Ballistic

Slowly, very slowly, he nodded, and softly he spoke. “Okay. Okay. Listen very carefully.”

De la Rocha pulled the hammer back on the pistol, pressed it tighter against her head. “Oh, I am listening, amigo.”

Court nodded again. Then he shrugged. “Shoot the bitch. I don’t give a fuck.”

De la Rocha just stared, his mouth slightly open. He looked back to the Black Suit behind him. “He is a cold fucker, no, Spider? Reminds me of you.” Then back to Gentry. “It is a bluff. A very good bluff, but you are bluffing. You care about what happens to her.” He thought for a long moment; clearly, he had not expected this reaction from the American.

Gentry said, “I didn’t sign up for this shit. The old American guy, Cullen, paid me five grand to watch over his dead buddy’s family for a couple of days. Two large in advance, three more after we got back from Puerto Vallarta. He didn’t say anything about a goddamned cartel hit on them.”

Now de la Rocha’s dark eyebrows furrowed. He took in the English. Weighed the words carefully. “You are private security? A bodyguard?”

“I was. I just retired.”

DLR conferred with Spider for a moment. Court could not understand what they were saying. Then de la Rocha turned back, shook his head.

“No. No, senor. I do not believe you. It was a nice try, but my associate’s men tell him that you escaped the hacienda, and then went back, at great personal danger to yourself, to rescue la familia Gamboa. That does not sound like the actions of any hired gunman I have ever heard of.”

Court started to speak, but Daniel continued talking. He was not a man accustomed to being interrupted.

“You know what? Maybe I won’t kill her now. Maybe I’ll have my sickest, most fucked-up sicarios rape her puta culo until she dies. It will take a little longer, yes, but it will be more rewarding for my men. Maybe I’ll have el Carnicerito do it right now in front of you.”

Court looked over at the fat bald man in the leather apron. The torturer licked his lips.

A mobile phone rang. Emilio pulled it from the front pocket of his suit pants and looked down at it. He offered it to his boss. DLR took it, looked at the face, and with a sigh, he flipped it open. “Nestor, can it wait?” A short pause and then, “Esta bien.” He took the pistol away from Laura’s head and replaced it with his foot. He pushed his Italian loafer hard on the back of her skull, shoving the tiny girl to the concrete floor. When she was down on the urine-soaked concrete, he turned and walked back into the stairwell.

The Little Butcher spoke with the Spider. Court tried to make eye contact with Laura, but she remained on her knees, her bound hands flat on the concrete in front of her, her head down. He wanted to speak, to tell her the only chance she had to survive was for him to act like he didn’t care whether she lived or died. It was a long shot, a hell of a long shot, but he’d seen no alternative.

He had to be cold as ice. He had to play like her life held no leverage with him.

Then she looked up at him from the ground, her eyes full of confusion and, yes, even heartbreak. Court had the impression she did not understand his ploy was for her benefit; she actually bought his bullshit about not caring about her.

Court turned away from her sad eyes and looked up to the narco lord across the room. He could hear snippets from DLR’s side of his phone conversation, but much of it was either too fast or spoken with too much Mexican slang for Gentry to understand. Still, he picked up some of the exchange.

“No deal. I need time to extract the information. Twenty-four hours—Okay, they can send one man to come look, but they cannot touch—Kill him? That’s fine ... Okay, but they only get the body when we have what we need from him. Make that clear.”

DLR hung up the phone and stepped back in the dungeon, conferred softly with Spider for a moment. There was even a brief argument between them, but it settled down quickly. He then spoke to his prisoners. “Change of plans. Someone is coming to identify this piece of mierda.”

Jerry spoke up from the corner. “Who?”

“Some gringo with la CIA.”

Jerry’s next comment squeaked out in a plaintive whine. “The CIA is coming here? Now?”

De la Rocha nodded. “They insist on making sure this is the cabron they are looking for. If he is the correct person, then el hombre de la CIA will go away, and we can work on this pinche gringo here to get the information we need.” He looked up at Gentry now. “Then they want us to kill him and dump his head near the embassy.”

Pfleger shot out of the dark corner, up to de la Rocha. “Wait! No! If the spook is on the way, I’ve got to get out of here! I can’t let them see me! I’ll go to prison for working with you guys!”

De la Rocha shrugged. Clearly, he didn’t give a shit about Jerry Pfleger. Still, he said, “You are staying here with your prize; that’s what you asked for, wasn’t it? Somebody give Jerry a mask.” One of the federales pulled a balaclava from the side pocket of his cargo pants, tossed it to the American, who pulled it over his head, struggling to orient the holes for the eyes. When he had himself situated, he looked up at Gentry. Clearly, the prisoner could out him still, mask or not. This plan didn’t make much sense. Through the nylon mask he said, “Mister de la Rocha, what if—”

“Enough from you!” Daniel pointed the .45 at Jerry, and Jerry shut his mouth. He stepped back against the wall with his hands up in compliance.

De la Rocha looked to Court now. “You don’t make very many friends, do you? La CIA is desperate for me to kill you.”

Gentry asked, “And what do you get in return?”

“La CIA will provide us intel from the DEA on the Madrigal Cartel’s connections with governments in South America.”

Jerry took a step back towards the light again. “And money, right? I still get—”

DLR pointed the pistol at Pfleger again. “Plata o plomo?” Money or lead?

“Money, jefe. Definitely money.” Pfleger backed up again.

De la Rocha continued. “So I am going to leave you now; my associates insist I not be here when la CIA arrive. But I am going to take your little puta with me. The spy will be brought here to identify you and then taken away. The Little Butcher will have the next twenty-four hours to find out what you know about Elena Gamboa, and I will have the rest of my life to find out what little Lorita knows about Elena Gamboa.”

It was quiet in the room.

“The only question is, which one of us will have the most fun with our work?”

Spider took the girl by the hair and pulled her up to her feet. She screamed with the movement. DLR looked at Gentry one last time as he started for the door. “You have cost me much, and now you will repay me.”

As he entered the stairwell, he called back to the room, “Carnicerito, help our American friend Jerry here and torture this prisoner so bad he won’t be able to speak when the spy comes to identify him.”

The fat man replied, “Si, jefe.” And he turned the dial on the table to its maximum voltage.

THIRTY-NINE

The Black Suits picked up the CIA man in Chapultepec Park; as prearranged he wore a red tie and stood on the steps of the National Museum of Anthropology. He was a thick man, blond hair that ran just past his collar and a chunky neck from which the tip of his chin barely peeked. He was getting thicker by the minute, too. He’d just finished a dulce de leche ice cream cone, purchased at a stand across from the steps, and had just wiped his thick hands clean of the sticky residue as the Black Suits pulled up.

He’d been one fit and fine son of a bitch a while back, but he’d let himself go.

His current job did not require staying in shape.

A gray van pulled to a stop in front of him on Las Grutas Avenue, the side door slid open, and the thick man from la CIA climbed in.