As exhausted as she was, Laura was thrilled by the location of the hotel, as it stood directly across the street from la Iglesia de Nuestra Senora del Pilar, a narrow but ornate 250-year-old baroque church and former girls’ school. As soon as they were in their room, she told Court she wanted to go across the street and pray. He rolled his eyes and started to follow her, but she suggested he stay in the room and rest. He grabbed the pistol he’d just pulled from his pants, stuck it right back into his waistband, covered it with his shirt, and followed her out the door.
“We stick together, Laura.”
“Good. Will you pray with me?”
Gentry shrugged as they reached the staircase. “You pray for us both. I’ll stand watch.”
They crossed the busy road and entered the church; Court sat in a pew while Laura knelt next to him and bowed her head. Court kept his tired eyes open and darting in all directions, though there were only a few other people in the sanctuary and they were clearly more interested in their salvation than deleting Court or the girl with him.
The altar was high and gilded; the walls on either side of the sanctuary were similarly gilded and adorned by statues. Soft music played through speakers, and the cool air was dim, illuminated by natural light coming through the stained glass and reflecting off the golden walls and ornamentation.
Court began drifting off to sleep. Only when Laura climbed back up to the pew next to him did his eyes relight.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on the crucifix on the altar. She spoke softly. “You are not a believer, are you?”
“I . . . I wasn’t raised in the Church. I don’t know how it all works.”
She looked up at him and smiled; they sat with their shoulders touching. “Let me show you.”
“Thanks, but not today. I am really tired.”
“Faith will give you the energy you need.”
“Sleep will give me the energy I need.”
She seemed disappointed. “Some other time, maybe?”
“Sure.”
Laura then walked forward to an iron stand of votive candles and placed money in the offering box. She began lighting candles, one by one, saying a prayer for each. After the third Court realized they were for the dead of her family.
He stood with her, his back to the wall, watching the front door and the choir loft and the other worshippers. She had a lot of candles to light.
On the way back to the hotel Laura noticed a small bodega, and she and Court agreed they should get some provisions so that they would not have to risk going back out again before the meeting the next day. They bought bread and juice and water and
Laura immediately lay facedown on one of the twin beds and closed her eyes.
Court grabbed the bag of clothes from the men’s store and stepped into the bathroom. A long shower washed off days of sweat and grime. Bloodred swirls in the bottom of the bathtub gave him pause: he wondered just which of his many victims’ splatter had made it to his skin and just how long the blood had been on him. He shampooed his long hair and more blood ran from it, along with bits of grass and pebbles and broken glass and gunpowder residue. The debris collected in the water around his feet. He watched it swirl or settle, depending on what it was.
To him it was a reminder, a journal of the past few days. The rally in Puerto Vallarta. The hacienda. The armored car. The ride on the motorcycle.
Looking at it all just made him more exhausted than ever.
He turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and looked into the bag.
Pressed brown khakis, a cream-colored linen shirt, a black belt with a square silver buckle, black socks and black tennis shoes, one half size too large, but close enough. He dressed quickly, the fresh clothes felt amazing on his clean body. Though he knew he could sleep for a day, he still felt like a new man.
He stepped back into the bedroom, lay down on his bed, placed the Beretta on his chest, and looked across at Laura. She had rolled over on her back; her eyes were closed, her hands rested on her stomach, and her small breasts rose and fell with her breath.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.
He forced himself to turn his head, to look away from her. He rolled onto his side, and in minutes he fell asleep.
THIRTY-FIVE
Two white Yukon XL Denalis pulled up in front of the exclusive restaurant in the Zapopan district of Guadalajara just before eight p.m. The drivers remained behind the wheels of the armored vehicles while four men stepped into the road, began looking over the cars on the street, the people passing by. The men wore black Italian-cut business suits, their hands were empty, they were quick and efficient with their movements, but they were not impolite as they moved through the foot traffic to the front door of the restaurant. There they stood, back to the wall, and they all unbuttoned their coats. Their eyes scanned the street in all directions.
Three Guadalajara police squad cars double-parked on the street. Their flashing lights reflected off the glass for a block in each direction. A pair of patrolmen stepped out of each vehicle and began directing traffic to continue on up the street. No one would be allowed to park anywhere near the front of the restaurant.
Four more men climbed out of the gleaming white SUVs and moved directly through the bronze double doors of the restaurant. These men wore black suits as well, carried handheld radios and empty black nylon bags. The manager and the maitre d’ met the men in the lobby in front of the bar, they spoke a moment, and then the six men broke into two teams.
The maitre d’ and two Black Suits approached each candlelit table and spoke softly to the diners. Cell phones were confiscated; the men were asked to stand and open their coats, and they were frisked as politely as the brusque act can possibly be accomplished. Some of the customers understood what was going on—most did not. Soon all the phones of all the patrons were in the black nylon bags. An announcement was made to the dining room by the maitre d’: eat, drink, enjoy yourself, and your meals will all be taken care of by a customer who will be entering shortly. There were gasps, a few claps, a few more stolen glances at wristwatches.
It would be a long night.
Meanwhile, three men checked the prepared banquet room, looked under the table, careful not to disturb the linen or the place settings as they did so. They scanned for listening devices and discussed arrangements with the servers. Then they entered the kitchen; the manager led the way as the staff lined up and underwent a quick frisking, even the women in the back of the house were patted down. Then the pantry was searched, the walk-in cooler, the dry storage areas, and even the freezer.
Everyone in the kitchen knew this routine.
Six more Black Suits arrived in another white Yukon XL Denali; two men headed straight through the dining room, and the patrons wondered if one of them was their benefactor for the evening. But they headed into the kitchen and stepped out the back door. They opened their coats and took up watch in the alley. The remaining four stepped into the dining room from the cool evening, and they moved with military precision into the four corners of the room. Again, coats opened and eyes scanned all in front of them but did not fix on any one thing.
One of the first men in the door spoke into his radio.
Five minutes later three more white SUVs stopped in front of the restaurant. A thick group of men in identical black suits entered; no one would be able to count the number with the speed and tightness of the mass, but there were certainly a dozen individuals. Their clothing and hairstyles, even their trim beards and mustaches, everything was virtually identical. They passed through the dining room; the patrons at their tables strained their necks and gawked; a woman tipped her wineglass as she leaned back to try and pick out the celebrity.
Was he a famous bullfighter? Was he the singer performing at the Auditorio Telmex tonight?
No one knew who it was, because no one could tell one man from the next. In seconds the mass moved into
