Ballistic

“And I’m saving yours! Okay, Matt, I’ve got to run.”

“You are leaving? I’m fucking bleeding to death!”

“No, you’re not. You’re going to be a stud around Langley. You survived a shoot-out with the Gray Man. How cool is that?”

“It’s not cool at all, you mother—”

Court knelt, patted him on the head. “You’re going to thank me, I swear.” Another quick pat. “Gotta go. Thanks again.” Court stood back up and pulled Jerry’s phone from his pocket, checked it for a signal. “Two bars. Call the embassy.” He tossed the phone on Hanley’s big gut, climbed behind the wheel of the Ford, and drove out of the parking garage.

Hanley lay in the dark, holding on to his stomach and his shoulder. “Fucking Violator!” he screamed it at the top of his lungs; it echoed back to him in the empty garage.

Then he took his hand from his shoulder to dial the cell phone with his bloody fingers.

FORTY-ONE

Just after nine p.m. Daniel de la Rocha sat on the sofa of his living room in a suburb of Cuernavaca, some forty-five minutes from Mexico City. Next to him, in his lap and up and down the length of the sofa were his children. His wife sat on the floor at his feet. The family watched the huge plasma television, a league match between Chivas de Guadalajara and Cruz Azul, two of Mexico’s best soccer teams.

DLR’s phone chirped in the front pocket of his black sweatpants, annoying him greatly. He’d instructed his men not to bother him tonight under any circumstances.

The chirping phone caught his wife’s attention as well, and she looked angrily at her husband.

“You said no one would—”

He looked at the phone. “I’m sorry, mi amor. It’s Nestor; it must be important.”

“I asked for one night of peace with my family.”

DLR’s oldest daughter, nine-year-old Gabriella, hushed them as she tried to watch the match.

“Daniel . . . the American has escaped. He killed Carlos, el Carnicerito, something like six or seven federales; he shot up the CIA man, and he escaped with Pfleger. Apparently, one of them is wounded; there was a blood trail all the way out of the building to the—”

“Wait! Nestor . . .” Daniel stood, his nine-month-old son nearly tumbled out of his lap onto the sofa. De la Rocha shot out of the living room, ran in his socks to his study, and shut the door.

“You are telling me that the chingado gringo who I saw in the Tepito death house, chained like a piece of meat to the wall, half-dead and surrounded by a dozen armed men, has somehow managed to get away.”

“Si, patron. I am working a lead right now. Pfleger’s car is missing; I assume they took it. I have everyone in the D.F. canvassing the—”

“What is going on? He did not do that alone. Someone rescued him.”

“Maybe so.”

“No maybe. Madrigal! It must have been los Vaqueros!”

“I’ll look into it, patron.”

“I want you to call the CIA right now and tell them that the Vaqueros shot their man!”

“We don’t know yet, Daniel.”

“I know it! I know Constantino Madrigal is behind this!”

Calvo sighed into the phone. “I will look into all the leads, especially any information that Madrigal’s network is involved.”

“Well, we know where they are going, then, don’t we? Tijuana!”

“Jerry Pfleger did not create the visas.”

“If he’s working with them, maybe he did, and he just didn’t tell you.”

“That’s true, Don Daniel,” Calvo replied wearily. “We will have everyone focusing on the border and the highways to get there.”

“Good. You stay on Madrigal, Nestor. You understand me?”

“Si, mi patron.”

De la Rocha disconnected the call then pressed a button on his desk. “Emilio. Bring the cars. We are leaving immediately.” He turned back to the living room. His wife stood in the doorway.

“What is it?”

“Work. It is always work, mi amor.”

“You are leaving again?”

Daniel nodded. “Si. I am sorry, but I have to go.”

Court sat in la Iglesia de Nuestra Senora del Pilar, in the same pew as the day before. But Laura Gamboa Corrales was not by his side. He stared at the altar, at the crucifix, at the devotional candles. He smelled the incense and the wax.

And he thought of her.

Jerry Pfleger was bundled in the trunk of his own car now. They’d spent two hours dumping the Ford, taking a taxi back to Pfleger’s apartment in la Zona Rosa, getting a few changes of clothes, the twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of pesos Court had given Jerry as a down payment, a mobile phone, and some other odds and ends. They packed all this into Jerry’s car. Court strapped a bag of ice onto Jerry’s foot to keep the swelling under control, but Jerry limped so badly Court was forced to help the skinny American everywhere he went.

On the way to Highway 85 to head northeast, Gentry took this detour to the church. Operationally, it was unnecessary, no doubt a little dangerous, even though he doubted the Black Suits would still be hanging around Donceles Street.

He could not say for sure why he was here or what he was doing. But he wanted to come here, to sit, to think, just for a few minutes.

He thought about Lorita, wondered what she was being subjected to, what she thought about him right now.

His muscles still hurt, but the twitching was gone. His ankles and wrists were burned and blistered, but he’d survive it. The cuts on his chest burned. They needed some treatment, but they weren’t deep enough to worry about blood loss, and the sting would help him focus and stay awake for the next few hours. After that . . . after that he’d think about medicine.

He had a plan, sort of. It was paper-thin, but it was action, and at times like these, Gentry preferred action to sitting around and hoping for the best.

He thought of Lorita again, and he wondered if he loved her.

Then he thought of Eddie, of Elena and the baby, and of the life that Eddie had left behind.

Court wondered if he even knew what it meant to love.

He looked around the church. There were only a few faithful here, but he regarded them, wondered about their capacity to love.

No, Court decided. He was not like them. He was not trained to love.

He was conditioned to hate.

And now he was ready to kill.

He stood slowly and left his pew. He had not prayed. He did not cross himself; he did not step up to the altar to kneel before it.

But he did address the crucifix. From the center aisle, before turning for the door, he spoke softly. It wasn’t a prayer. It was a demand. Delivered in a threatening tone by someone who, like he had told Laura the day before, did not know how this all worked.

“She trusts you. She is one of your people. You need to help her. To take care of her. I can’t do it by