Ballistic

and running from killers, and ask people I do not know for help.”

Court felt completely on the spot. The entire family stared at him, and he took an unconscious step backwards, bumped into the cement block wall. Softly, he shrugged. “I . . . don’t know. I think you guys should get away from here. But where you go . . . what you do . . . who you trust? I have no idea. I can’t help you. I wish I could.”

No one spoke for a long time. Gentry looked longingly across the room at the front door. It seemed miles away.

Young Diego shook his head in disgust, turned, and disappeared up the hallway. He did not understand all of the English, but he’d picked up the fact that Joe had decided to leave.

Laura said, “You can help us. You did help us. You took charge. The shooting and everything in Puerto Vallarta. You—”

Court wanted them to understand. “The shooting and everything . . . that’s pretty much my specialty. I don’t know how to do much of anything else. My plan ran out when the bad guys disappeared. You all need to just leave town. Get away from the Black Suits. I won’t be any help to you with that.”

Elena began begging him to stay.

“Leave him alone,” shouted Laura, interrupting her sister-in-law. “He is done with us! That’s fine.” She looked at him. “Thank you for everything. We’ll be just fine.” Court’s interpersonal communication skills were not refined enough to discern whether or not she was being sarcastic, but he had his suspicions.

Court nodded. Shook everyone’s hand, wished them luck, and left through the front door.

TWENTY-ONE

Gentry walked through the mercado that ran along the road north of the town square in front of the church of San Blas. He felt miserable for the Gamboas, but he had no doubt that if he didn’t get the hell out of here right now, he would be found and killed by the CIA or Gregor Sidorenko’s henchmen or, in what was a pretty lousy best-case scenario, thrown into a Mexican jail for not having papers or for murdering federal police.

He justified his leaving the imperiled family behind by telling himself that his presence around them did them more harm than good. Ernesto had a good relationship with the local cops that would deteriorate if they realized he was harboring a man on the run from both the American government and the Mexican police.

And if Russian assassins dropped into San Blas? Well, that would really annoy the local constabulary.

They’d be okay. Laura and Elena and Diego and Luz and Ernesto. The locals would gather around them, just as they had last night, and protect them. De la Rocha had made his point with the shooting in Vallarta; the Gamboas would be in the spotlight now, so they would be safe.

As Court had explained to Elena and Laura, he was helpful in a shoot-out. But, he told himself, his presence was pretty much a hindrance in most other situations. He’d been on television for God sakes.

And the motherfucking Gray Man did not go on motherfucking television!

He passed the church and neared the bus station, his arms swinging freely as he moved. His canvas bag was back in Chuck Cullen’s car, so he had no belongings other than a wallet and the hidden revolver with three live rounds. He passed a barbershop and a beauty supply store, kept walking for a moment, and then slowed.

A large yellow sign on the wall of a bodega caught his eye. It looked like the other advertisements around, for a school or car insurance or a soft drink.

But it wasn’t.

It was very different.

“Join the ranks of the Cowboys of the Madrigal Cartel,” it said. “We offer benefits, life insurance, a house for your family and children. Stop living in the slums and riding the bus. A new car or truck, your choice. Members of the police, the army, or the marines will receive a special bonus for joining us.”

A phone number was written below next to photos of a smiling, happy family.

Court stopped in his tracks. Read it again, checked his comprehension. Yes, he’d understood it perfectly.

What the hell? The drug cartel is openly hiring?

This place is fucking insane.

“Narcobanderas, they are called. Help-wanted advertisements for the cartels. ?Increible, no?” An old man sitting on a bench in front of the convenience store had noticed Court reading the ad. Presumably, he noticed Court’s jaw hanging open; otherwise, he might have assumed the bearded man was interested in a job for himself.

Court looked at the man. “Madrigal can post these ads, and the police don’t take them down?”

The elderly man shrugged. “Sometimes they do.”

Thank God. Not everyone was corrupt. “That’s good to know.”

“Si, the police who support DLR sometimes take down the Madrigal ads. Or else they will write on them, put a note at the bottom to say the Black Suits offer a better life insurance plan than the Cowboys.”

Court shook his head in disbelief.

The narcos were everywhere, even here. Like a malignant cancer, the cartels’ insidious reach had taken hold in all aspects of life on Mexico’s Pacific coast.

He could not kid himself. Laura and Elena and the rest did not stand a chance.

But just what could he do about it?

Court looked up the street towards the bus station, took a couple of steps in that direction, and stopped again.

Indecision. Complete and utter indecision.

Dammit, Gentry.

After a protracted family argument right there in the living room, Laura Gamboa Corrales took temporary control of the surviving members of her family, plus Elena Gamboa Gonzalez, her late brother’s wife. Laura had announced her decision that they should leave San Blas that afternoon, that they should go to a family friend an hour or so inland in Tepic. This man was a prominent attorney, and he would help them, she was certain.

Elena had tired of arguing, had acquiesced to her sister-in-law’s wishes, and then had lain down on the sofa to rest her tired back and her swollen feet. At first Ernesto and Luz fought the decision to run; San Blas was their home, after all, but when Laura promised them that if they did not go, she would not go, they reluctantly agreed.

Diego had lost his parents today. He was nominally in the custody of Ernesto and Luz, but he was mature enough to make his own decisions. He could have walked out the back door and jumped on a bicycle and pedaled away if he so desired. But he stayed with the family.

He knew that his abuelo Ernesto was old, and he knew that his tio Ignacio was a worthless bum.

Diego knew that he would have to be the man. It was not an easy decision for him to make. He himself had peddled Sinaloan pot to American surfers and backpackers in PV and Sayulita, so he was actually a member of the Madrigal organization, although at the absolute bottom rung of the ladder. But that was behind him now. This wasn’t about money or right and wrong; this was about family, about survival. He would do whatever it took to make his family safe.

Ignacio had gotten half drunk on beer and tequila in the past hour. He agreed to go with the family to Tepic without argument. He had no family of his own, and he had nowhere to go but back to his house, just up the coast from Puerto Vallarta.

Even with four shots of reposado tequila and a couple of beers in his system, he wasn’t too drunk to realize that that was no option at all after today’s events.

Laura was satisfied that they now had a plan, but she still would have felt a lot better if Joe had stayed to