Ballistic (44 page)

The CIA man pondered it all.

Court. Violator. Sierra Six. The Gray Man.

The van stopped for a moment. The American thought this was the end of the road, but no, they moved forward again and made a right turn; he swayed along with the men sandwiching him.

If the Agency's assessment was correct, if this
was
, in fact, Violator, in a few minutes the American would have the chance to let Gentry know how much trouble he'd caused.

And the CIA man had his orders. He had been ordered to identify Violator, yes, but that was not all.

He'd also been ordered, if allowed by Los Trajes Negros, to stick around and watch Court Gentry die.

For a time Court realized that he missed the full-body electric shocks provided by the car battery. Twice during a ten-minute zapping by the Little Butcher and his device of misery, Court had blown a breaker switch on the console. The old contraption used fuses that had shorted, and they had been replaced, but the American was able to endure more punishment than anyone that had ever been wired to the fence. So the machine had been put to the side so that a new method could be used on him.

The donkey prod.

At first el Carnicerito had just touched the two sharp prongs to Gentry's bloody chest. The shock was more acute than the all-over electricity he'd been receiving from the shock machine. The prod created a sting and a burn, and it was god-awful but not as bad as the musclewrenching misery of the car battery juice sent through the fence. Then the Little Butcher used the donkey prod in more and more painful locations on Gentry's body, inevitably focusing his attention on his prisoner's genitals. Twice he'd shocked him there. The first time he didn't have the prongs seated correctly, and the gadget just buzzed.

But the second time he rammed the pincers hard against the American's balls, pressed the button, and Court had spewed vomit nearly six feet into the room.

The five Mexicans burst into laughter.

The gringo soon fainted, but smelling salts returned him to his torture session, lest he miss any of the good parts.

Jerry Pfleger stood against the wall to the side; he'd turned away from the cruelty long ago, and he just stared at the moldy bricks in front of him. His body shook; he told himself it was the cold, morguelike air in the basement dungeon, but that wasn't it at all.

He was scared.

He wondered if this was all worth one million dollars.

Jerry looked back over his shoulder when the torturer waddled over to a rubber bucket on the floor against the wall and retrieved a well-soaked iron rod from it. Jerry winced again and turned his head back into the corner. Listened as the dungeon master spoke to his prisoner softly as he prepared the device. “You have suffered much already, amigo, and the only way to prevent more suffering is to tell me where we can find Señora Gamboa.”

The long device dripped black oil, and the Little Butcher held it up like it was some sort of prize.

Court's head hung low, but still he looked at it. Pfleger watched the muscles of the man's body tighten in revulsion.

He knew where that thing was going.

The elevator again came to life, and the car began to lower slowly.

The rod went back into the bucket, but the torturer said, “We will get back to our fun in a moment, my friend. You now have some time to think about things.”

The freight door opened, and a large, hooded man in a tropicweight poplin suit was led in by the two men in
federale
uniforms. The large man's arms were not bound. He was put directly under the light at the center of the room, and then his hood was removed. He recoiled at the bare bulb and then focused on the scene before him.

The nude prisoner, bloody and wet, chained to the metal fence that was bolted into the wall and fixed to iron posts in the cement floor. The wires running to the rolling cart, then on to the battery on the dolly.

The blond man took a few more moments to look around, to size up the six other men in the room with him, and to sniff the air. He took in the odor of decaying human flesh. He looked around impassively for a few seconds more, seemingly unfazed by all in view, as if torture chambers were nothing much to see.

Then he spoke, his words calm and confident like he was a man comfortable with these surroundings. In Spanish he said, “It looks like you guys started the party without me.”

Court knew an old coworker from the Agency was coming to identify him. He fully expected to be staring face to face with Zack Hightower, his former team leader in the Goon Squad.

But it was not Zack Hightower.

It was Hanley. Matthew Hanley.

Gentry had not seen Matt in more than five years, and even back then they had never spent much time around each other. Hanley was a SAD executive; he had run Gentry's old unit, Task Force Golf Sierra, from Langley, passed instructions primarily through team leader Hightower, who relayed orders on to the rest of the men.

Court had last seen Zack back in the spring, and Zack had told him Hanley was out of SAD and riding a desk somewhere in the Third World, his fall from grace the fault of Gentry himself.

And now here he was, in a secret torture chamber operated by a vicious drug cartel somewhere in or near Mexico City.

No words were spoken between the two at first. Instead Hanley addressed the fat man behind the table. “You in charge here?”

“You might say this is my office,” came the proud reply.

Hanley just nodded. Then he stepped closer to Gentry.

“I must ask that you do not touch the prisoner,” said the Black Suit from behind. The two
federales
in the room took a step forward but stopped when Hanley nodded again.

The thick American kept his hands to his side, but he moved even closer to the prisoner. He only stopped his slow advance when the two men's faces were inches apart.

