Ballistic (57 page)

Calvo stormed out of the room without another word. As he walked back towards his office, he decided he would do what he could to end this madness, no matter his master's wishes. The American called him “adult supervision.” It was an insult to DLR but, Nestor acknowledged, there was some truth to the gringo assassin's words.

Court arrived at the predetermined pickup point for supplies from the Madrigal Cartel. He was running low on detonators, ammonium nitrate, and fuel oil; he needed some clean cell phones, a little cash, and more ammo for the Sako.

But when he arrived at the storage unit pickup point, he saw a man standing out front. Still in his truck, one hundred yards from his cache, Court peered through his binoculars.

It was Serna, and he was alone.

He was waiting.

Court pulled up in the truck. Climbed out, looking over the intelligence chief for los Vaqueros. “Why are you here?”

“The Cowboy wants to talk to you.”

“In person?”

“
Sí
. Immediately.”

This surprised Gentry. “I don't have time for a face-to-face. Can't I talk to him on the phone?”

“No. We are to take you to him.”

“We?”

“Yes, I did not want to alarm you, so I am keeping them out of sight, but I have twenty men with me. All around us.”

“What does Madrigal want to talk about?”

“I do not know.”

Court looked hard at the
narco
from Sinaloa, but he could not tell if the man was being truthful or not. Court weighed his options. He felt like he could take Serna right now at gunpoint and get the hell out of here, but why? There was no reason for Madrigal to be mad at him. On the contrary, Court had seriously damaged the operations of los Vaqueros's main competitor. By all rights Madrigal should be commissioning
narco corridos
, “ballads,” about the exploits of the Gray Man and offering him even more help than before.

Court nodded, lifted his arms, and Serna frisked him. Serna removed four weapons, then used a small walkie-talkie to call in his team. Within seconds several massive Dodge pickup trucks appeared at both the front and side entrances of the storage lot. They pulled up the aisle and collected Serna and Gentry, and then headed in a convoy towards the north.

By noon Serna and Gentry were in a small prop plane flying northwest, and by twelve thirty they had landed on a grass airstrip in the mountains. They climbed into big Chrysler sedans and headed through a large town. Court asked Serna where they were, but the intelligence chief only admitted that they were in southern Sinaloa.

After no more than twenty minutes on the road, they entered the gates of a large cemetery. The sky was clear and cool, and Court began seeing armed men in straw hats standing around the ornate mausoleums on the well-manicured grounds. This was nothing like the cemetery where Eddie Gamboa had been laid to rest. No, these crypts were massive, expensive hand-carved cement and marble tile, gilded roofs and life-sized statues in front of the tombs.

Serna answered a question Court had not asked. “This entire cemetery is for Madrigal's men. He comes here often to visit his old friends. It is a compliment that he invited you to meet with him here.”

Gentry was pretty sure he hadn't exactly been “invited,” but he let it go. The Chrysler followed the winding road through dozens of crypts, some as large as small homes. Many sported framed photographs on iron shields above the doorways, other accoutrements to the mausoleums such as AK-47s carved from stone, cowboy hats carved from marble, life-sized bronze horses and even actual grilles and front ends of Cadillacs and Dodge pickups jutted from the masonry. In one case, a life-sized stainless steel Piper twin-engine aircraft had been built into the roof of a massive crypt.

And Court imagined half of the red, yellow, and blue blooming flowers in Sinaloa were used here at this cemetery.

The Chrysler pulled to a stop in front of a smaller crypt. This structure looked new, and a dozen armed men stood around it. Madrigal himself was there, with his teenage son Chingarito standing by his side. The Cowboy wore a red shirt and blue jeans, a straw cowboy hat and tennis shoes. A gold belt buckle of a horse's head was the only frill Gentry could find on the man's body other than the simple cross around his neck.

The Cowboy met Court as he climbed out of the car, shook his hand with a smile partially hidden under his mustache.

As he spoke, Chingarito translated. “Seven days, amigo. One week ago exactly I met you, and you promised to make trouble for Los Trajes Negros. I have to say . . . I thought you would kill a few Black Suits, destroy some product, and then die yourself. You have proven to me that you are a warrior.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you positive you were not born in Sinaloa?”

Court did not answer. The “little fucker” had nothing to translate.

Madrigal continued. “You have earned my respect. What you have done in seven days, these miserable idiots have not done in seven years.” He waved at the men standing around, and Chingarito laughed while he translated.

Gentry said, “And I'm just getting started. Another few days and he will be—”

Madrigal interrupted. “That is why I brought you here.” Chingarito struggled to keep up with the translations.

“Nine of my
sicarios
were butchered last night in Puerto Vallarta. Five Jalisco state police on my pay disappeared in Guadalajara yesterday. No doubt they will be found dead on a road within the next few days with their dicks in their mouths. The day before yesterday, twelve of my men were murdered, and a shipment of product was hijacked.”

Gentry stared back a moment. “I don't give a shit if your assassins get killed, and I would only insult your intelligence by pretending like I do.”

Chingarito translated. Madrigal answered back.

“DLR had it done. He suspects you are working with me. He is punishing me for this relationship. I told you this would only work if we could conceal that we were working together.”

“You had to have known there was a chance you would be blamed for my actions. I'm sure you have more hit men and drugs, right?”

“Of course. I could go on like this for years. You are hurting him worse than he is hurting me. But there has been a change in plans. We will not be continuing our war.”

“What are you saying?”

“Your benefit to me has ended. I have made a deal. In return for handing your body over to the Black Suits, I can make this war stop, plus I have been promised some other things in payment. I have agreed to this deal.”

“You made that deal with Nestor Calvo.” Gentry said it confidently. He knew DLR was not the type of man to agree to a compact with Madrigal, his archenemy. He would fight and he would threaten—he would
not
acquiesce.

