Ballistic

SIXTEEN

“Somebody just whacked de la Rocha.” Court said it into his mike, but a burst of gunfire ahead to his left turned his head again. The black-clad federales fired into the crowd as they pushed towards the podium, shooting at the civilians in their way.

The white SUVs were honking and screeching their tires, doing their utmost to back out of the crowd.

Court had to do something; he could not just sit up here and witness mass murder.

The Gray Man rose to his feet, stood in front of the open fourthstory window. He lifted a two-foot rebar hinge from a stack of fastenings next to him and took the bent iron rod in his right hand, slung the sling of the Colt Shorty over his neck with his left, and in his silent stocking feet he stepped onto the cinderblock window ledge. With only a quick glance down he leapt out over the crowd, over the screams and the honking horns and the crackle of gunfire, and dropped towards the street, four stories below.

As he fell he heard a submachine gun go cyclic off to his left, draining its magazine of bullets.

Gentry caught the rebar hook around a mass of telephone wires just three feet below the window, got his right hand under the wires, and took the bar on the other side as he fell, squeezing as tight as he could with both hands. With a violent wrenching in his shoulders, the wires caught him, and he managed to hold on. His legs and torso shot out to the right, spinning him almost horizontally before gravity caught up with him and he began sliding down at a forty-five degree angle towards the Parque Hidalgo, the metal rebar stripping rubber from the phone lines as he slid down.

He hurtled down over the street now, above the bedlam of the packed audience desperately trying to break the gridlock and get away from the men with the guns.

At thirty feet in the air he was skidding down at top speed; he fought to maintain his grip. His cell phone and his wired earpiece flew away from his body and tumbled to the street below. The crowd in front of the cement steps between the sidewalk and the park scattered with the flying lead coming from both their north and south; a fresh crack up near the staircase to the Talpa Church sent some of them in the opposite direction from the masses and caused a virtual mosh pit of flailing and falling bodies on the sidewalk near where Court’s telephone wire terminated at a metal pole.

He chose these unlucky people as his landing zone. As he shot down the wire, he let go of the rebar while his feet were still eight feet off the ground and he was halfway over the three-lane street. He flew through the air, tucked his knees in tight, saw a big man in civilian dress with a radio in one hand and a silver revolver in the other. Court slammed into his back, and he and the fat man tumbled hard, crashing down into those who’d already fallen on the sidewalk.

Court struggled back to his feet, faster than anyone else taken down by his dive-bomb attack from four stories high. He ran across the back of a young man who was facedown on the concrete, and then he leapt onto a small wall running along the sidewalk and began heading for the stairs Cullen planned to use to get the Gamboas away from the park.

More gunfire barked from ahead, and the crowd shrieked. Men, women, children all running and fighting and screaming to get away from the bloodbath. Court searched for the origin of the fire as he ran, blading his body and using his free hand as a spear to knock the shocked and stunned out of his way as he advanced on the threats ahead. He arrived at the first of the victims now: bullet-riddled dead bodies and writhing injured civilians whose misery continued as others tripped over them trying to escape the pandemonium. Court pushed his way with the crowd towards the long staircase leading up to the road and the church above; in front of him an utter logjam of panicked and shrieking humanity fought its way up the steps towards safety.

By now Chuck Cullen had moved Elena and her family off the stage; the Captain quickly ushered her, Laura, Ernesto, and Luz towards the staircase leading away from Parque Hidalgo. Moving with them, either behind, alongside, or in front, depending on the chaotic flotsam and jetsam of the crowd, were the other eight members of the Gamboa family: Eddie’s two uncles, two aunts, his two older brothers, a sister-in-law, and his sixteen-year-old nephew. Along with them, family members of other PF officers killed on La Sirena fled the stage to the stairs. But the crowd was thick, and Cullen’s hasty escape plan bogged down immediately. The steady rhythmic gunfire seemed right on top of them, but they could barely breathe, much less move away. After what seemed to him to be an eternity of shoving, Cullen finally got the Gamboa family to the wall alongside the staircase. He began pushing and fighting his way along it to make the turn to go up, but the swarm of horrified protestors moving in the opposite direction pushed back at his scheme.

Finally, he turned at the base of the stairs, and he led the way, held Elena by the hand, and alternated between looking back to make sure the rest of the family had not been left behind and scanning forward up the stairs towards more pandemonium, searching to avoid threats or discover opportunities to hasten their flight from the danger.

More gunshots from behind, from different areas of the park and the street, and from different types of weapons. Laura trailed her parents, pushed at her father who, along with his wife, was suffocating at the bottom of the stairs, packed like cordwood amongst the others.

From just above them, “Go! Go! Move! Move!” Cullen spoke excellent Spanish, but he shouted in English, certain his meaning was obvious to all.

For much of his slow and arduous progression through the gridlocked park, Court could not see more than a few feet in front of him. He fought against the masses, punching and pushing and scratching to make his way. “¡Muevate! ¡Muevate! ¡Muevate!” Move! Move! Move! Nearing the staircase, stepping and leaping over dead and wounded along the way, he caught up to three sicarios federales, their backs to him. These men pushed forward, reloading their smoking submachine guns, completely unaware that an armed enemy was behind them.

The men wore big bulletproof vests, so with cruel determination the American assassin knelt to the hot pavement, thereby creating a flight path for his bullets that would not send them through his targets and then into innocents. He carefully fired a short burst into the back of each man’s head below the helmet. They pitched and tumbled forward into fleeing civilians; their Colt sub guns and Beretta pistols flew from their hands and fell silent. Court held his rifle in his right hand and fired again at the men on the ground, double-tapping the forehead of each man as he pushed past them.

He came to a group of terrified civilians frozen in fear; they were obviously a family, a father nearly hysterical as he tried to shelter his wife and three children from the flying lead and thrashing and kicking bodies as he attempted to get out of the way of it all. Just as Court caught the terrified eyes of the man, the Mexican’s head lurched to the side, and blood erupted from his jaw. Gentry spun his head to find one of the plainclothes agitators in the crowd re-aiming his big silver revolver, having missed Court with his first shot. Court ducked and rolled on the ground, crashed into others around him like a bowling ball, but he successfully dodged another pistol shot that no doubt struck an innocent person behind him.

The Gray Man emptied his Colt 9 mm into the fat man’s gut at twelve feet, sending him into spasms before he tumbled back dead.

Court dropped the spent submachine gun, crawled forward on his hands and knees, and hefted the dead man’s smoking pistol.

He rose, sprinted forward towards the stairs; his new weapon dripped blood, and he shoved and pushed and even pointed the gun at innocents so they would get the fuck out of his way. He did everything within his power to catch up to Cullen and the fleeing Gamboa family, obscured still by the hundreds pushing in both directions on the wide steps running up to the street in front of the Talpa Church. At one point he found himself climbing onto a bench, jumping high onto the backs and heads of the crowd, literally bodysurfing over a particularly tight gathering of Puerto Vallartans too terrified to move.