Ballistic

And he would hope like hell that this took any heat away from the Arizona side of the Nogales tunnel for the time the Gamboas needed to get over the border.

It was the best way to increase the Gamboas’ chances because the Gamboas’ fate was, to Jerry Pfleger, a matter of life or death.

At eight in the evening Court tied Jerry to the toilet in the bathroom, and he left the motel with the Gamboas. They drove the Lobo up to the border to International Street, made a right, and then drove down a little hill. On their left was the border fence, rusted tin and a few layers of chain link and barbed wire. On their right were some simple homes on the hill. The asphalt road ended, and they continued on gravel and dirt for fifty yards, then parked in front of a wooden shack.

One man stood outside. Even before Court climbed out from behind the wheel, he could tell the man had a gun under his lumberjack shirt.

This was the cayote. He’d be crossing with the family, meeting with their ride to Tucson. He would accompany them all the way there.

The cayote eyed the gringo, said nothing at all.

Court didn’t like this one damn bit. The lives of these three, four if you counted Eddie’s unborn son, all depended on the actions of this drug-running, piece-of-shit scumbag giving him the stink eye.

But neither Court nor the Gamboas had any other options. They had to trust Jerry. Not his honesty or fidelity. No, he wasn’t doing this for those reasons. He was doing it for self-preservation, so Court felt his motivation was sufficient.

The cayote motioned the Gamboas forward into the shack, and Court stood with them a moment in the darkness on the dirt road. “I will never be able to thank you,” Elena said to him. She sobbed.

“Just make it over there. Look up some of Eddie’s old friends. Navy men, DEA guys. They are good people. They will help you. Have that baby.”

She smiled. “I will do that.”

She hugged him, tears filled her eyes. “Please save Laura. You are her only chance. And please be careful yourself,” she said.

She turned and headed for the shack. Court shook Diego’s hand next. “You are in charge; you understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your uncle Eddie went to the U.S. as a young man, and he made a success of himself. No matter how his life ended . . . he had a life.”

Diego nodded, looked into the starry sky. “I would be proud to live like my tio Eduardo.” He turned and disappeared into the shack.

Luz hugged Court a long time. She said a short prayer then crossed herself, turned, and walked away.

Court caught himself trying to understand the words she had said. To take solace in them. To feel empowered by her divine plea.

But he did not understand her. And he felt no different.

When the family was gone, Court turned around. He could see over the fence here, more or less. On the other side were a few warehouses; their lights were on but it was still and silent now. A road ran up a hill of scrubland; it was visible in the moon and starlight, a long piece of ribbon candy winding to the north, into the distant night.

That was America. Right there. So close he felt he could reach out and touch it.

Court had not seen his own country in five years. It was no longer home; it was likely the most dangerous country in the world for him.

Except, perhaps, for Mexico.

Still, he looked out over the undulating scrubland longingly, as if the dirt and sand and tumbleweed ahead of him was the land of milk and honey.

It was fucking beautiful.

He was jealous of the three Mexicans he had just sent over the border.

He loved his country, though powerful elements of his country did not love him back. He’d bled for that country. He’d killed for that country.

He would die for that country, if he did not end up dying for something else.

He had a score he’d need to settle someday with Denny Carmichael and others in the upper echelons of the CIA.

But that was for later. Much later.

Court’s sad, wistful eyes and the dreamy look of longing on his face hardened, morphed into cold eyes and a gritty expression of determination. He climbed back into the truck and headed to the motel to await a phone call.

The call came at seven in the morning. It was Elena—they’d made it. The Gamboas had left the coyote behind and were on their own in Tucson, they had bus tickets to San Francisco, and she gave Court the phone number of the mobile phone she’d just purchased in the bus station. Gentry had given them a prearranged codeword. If they were safe, she would tell him they were going to find a hotel. If they were under duress, she would use the word motel. She said “hotel,” and Court blew out a long sigh of relief. Still, he made her put Diego on the line. Gentry listened hard to him for any sounds of duress, but he, like his aunt, just sounded tired.

He hung up the phone and looked to Jerry. Pfleger sat on the other bed in the small motel room. He’d not slept a wink. His foot throbbed, and his fear over his own impending death had kept him up.

Jerry looked back at the Gray Man. “You’re going to kill me anyway, right?”

Court shook his head. “No. You did what I asked you to do. I’m not going to kill you.”

Jerry didn’t believe him. “Right. I get up, turn to walk out the door, and you shoot me?”

Again Gentry shook his head. “No, Jerry . . . You can stay here. I’ve paid up through tomorrow. I’m leaving.”

Pfleger looked confused. Slowly he nodded and said, “Whatever you say.” He did not believe Court.

“I do want you to quit your job. You are done working for the United States. You got that?”

Jerry nodded quickly. Surprised and hopeful now. “You got it. I can’t go back there, anyway. The cartels would fight each other for the chance to kill me now. But . . . What should I do?”

Gentry shrugged. “Whatever. Limp all the way to Copenhagen for all I care. I just don’t want to hear about you working for the U.S. in any capacity.”

“You got it, dude. I’m out.”

“And I need another favor from you.”

“Okay.”

“Madrigal.”

“What about him?”

“I need to talk to him. Face-to-face.”

Jerry Pfleger just put his head back on the wall behind the bed. “Man, nobody talks to el Vaquero in person.”

“Bullshit. Make it happen.”

“Look. I know lots of Cowboys. Some of them are pretty high ranking carteleros. But I don’t know anyone who can get you in front of Madrigal himself. He’s a ghost. A phantom.”

“I need to talk to him. Man to man.”

Jerry just shook his head like it was out of the question. But slowly, he stopped. Looked at the man staring him down. “Let me guess. This is another thing you need me to do, or else you will shoot me again.”

“You are getting the idea, Jerry.”

Pfleger looked off into space, his eyes unfixed, for a long time. Finally, he said, “Let me make some