Madrigal shrugged. Chingarito translated. “Yes. Nestor Calvo Macias is the center of Los Trajes Negros. He is more powerful than even de la Rocha because of all that he knows. He has offered up one of their remaining
foco
super labs. A gift worth, over time, billions of dollars.” Madrigal smiled. “You should be proud of your market value.”

“Right.”

The Cowboy shrugged. “I'm sorry, my friend, but I will have to kill you now. I will honor your service with this beautiful crypt you see here.”

The men around began moving closer. Court looked around frantically for Serna. He found the intelligence chief in the crowd. He did not look happy about this arrangement, but he said nothing.

Gentry looked at Chingarito. “I can do more for him than Calvo can. Tell him that!”

Chigarito translated.

Madrigal replied. “You are giving me what I want. I want that super lab.”

From behind, a bag was placed over Gentry's head.

“Mátalo,”
Madrigal said, and this Chingarito did not translate. Court knew it was the town of Madrigal's birth, but it was also a command.

He heard a pistol cocking close behind his head.

Court shouted one word.

And then Madrigal said,
“¡Espere!” Wait.
And then,
“¿Qué dijiste?” What did you say?

In Spanish Court replied. “I said Calvo. I can get you Nestor Calvo. Having him in your custody would end Daniel de la Rocha and the Black Suits, and you know it.” Court could not see Hector Serna, but he called out to him. “Hector, wouldn't you like to pick through Calvo's brain? To find out everything he knows?”

Under the black hood Court perspired; all the muscles in his face and neck were tense, awaiting a shot to the head that he would never feel. He did not think of his own death, but only of Laura. He pictured her now, alone and afraid, and he pictured the men that would come to her when they did not need to keep her in one piece any longer.

He so wanted to help her.

He felt hands on his arms and back, pushing him forward into the mausoleum. There were shouts and orders barked behind him as he walked, and then the door slid shut behind him, and it was cool and dark.

His hood was removed. A man stood on either side of him, each with a pistol jabbed into his temple.

In front of him, from the light of a small, round stained glass window in the back of the crypt, he saw Madrigal, his son, and Serna.

Serna said, “Calvo is well protected.”

Court stuttered in fear. “I am well motivated.”

Madrigal spoke now. “You would say anything now to save your skin. I don't believe you can deliver him.”

“How will you prove to Calvo that I'm dead?” Court asked in English, and Chingarito began a running translation.

Madrigal said, “I will tell him which crypt you are interred in here. He is planning on sending some men to see your body before the crypt is sealed.”

Court looked to Hector Serna. “Tell him you want to meet him in person here to show him my body.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He will
have
to do it, because he can't tell DLR that the two of you made a deal. He will honor any reasonable request in order to keep this transaction quiet. And he'll be intrigued, wanting to know what advantage he can obtain out of your meeting.”

Madrigal shook his head. “He won't agree. It will be too dangerous for him.”

“You can tell him to bring whatever resources he wants. Tell him to bring one hundred gunmen to ensure this is no ambush. Tell him to send his men a day in advance to watch over the location.”

“You can get past one hundred gunmen?”

“Of course not, but he won't bring that many. He is working in secret, without the knowledge of DLR, so he will want to keep these discussions off DLR's radar. He's not an idiot, he
will
bring security, but he won't bring more than his usual close-protection detail. A manageable number so that word of the meeting does not get out around his organization.”

“And you can get through them?”

“I guess I'll have to, won't I?”

Madrigal said, “But when I get Calvo, how will that help you? I won't trade him away for your little Gamboa
puta
.”

Chingarito translated. Gentry's nostrils flared a bit, but he recovered. “Once I have Calvo, I will give him to you. But I will tell de la Rocha that
I
have him and that
I'll
trade him for Laura. We'll set up a time and a place for the trade. This will give you time to get what you need from Calvo before the Black Suits come looking, and it will give me a chance to get close to Laura, so I can get her back.”

Madrigal looked at Gentry a long time. Then he smiled. “You think like an outlaw. You scheme as well as anyone I've ever met, amigo.”

“Let's just say this isn't my first rodeo, señor.”

“I am intrigued by your offer, but there is one problem.”

Gentry knew what it was. “You are worried you have informers in your organization, working for DLR, who will tip Calvo off in advance to our plan.”

Madrigal nodded.

“I have a way to prevent that.”

“How can you pos—”

Before Madrigal's eyes, the Gray Man transformed into a blur of movement. He dropped straight down, out of the line of fire of the two pistols. At the same time he spun on the balls of his feet; his hands came up and shot skyward, knocking the pistols out of the hands of the two men. He then caught one of the weapons as it twirled in the dim, dusty air. He spun back on the balls off his feet, returned to a standing position, and pointed the big revolver at Constantino Madrigal's chest.

All this took place in under one second. The disarmed men around him stepped back; Madrigal, Chingarito and Serna just stood and stared in confusion and shock.

After five seconds of silence, Court let the revolver roll backwards on his finger; it hung upside down from the trigger guard.

He stepped forward and held it out to Constantino Madrigal. “Here you go. Shoot me with it, or allow me to solve your problems with de la Rocha. If you don't trust anyone here, shoot them, and then the threat of a leak will be gone. I'll stay in here; you can tell everyone they were killed in a fight with me but you finished me off.”

Madrigal's mouth remained open in astonishment. He looked to his son to await the translation, but Chingarito's own mouth hung agape. His father nudged him, and then the boy spoke. While his boy repeated Gentry's words in Spanish, Madrigal looked around at the others in the mausoleum with him, as if to see if they had seen the same incredible act by the American.

The Cowboy took the gun. Slowly, he motioned with it to his guards. “These two . . . I trust.”