Ballistic

THIRTY

The two GOPES commandos embraced each other in the front driveway. They’d already said good-bye and good luck to the gringo and the surviving Gamboas. They’d packed water bottles and rolls into the pockets of their pants, taken fully loaded weapons from the dead marines lying around the house; they’d synchronized their watches and discussed the timing for going over the walls — Martin to the east and Ramses to the west. The men walked past their Suzuki crotch rockets and headed off in opposite directions, and Court stepped back inside.

It was only nine in the morning, and Court was dead tired. He had a plan to get out of here, sort of, but it was thin as hell and he knew it. It was so thin he’d decided to wait as long as possible to tell the Gamboas about it, because he was certain they would freak out. But he also knew it was the only possible way they could survive.

Court stopped in the kitchen for some fresh coffee, took it with him to the rear mirador, and sat on the tile there and sipped.

He looked to his watch. Ten minutes from now Ramses and Martin both planned to be at the wall, on opposite sides of the hacienda. Court could not see either from his vantage point, so he just sat and waited. Hoped like hell he did not hear any gunfire.

Five minutes now. Laura had come up to see him, had asked him if he thought it was okay for her to take a nap in the cellar. He told her to catch a few hours because she’d need it later, and then she’d lingered a minute longer. She thanked him for all he had done. He’d said no problem; they looked into each other’s tired eyes a few seconds longer, and then she’d drifted back down the stairs.

His tired eyes followed her. Damn she was beautiful. Tough and resolute but kind and gentle. He wondered what it would be like to touch her, to feel her touch him, to just be somewhere quiet and safe, and to be together.

Fuck. I’m getting delirious.

Court shook his head, tried to clear his thoughts. Still, he knew now that Eddie had been right about his sister all those years ago. She was something special.

Court looked at his watch. It was time. Right this second both men should be on the top of the wall — one on the east side, one on the west side — looking for a break in the patrols of the corrupt federales, hoping to beat the odds and make a run for freedom.

No gunshots. That was good. Not so far any—

A motorcycle’s engine revved in the driveway on the opposite side of the casa grande. What the fuck? Who the hell—

Court leapt to his feet, ran from the veranda into the bedroom and into the hall, took the stairs three at a time into the sitting room, sprinted past the kitchen. Diego was there, and he ran behind Court as they made it into the entry hall and opened the front door.

Martin Orozco Fernandez shot out of the parking circle on his Suzuki, sending dust and gravel high into the air behind him. He passed the wrecked truck with Ignacio’s body, raced down the driveway at high speed, a Heckler Koch MP5 submachine gun in his right hand and held out in front of him. The bike bounced on the stones, but he kept control with one hand as he raced down the drive into the forest and out of sight, heading right for the front gate.

Right into the hands of the enemy, who would certainly be converging on the noise, positioning themselves there, ready to blast the biker into oblivion.

And this would allow Ramses, on the western wall, time and opportunity to escape.

Gunfire erupted in the distance now at the front gate, sounding over the whine of the motor. Court stood on the front porch, his shotgun in his hand, and he shook his head. Martin was giving his life to buy his compadre a few precious seconds to reach freedom. Somewhere to Gentry’s left, a couple hundred yards away, Ramses would hear the bike, the gunfire at the front gate, and he would realize what his friend was doing for him right now.

Court could imagine Ramses Cienfuegos, with two gunshot wounds, rolling over the wall and running across the dirt road there, sprinting into the agave fields with tears in his eyes.

The gunfire in the distance continued.

The motorcycle’s engine stopped.

And then the gunfire slowed, and then it trailed off completely.

Court hoped like hell that Martin had earned a measure of his revenge, had killed some of the bastards, had gotten some payback for the torture and murder of his innocent brother Pablo.

Gentry and Diego went back into the house without a word between them.

Ten minutes later, with no more gunfire over on the side where Ramses had made his getaway, Court knew that Martin had succeeded in his last mission.

Ramses had escaped.

Court and Laura were the only two awake in the house at noon. Luz and Elena were asleep in the dark downstairs cellar, Diego was crashed on the couch in the living room, and Ernesto napped in a chair on the mirador above the front door of the house, a Mexican Marine’s MP5 on his lap. His shoulder wound had begun to sting and burn, but his wife had given him enough aspirin and tequila to deaden the pain slightly, and the old man had insisted on being involved in the property’s defenses.

