Ballistic

a back banquet room, the door was shut, and two suits stood at the door facing the restaurant.

The main dining room murmured and speculated. Several said, “Los Trajes Negros,” but none of the men in the black suits standing around nodded or answered back.

Soon the tables began ordering more wine, and the servers poured liberal glassfuls. Champagne corks were popped, and the staid dining room turned into a celebration.

Daniel de la Rocha sat at the end of the long banquet table, sipped his scotch, and gazed at the tea-light candle on the starched white tablecloth. He picked the soft middle out of a slice of crusty French bread and wadded it into a tight ball before popping it into his mouth. The table was set for twelve, but now only five sat with him. The other men paced around the room talking into mobile phones or radios; two were in the corner huddled over a laptop they’d set up on a serving table.

Emilio Lopez Lopez, DLR’s personal bodyguard and the leader of his protection forces, stood against the wall not five feet behind his boss.

A waiter in white offered DLR a menu, but he waved it away, asked the server to instruct the chef to prepare him something light. The waiter disappeared, and de la Rocha’s attention returned to the candle.

It had not been a good day. Elena Gamboa had survived the attack on the hacienda in the mountains near Tequila and had escaped. Nineteen marines, federales, Jalisco state police, and Tequila municipal cops, all under the control of Spider Cepeda, were dead, a couple of campesinos as well, and many more were wounded.

Calvo had worked his magic, the news reported that the men died heroically fighting the remaining Madrigal Cartel assassins who had attacked the rally in Puerto Vallarta, but this type of mess did not go away cleanly or quickly or cheaply. There would be blowback from Constantino Madrigal, from the government in Mexico City, from a meddlesome foreign press that Calvo could not so easily influence.

More men sat down now, and de la Rocha lightened a bit. He was with his brothers; they were together, and they would get through this chingado mess. The Gamboas would be found, and they would die, and the next wave of “heroes” working for the GOPES would not be so quick to come after him.

They talked about old times, talked about their days together in the army. Daniel was one of the boys now, and he enjoyed moments like this. He liked getting away from his properties, getting out into someplace different, even if it did require two dozen bodyguards and hours of coordination from the local police.

De la Rocha stood up from his chair. The others seated stood with him, but he motioned for them to sit back down. He stepped over to the corner nicho, knelt down at a Santa Muerte placed there just for him, and prayed alone.

When finished, he poured a double scotch for la virgen and left it there in the nicho beside her, then returned to his table.

Nestor Calvo had been pacing with his phone, but he left the dining room for a moment, returned minutes later, and then sat in his seat on Daniel’s right. He leaned into the ear of his patron.

“I’ve been speaking all afternoon to a man from the American embassy. We use him from time to time, for this and that.”

Daniel’s plate came. Filet of sole, not too much butter. A mango salsa. Asparagus. He nodded, lifted his fork, and the waiter went away with a sigh of relief. Daniel did not look up as he responded to Nestor. “This and that? Time to time? Okay. You aren’t telling me much. What about this gringo?”

“He helps Spider get papers for his men to get into the United States if there is someone up there we need to go after.”

Daniel nodded, bit into the hot fish. His face showed no expression.

Calvo continued. “He . . . I am speaking of the norteamericano, he called one of my men this afternoon, says he has valuable information, but he will only give it to you directly. I called him back and told him to go to hell. He flew straight in from the Distrito just now to speak to us. Called me from the airport. I finally persuaded him to tell me what he knows, and I had a man pick him up and bring him here.”

“So he didn’t go to hell; he came to me.”

Nestor shrugged. “You are going to want to hear this.”

“Has he been searched?”

“At the airport and again, just now, in the bathroom. Head to toe.”

Now de la Rocha shrugged and nodded, he did not look up from his plate as he ate. “Bring him in.”

Nestor nodded across the banquet room to a man positioned at the door. He stepped out, and seconds later he returned with Jerry Pfleger.

The American was disheveled, no doubt from the rough feeling up that he’d just endured in the bathroom. Wearing his rumpled white short-sleeved shirt and his thin black tie, he looked completely slovenly in the beautiful dining room amidst the well-coifed men with expensive suits. The guard ushered him to the far end of the table to de la Rocha’s left. Daniel stood and shook Jerry’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, Your Excellency.” Jerry said it with a wide smile.

Daniel sighed. Gringos. “Don’t call me that. Have a seat.” Both men sat back down. De la Rocha looked to the waiter standing against the wall behind him. “Angelo, bring my blanco American friend some vino blanco.”

A glass of white wine was poured and Jerry took a long gulp. Daniel had returned to his sole. Between bites he asked, “What can I do for you?”

“I’m really happy you weren’t hurt the other day.”

“Me, too.”

“On the news . . . the man who tried to kill you on your yacht. His wife was at the rally in Puerto Vallarta.”

De la Rocha stopped eating. He looked up at Jerry.

Pfleger continued. “Mister Calvo said you might be interested to know where they are?”

“I might be interested, yes.”

“An American came to me today in Mexico City. He wants me to procure forged U.S. visas for three women and one boy.”

De la Rocha just looked at the gringo, “And who are these mojados ?” Mojados was the local translation for “wetback,” or someone who swims the Rio Grande to get into the United States.

“Luz Rosario Gamboa Fuentes, Elena Maria Gamboa Gonzalez, Laura Maria Gamboa Corrales, and Diego Gamboa Fuentes.”

“Spider!” de la Rocha shouted out, startling Pfleger and making him sit up in his chair. Javier “Spider” Cepeda had been at the computer in the corner, but he spun around and darted over to his patron. Daniel had Jerry repeat himself to the leader of his sicarios.

“They are in Mexico City?” asked Cepeda hopefully.

“I don’t know. I just know the gringo is.”

“When will you meet with him again?”

“Two p.m. tomorrow.”

De la Rocha shook his head. “Seventeen hours. Any way to get to him faster than that?”

“Yes, sir. I got his mobile number. I thought maybe you had a way to triangulate—”

“Esteban.” Now Cepeda was the one interrupting Pfleger and calling across the room. Esteban Calderon was the technical guru of the Black Suits; he’d been the radio operator in their special forces team, and he had degrees in telecommunications and electrical engineering. He hustled over, and the Mexicans discussed the technical hurdles involved in finding someone by their mobile phone signal in a city as congested as the Distrito Federal.

Finally, when it was settled that with enough equipment and men and a little time the location of a mobile phone could be pinpointed, de la Rocha returned to Pfleger. The American had been all but forgotten for the previous five minutes, by everyone except Emilio and the guards along the wall, that is.

Jerry had gulped a full glass of chardonnay and then another half while he waited.

De la Rocha said, “What do you want, amigo?”