and he was shot like a dog. His body was burned in a fifty-five gallon drum, and his head was stuck on a fence post within sight of the Arizona border. Laura was a mess afterwards.

“She has two other brothers, but they are both worthless losers. Drunks. One is an out-of-work auto mechanic and the other is an out-of-work appliance salesman.” Cullen pointed to the two fat men standing by the door to the kitchen, smoking and drinking. Rodrigo and Ignacio. They both looked shitfaced. Court had read their body language during dinner; he could tell neither man wanted to be here. “When Laura’s husband died, Eddie left the DEA, moved down here to San Blas, started working with the Feds.” Cullen took a long breath. “I’ve got to assume little Laura blames herself for Eddie’s death now. She’s taken it even harder than Elena or his parents.”

“Shit.” It occurred to Court for the first time tonight that close family ties had drawbacks as well as benefits.

As if on cue, Elena stepped out of the back door and walked across the yard to the two men. In English she said, “Joe . . . I’ve made your bed; I can show you where it is when you and Capitan Chuck finish your drinks.”

“Thank you, but I need to get back to Puerto Vallarta.”

Elena shook her head. Court had only met the woman a few hours earlier, but already he knew her to be intensely strong willed. “You are staying with us. Just one night. Francisco, Eddie’s uncle, is driving down to Sayulita early in the morning; I’ll have him run you to the bus station in Vallarta.” She took his hand and squeezed it; she seemed genuinely offended that he would consider leaving her home in the dead of night.

Court glanced at Cullen, and Cullen smiled, raised his eyebrows, and nodded.

Gentry said, “I guess I can stay.”

Cullen switched to Spanish to speak to Elena. Court could not tell if he was just proud of his command of the language or if he was trying to keep the other American out of the conversation. “Listen, Elena. Have you given any more thought to skipping the protest tomorrow?”

Court butted in, but in English. “What protest?”

Elena answered. “I told you. In Puerto Vallarta.”

“You called it a memorial.”

She shrugged. “To me, to the other family members here, it is a memorial. We will speak out for our dead loved ones. But Capitan Chuck thinks it will turn into a rally against Los Trajes Negros.” She looked at the older American. “He does not want me to go.”

Cullen said, “They are expecting a big crowd. I just don’t see it as a great idea for a woman seven months pregnant to be down in all that rabble. There is a lot of anger, a lot of tension after . . .” His voice trailed off.

“After Eduardo died fighting against them. I know that, Chuck. That’s why I should go.”

Court could not help but take sides. “I agree with the captain. You are pregnant; you don’t need to be in the middle of a riot. Pushing and shoving—”

“It’s not a riot, and I will be on the dais, not down in the crowd. I will be fine.”

Cullen shook his head. “I don’t like it. Eddie wouldn’t want you to get in the middle of that.”

“Eduardo would have gone, and you know it.”

“Yes,” Cullen said, “Eddie would have been there with a tactical team and an assault rifle, and he would have protected the protest from all threats from the monsters who support DLR. But he would not want you to be there, his family to be there, his unborn son to be there. It’s too dangerous.”

Elena smiled at the older man for a long time. “You worry too much about me, Capitan Chuck.” Then she smiled. “You have been a good friend to the family.”

Cullen sat up straighter in the chair. “And I will be as long as I live. Eddie’s death did not change that.”

Court liked the old man, even if the old man wasn’t as crazy about him. Court wished there was something he could do for Elena and the Gamboas, but he couldn’t think of a thing. He said good night to Cullen as the old man headed out front to his car; Court followed Elena inside, past at least a dozen others finding little corners with blankets and pillows to bed down for the night. She took him upstairs to a small bedroom, where she’d laid out a mattress with a blanket and a pillow for him.

The walls of the room were a fresh coat of baby blue. Court imagined Eddie had painted it himself for the son that he would never get to see.

THIRTEEN

LAOS

2000

The afternoon humidity clung to his skin like barnacles on a ship’s hull. Gentry drifted in and out of consciousness for the rest of the afternoon. The fever from his malaria caused him to shake some of the banana leaves off his hide, but he managed to shield himself from the sun by pulling the foliage back over his exposed skin.

Night brought relief from the sun. It also brought out a breeze that was strong enough to blow away his protective covering but somehow not strong enough to keep away the mosquitoes. With a weary hand he scooped mud off the ground next to him, wiped it thickly across his face and neck to try and cover as much skin as possible, but it didn’t really work.

The bug bites kept him awake all night, spiders scurried across his body, and he had nothing left in the tank to kill them or even flick them off. He just lay there like a fallen log as creatures made trails all over him.

The fever caused his brain to swell inside his skull, and with the swelling he lost touch with reality and began seeing visions. Several times he believed he had died; he felt no more pain or heat or hunger or weakness, only a lightness and a peace. But the visions were cruel, like a desert mirage they teased him with their tranquility, and just like in the desert, when they dissipated, they brought about renewed despair.

He saw a big Chevy pickup truck pull up next to the pond. From it stepped his father and Chase, his younger brother. They beckoned him to get up and jump in the cab; they told him they were heading into town for pancakes, and they wanted him to come along.

Court spoke back to them, and with the movement of his scratchy vocal chords, the vision dissipated, leaving him right where he’d lain for fourteen hours.

Dammit.

He wanted to die. He did not want to be alive when the sun rose the next morning.

In the bright moonlight a helicopter hovered just overhead, landed next to the pond, and from it leapt