He’d absolutely refused to hide in the cellar with the women any longer.

Court remained at the rear mirador; he sat on cool tile in the shade. He’d nodded off a couple of times but had not gotten over sixty seconds of rest. He tried to think up some way out of here for everyone, but the single solution he could come up with seemed like a complete shot in the dark.

A noise on the patio below caught his attention; he leaned forward, knelt between stone columns that had been shot up pretty thoroughly in the first gunfight, when Ramses had used this high ground to fire down on the men on the patio bathed in the light of the Ford truck. Eddie’s prized possession now sat like a dead animal in the bushes, listing to one side and showing no possible signs of life. The truck had easily taken one hundred rounds of rifle fire or buckshot pellets.

There, on the patio below him, he saw Laura. She knelt over a dead man in a Tequila municipal police officer’s uniform. At first Court wondered if she was scavenging from the body more weapons or cash or anything she could put to use.

Court started to interrupt her from above, to assure her he’d gleaned everything of value from the bullet-ridden body. Just as he began to speak though, Eddie’s little sister crossed herself with her rosary in her hand and began to pray.

Praying for the souls of the men who had just killed her brother and had tried to kill everyone here in the casa grande.

Gentry shook his head. He absolutely did not comprehend this level of compassion or forgiveness.

It was not his world at all.

It was not his world, and he had decided he was going to make a run for it.

He found Elena in the kitchen, pouring herself water from a large jug. He asked her to come to the living room. Ernesto remained on watch, Luz remained in the cellar, but Gentry wanted to talk to Elena, Laura, and Diego.

“Listen, even if Ramses makes it to a town, to a phone, or to a car, we can’t count on him doing it before nightfall. The federales will hit as soon as it’s dark; you can bet your life on it.”

“So what are we going to do?” asked Elena.

“I’ve got to try and break out, to get some help or find a car—”

“Go, Joe. You have done all you can. We would not have made it this far without you. Thank you so much for everything.” It was Laura; she spoke as if she had expected this. He felt defensive.

“You are leaving us,” Elena worded it as a statement. Court saw she had no illusions that she or her baby would survive without him.

“I’m not running out on you; we just can’t—”

“It’s okay.” She did not believe him; this much was clear.

He turned to Laura. “If I can make it into town, I can get some sort of truck or something. I’ll be back here before you know it.”

“How are you going to get past the sicarios?”

Gentry was not ready to be challenged on his plan. He had no real plan for what he would do once over the wall. But he trusted, more or less, in his ability to figure something out if he could get out of here and see the lay of the land from another perspective.

“Ramses did it. I’ll head over to that side of the property.”

Elena was becoming combative. Court knew she was only thinking of her unborn child. “Ramses had Martin to sacrifice his life to create a diversion. Would you like one of us—”

“Of course not. I can slip away on my own.” He hesitated, looked into the tired, scared, and shell-shocked eyes. “I’ve been doing this for a long time.”

“Slipping away?” Elena asked, angry.

“Yes.” Court admitted. “But I will be back.”

Elena and Diego clearly did not believe him. He looked into Laura’s big brown eyes, saw kindness and understanding and compassion, but he had no idea what she was thinking.

Court ripped a camouflaged T-shirt off of one of the dead marines at the back door. The man had been shot in the head, so dried blood had crusted around the crewneck, but Gentry ignored it, took off the denim jacket he’d been wearing, and replaced it with the dead man’s shirt.

It was just past two in the afternoon when Court began heading through the house to the west wing. The sun was high over the mountains; the afternoon light was broken by scattered clouds. Elena had returned to the cellar without saying good-bye, but Laura and Diego started to follow him into the hallway.

“You guys stay here. Keep the guard up, but if the sicarios hit, don’t even try to defend the home. Go into the cellar, and fight them from there. You can do a lot of damage to an attacking force coming up that little hallway.”

Court did not mention the flip side of this truth: an attacking force could do a hell of a lot of damage to a defending force pinned into a little hole with no escape.

“You aren’t taking a gun?” asked Diego. He’d noticed Joe was unarmed.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You need every gun and every bullet. And it won’t do me any good. If I start shooting out there on the other side of the wall, there will be fifty guys on top of me in no time.”

