Ballistic

“My son will translate. We call him Chingarito.”

Court silently translated the boy’s nickname then wondered what kind of man would call his son “Little Fucker.” Court did not ask the question aloud.

The kid was barely sixteen; he wore a ball cap with a gold marijuana leaf emblem stitched on it. He looked somewhat excited to be called to the table for this responsibility. He translated his father’s reticence about war with the Black Suits.

Court switched to English. “Did you know DLR was given intelligence on your contacts in South America by the Central Intelligence Agency?”

The boy translated. Madrigal shook his head. “No. How do you know this?”

“A man in the CIA told me, and DLR himself told me. He wants access to some of your production.”

“He won’t get it.”

“Maybe not. Maybe he will just do what he can to hurt your production. That would strengthen him, wouldn’t it?”

Constantino Madrigal called another man over. Spoke into the man’s ear for a moment. Then he looked back to Gentry. “Daniel de la Rocha’s father was a wise man. A competitor, of course, but a good businessman. Daniel is loco, insane. He has tried to implicate me in the assassination attempt of him by the GOPES on his yacht, and then he tried to implicate me in the assassination of the families of the GOPES officers. But that is his style, not mine. High profile, high body count. Psychological warfare. All that time in the military cooked his brain, made him a mad killer. An unreasonable man. Now they say he worships a street idol from the barrios.” Constantino Madrigal shook his head in disgust. “The business and intelligence end of his operation is actually run by his consigliere, a gentleman named Calvo. Calvo is my enemy, but I respect him. He is smarter than any ten of these stupid pendejos I have working for me.” He waved his arm around the room, and a couple of his men chuckled.

The younger Madrigal relayed all this to Gentry, and then the father continued. “If Calvo found out who I was working with in South America to fabricate the product and to get it to Mexico, and if de la Rocha decided he wanted to go to war with me, it would cost me much time and money. Money, I have, but that is not how I want to spend my time.”

“I can prevent that,” Court said before the son finished the translation.

“By shooting a few of his men?”

“No. With your help I can harass his operation a lot more than that. I can turn his attention to me, away from you, and you can take steps on your side to protect your interests in South America. He won’t even know you are involved.”

When the translation was finished, Madrigal sat quietly for a moment. The man Madrigal conferred with earlier was still standing behind him; the man leaned forward but the narco boss stayed him with his hand while he thought.

His son did not say another word.

Finally, Madrigal looked at Gentry. “You are alone. You are not working for the American government. This I know.”

Court nodded.

“Then why are you doing this?”

“DLR has something I want.”

“The Gamboa woman?”

Gentry was pleased that these rough-looking cowboys up here in a remote mountain hideout knew about Laura. It meant los Vaqueros had an intelligence arm with some access to info on the Black Suits.

He nodded. “I have one mission, and that is to get DLR to release Laura because it is too expensive and dangerous for him to keep her.”

“Young Daniel can be very stubborn.”

Gentry did not blink. “And so can I.”

“What do you want from me?” asked Constantino.

“Intelligence and material support.”

“Men?”

“No. I work alone.”

“What do you mean, ‘material support’?”

“Guns and a pickup truck.”

Madrigal smiled widely. Did another finger of wet cocaine, followed by another swig of canned beer. He laughed as he said, “You sound like a man from Sinaloa.”

Court smiled himself. “So, we have a deal?”

“I was born in a villa in Sinaloa called Matalo.” Court translated the town’s name silently. The village was called “Kill Him” in Spanish.

Madrigal continued. “The Black Suits are army officers, city dwellers, college graduates. Men from Mexico City, primarily. They are cruel. Si, they are very cruel. But de la Rocha and his organization are not outlaws. We, los Vaqueros? We are the mountains. We are outlaws. Our people have been fighting and killing for hundreds of years. We’ve been cattle rustlers; we’ve been highway robbers; we’ve raided Indian camps for their women, army barracks for their guns; we’ve robbed banks for their money.” The big man sipped beer and smiled. Mentally, Gentry realized, the man was in a happy place.

“Now it is drugs to the USA, so there is more money involved, but I don’t care. I am a warlord. I don’t give a damn about the money. It is the fight that I love.”

“I’ll fight the hell out of DLR for you, Senor Madrigal.”

Another pause from the narco boss. He stroked his mustache and sipped beer. “We . . . I mean the leaders of the enterprises here in Mexico, do not touch one another’s families.”

“I am not planning on going after his family. I am only asking for information about his drug operations. It will get very, very bloody. But it won’t get personal.”

Chingarito translated. Madrigal sipped his Tecate and thought some more. Finally, he motioned over his shoulder. “This is Hector Serna. My intelligence chief. I will have the two of you work directly together. Less chance for ratones.”

“Rats?”

Serna’s English was superb. He said, “Informants. All organizations have them. We are no different.”

“So you have access to rats in the Black Suits? People who can give you information on their whereabouts?”

“We monitor the movements of the leadership of Los Trajes Negros; of course we do. They do the same to us.”

“So you know where they are at all times?”

“At all times? No. But if they communicate their movements to anyone who might also be on our pay, then yes, we hear of it. For example, we know the Black Suits will be in Puerto Vallarta tomorrow; they have contacted their people in the local police and have let them know. If they need to go to a hotel for a meeting, if they need a street blocked off for their security, if they need cars moved out of a parking lot so that they can eat at a restaurant adjacent to it—then we will hear of it from our contacts in the local police.”

“Interesting,” said Gentry. Then he looked at Madrigal. “Could you arrange for me to get to Puerto Vallarta?”

“Of course,” Madrigal said as he stood and extended a hand.

Court put out his hand. Shook the hand of a murderer of men, women, and children; a torturer of hundreds; a man who epitomized most every reasonable person’s personification of evil.

“Gracias, amigo.”

FORTY-SIX

At eight o’clock the next morning, Court Gentry sat in an old black Mazda pickup truck in a parking lot in the