Ballistic

FIFTY-SIX

“Where is Elena Gamboa?” DLR shouted this time. Another explosion, just outside the mansion. Apparently, los Vaqueros had brought along a few RPGs.

DLR said, “Spider, if he doesn’t answer in five seconds, kill the puta!”

Court took a deep breath, blew it out, looked at Laura, and then back at DLR.

He lowered the pistol from Daniel de la Rocha’s tattooed chest. DLR immediately began reaching for the silver .45s on his belt.

Time to act. Once the .45s were trained on him, the equation would be unsolvable.

In the dim light of the sala Court lifted his pistol in a blur, shifted his aim to the right, remained in place on his feet, and pressed the trigger on the Glock 18. As the pistol lined up on the nose of Spider Cepeda, it popped, and a single round left the barrel behind smoke and fire. With no hesitation or delay to check the results of his shot, Court spun his entire torso hard to the left, his knees went slack, and he dropped straight down towards the tile in front of the sofa. For two thousands of one second his weapon was trained on the bare chest of Daniel de la Rocha, but he did not fire. DLR was at the bottom of his threat matrix, his pistols were not even drawn, so the Glock’s muzzle remained silent and the sweep continued to the left.

He heard a rifle crack in the room a fraction of a second before his own weapon went to work; he pressed the trigger as his butt hit the hard floor; his Glock went cyclic as the muzzle began sweeping across the five sicarios on the balcony above.

Beyond the gray smoke pouring from the ports in the front of his machine pistol’s barrel, he saw black-suited men spin, lurch back, and stumble forward as his supersonic 9 mm rounds sprayed into their bodies from right to left.

Too quickly the weapon locked open, Court had already begun rolling left on the floor to get farther away from return gunfire. As he rolled with his shoulders, passing behind the sofa, he reloaded with his hands, dropped the empty magazine with a thumb press to the release button on the side of the Glock, and pulled a long thirty-two round magazine from the hip of his cotton cargo pants with his left hand. After two full rotations of his body he rolled up to his feet but kept his body in a tight crouch. He ran backwards as he jammed the long black mag in place and dropped the slide forward, chambering a round, all the while trying to survey his handiwork.

He heard another gunshot, which meant not everyone was down. He raised his weapon, while still tracking backwards, and saw Spider on the ground next to Laura, who had fallen to her side next to la Santa Muerte’s throne. Scanning to the left he caught a glimpse of de la Rocha’s tattooed back as he fled behind the curtains behind the throne where the life-sized skeleton bride sat. A rifle report from the balcony cracked a fraction of a second before Court fired a single round at the curtains. Court then whirled his aim back up towards the five sicarios. He held his trigger down and dropped again to his knees, fired the entire thirty-two-round magazine into the Black Suits position above him as he fell forward, prone onto the floor now, desperately trying to keep his body moving out of the weapon sights of his enemies.

The pistol locked open and empty a second time, and Court vaulted back up to his feet while reloading with his last large mag. Again he moved through the candlelit room, this time laterally in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. He headed towards Laura, his weapon back on target on the balcony. A single man hung over the railing; his rifle’s sling was caught in his suit coat, and it caused his coat’s tail to hang over his head. Court saw no one else, living or dead, but he fired a pair of short bursts up there anyway to keep any surviving heads down.

As he quickly sidestepped his way across the room, he felt a rush of cool wind behind him, he saw the breeze move across the room as the candles and drapes fluttered. The sicarios’ rifle fire had blasted the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Bandaras Bay. A hearty sea breeze blew into the room, candle sconces teetered and silk draperies whipped around, and in seconds three separate fires had ignited around the sala.

He looked down at Laura, his weapon still held high at the mezzanine. The small Mexican woman was still on her side, but she had managed to pick up Spider’s machete with her fingertips and was trying to cut through her bound wrists without being able to see what she was doing. Court was impressed with her initiative.

“I’ve got it,” he said, and finished the job.

The tan-colored wood was wet with blood around them.

Court hoped it was Spider’s blood and not hers.

Or his.

Court didn’t check for a wound; he had no time. He helped Laura to her bare feet. She hugged him tightly, and his focus slipped away from scanning for threats in the room, the gunfire outside, the burning and whipping draperies. Instead he hugged her back, tightly, looked down into her eyes. They were wide and bloodshot but alive, and he embraced her with his free hand.

She broke away from him after a moment, took off her gag, knelt down, and went through Spider’s suit coat. She pulled a micro Uzi free from a holster and stood back up.

Court said, “Follow me close. I have scuba gear hidden at—”

“We have to kill de la Rocha.”

“No! We don’t! I’m here for you! I’ve got you! Let’s go!”

Her eyes were wide with emotion, but Court couldn’t tell what was going through her head now. The fires had spread to the sofa and chairs, the sea breeze’s fuel turning small flames into swirling vortexes of smoking and burning debris. “I’m not leaving him alive.” She turned away from him and disappeared behind the curtain.

“Fuck,” Court shouted, but he followed her.