Court looked too wounded to speak; his eyes were swollen and vomit coated his bloody lips. As far as Hanley could tell, the younger man was out of it. But Gentry
did
speak, his words soft but strong enough, loud enough, to be understood by anyone in the room who spoke English. “Do what you gotta do to me, Matt, but the guy in the corner is a State Department dip working for the Black Suits.”

Matt Hanley turned, glanced at the man in the corner. Pfleger's black balaclava mask worn with khakis and a white short-sleeved button-down were an odd combination in a room where the other three masked men were decked out in full SWAT gear and guns. Pfleger did not speak, did not move. Just stared back. Hanley shrugged. “Not my problem.”

Court spoke again, though the words came out through winces and muscle spasms. “He's . . . he's running a criminal ring . . . selling visas to illegals.”

Hanley glared at the bound prisoner. “Yeah?” He turned back to Pfleger again. “How's business?”

“I . . . I'm not really. I just—”

“Look at me, boy!” Hanley's voice, a low West Virginian drawl, boomed in the concrete dungeon.

“Yes, sir?”

“Take that stupid sock off of your face.”

Pfleger looked to Carlos, the Black Suit in the room, for help, then to the
federales
. Then to the Little Butcher, then to the young protégé with the leather apron. All the Mexicans just stood there, did nothing at all. Slowly, Jerry removed the mask. Stuck it in his pocket.

“Do I look like I'm with the Office of the Inspector General?” Hanley asked, again his voice boomed like artillery.

Jerry shook his head a very little bit. “No, sir.”

“Okay, then. Relax. I'm not with State, and I'm sure as shit not here for you.” Hanley turned back to Gentry. “I'm here for the big fish.”

Jerry breathed an audible sigh. Said, “So this
is
the guy you are looking for?”

Hanley nodded. Confirmed. “It's him.”

“Awesome. And there is a reward, right?”

“Yep.”

“Awesome,” repeated Pfleger. “What did he do?”

Hanley looked close into the face of the prisoner once again. Studying it. “What did he do? What
did
you do, Violator?”

“I did what I was ordered to do. And you gave the orders.”

“Not when you went off the reservation.”

For the first time Court lifted his head, as if his anger gave him strength. “I
never
went off res. I followed Zack's op orders to the letter. Always! And then you ordered the team to kill me!”

“Ancient history.”

“Then why are you here?”

Hanley smiled. Took a step back from Gentry and looked around the room.

Hanley looked over the torturer's gear on the rolling cart. He spoke Spanish. “Nice. Primitive, but nice.”

“
¿Primitivo?
What do you mean? This is the best—”

“Nah, chubby, we were using shit like this in the late eighties.” That was Spanish, but he turned to Court and switched to his native tongue. “I lit up a bunch of Noriega's enforcers with one of these bad boys at Howard Air Force Base during ‘Just Cause.' ”

Hanley reached for the dial. Switched back to Spanish. “May I?”

The Little Butcher smiled just a bit. “Of course, but he is tough. I've blown two fuses on this gringo . . . this
norteamericano,
I mean.”

Hanley looked at Court, turned the dial. Sent a strong electric shock into the central nervous system of his ex-subordinate. Gentry's body spasmed and jerked; every muscle flexed taught; the sinews in his jaw looked like guitar strings wound tight under his skin.

After he'd turned the dial back down, Hanley chuckled. “That never gets old.” He looked at the fat man. “It's a little weak, isn't it?”

“The battery is drained. This man has taken most of its power.”

“He
is
tough.”

Carlos, Spider's second-in-command, stepped forward and spoke in English. “Now that you know we have the man you seek, we will take you back to Chapultepec Park. Once we have finished with the prisoner, we will dump his remains near the embassy as agreed.”

Hanley nodded. “He has some information you are trying to extract, or is all this just for shits and grins?”

Carlos just looked at the blond American. He did not understand. “Shit . . . a . . . greens?”

“The prisoner. You need him to tell you something?”

Carlos just nodded.

Hanley looked down to the bucket on the floor. The metal prod jutted out of it. “Oh . . . I see. It's about to get intimate around here.” He continued looking around. At the surgical implements on the table, at a shelf full of containers, restraints, electrical tape, and other odds and ends. He looked back at the men in the room around him.

No one spoke.

Hanley continued. “I would like to stay for the interrogation.”

Carlos shook his head. “That will not be possible. We do not know how much time it will take.”

“Too bad,” said Hanley, then he turned back to Gentry. “Hey, asshole. Wake up. Do you have any idea how much pain you have caused me?”

Court's head hung low again, but he managed a smile. “You aren't the first to tell me that.”

“I was going places. I was on the way up.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then one day I get word that one of my door kickers fucked up. It was a fuckup that could have been extremely politically damaging for the United States. A deal was done, a deal between us and another nation, and an agreement was made. If we cleaned up our own mess, if we got rid of the offending party, then this foreign nation would let the matter slide.

“So I am told that Gentry goes in the dirt. What the hell am I supposed to do, Court? I send Zack and the guys over to your place. I felt like shit about it, but I had my orders. Next thing I know you slaughtered your entire team.”