Diego shook his head in frustration, “No. That is not why. I think it is because you feel bad. You are running away, and you feel better by telling yourself: well, I gave them all the guns, what more could I do?”

Court wanted to tell the boy that he needed to learn how to trust people, but he stopped himself. No, actually, Diego did not need to learn to trust. Here, he didn’t need that kind of advice. Court did not trust, for reasons that were no better than Diego’s.

Both of the Mexicans in front of him had been fucked over before, lied to and double-crossed. How could he tell them he was any different?

He couldn’t tell them. He’d have to show them he was different.

He turned and left them there in the hallway.

Court’s low crawl took most of the afternoon. As he pulled his body through the grass, he listened to the cracks of gunfire that emanated from the casa grande every ten minutes or so.

He expected DLR’s men to wait until nightfall before attacking, but he knew he could not discount the possibility they would send in individual spotters or sappers during the day to get a better idea of what they were up against. The only way he could think to prevent this, or at least slow down the deployment of these daylight teams, was to instruct Laura and Diego to fire their guns every few minutes throughout the day in different directions. If they did this sporadically and in random patterns, any federale infiltrators might think that they had been detected and stay hunkered down, or even retreat back over the hacienda wall.

Court wished that he could move faster, he knew he did not have time to waste, but with the undulating hills and mountains in the distance, he could not just break out into a run across the property. There would be snipers, he would be spotted, and the snipers would shoot him dead.

His low crawl was a worthwhile tradeoff to avoid this eventuality.

It was after five thirty when he arrived at the wall. He scooted under the weeping willows, pulled out a small bottle of water, and drank it down. He was exhausted and sunbaked; his knees and forearms and hands were scratched and bloody, his shoulders and lower back exhausted. The scar tissue in his left scapula, where an arrow had entered seven months earlier, felt knotted and tight; he reached back and rubbed the area while he sat and rested. After just a couple of minutes in the shade he stood and walked along the narrow bank, stepped into mud once or twice as he moved deeper under the foliage of the trees. He saw a water snake floating towards him in the murky pond; he ignored it, moved on a bit further, and then climbed up into a tree whose limbs reached above and over the wall.

Up high enough to look out into the rest of the valley now, he saw the dirt road that ran just on the other side of the hacienda wall. From where he sat he could swing out and drop down onto it, then run to the other side, move low, and dive into the tall, spindly blue agave plants that grew there amidst the high weeds.

He was just about to do that when a red pickup truck drove past from his right. It was loaded full with men with rifles, eight in all, and they passed by just under his position, rumbled and bounced along the track, and disappeared around the wall to his left a hundred yards on.

The men were local campesinos, farmworkers in blue jeans and straw cowboy hats, but they weren’t tending to their fields. They’d been hired by someone to patrol the perimeter.

Seconds later a federale on a motorcycle came up the road from the other direction.

By the time the biker disappeared around the southern edge of the outer wall, Court could already hear the rumbling of a pickup. It appeared; it was black and bore PF markings. A pair of officers stood in the bed and held on to the roll bar with one hand while propping their M4 rifles on the roof of the pickup with the other.

This old dirt farm road surely hadn’t seen so much traffic since the hacienda had been a working agave farm and tequila distillery.

Court tucked himself deep into the tree, found a semi-comfortable position, and prepared to wait there until dusk. He hoped there would be some sort of break in the action while the attackers prepped to hit the casa grande, and he hoped to take advantage of that lull.

But waiting till nearly the time of the attack meant that he would have no chance to make it back out onto the main road to commandeer a vehicle or create any other way to help those in the casa grande before the assassins attacked in force. No, waiting until the last moment to escape would force him to rush to save them.

He could still, with little doubt, save himself. He could wait for the raid on the house behind him, and then he could drop down off the wall into the darkness on the outside of the hacienda, and he could walk off into the agave fields and the forests, and he would survive. He could shit-can this lost cause; he could live to fight another day; he could return to Europe and target Gregor Sidorenko, the Russian mobster who had pursued him all the way into the Amazon jungle. He could kill Sid and then get a small measure of his life back. He could find work, and he could forget about Daniel de la Rocha and this horrific civil war here in Mexico, and he could never look back.

All this he would love to do.

But he could not run out on the five people behind him.

They were counting on him. Only because there was no one else, but that did not matter. He would help if he could, and if he could not, then he would die trying.

He would not, could not, leave them behind.