Ballistic(106)
Jerry spoke up from the corner. “Who?”
“Some gringo with la CIA.”
Jerry’s next comment squeaked out in a plaintive whine. “The CIA is coming here? Now?”
De la Rocha nodded. “They insist on making sure this is the cabrón they are looking for. If he is the correct person, then el hombre de la CIA will go away, and we can work on this pinche gringo here to get the information we need.” He looked up at Gentry now. “Then they want us to kill him and dump his head near the embassy.”
Pfleger shot out of the dark corner, up to de la Rocha. “Wait! No! If the spook is on the way, I’ve got to get out of here! I can’t let them see me! I’ll go to prison for working with you guys!”
De la Rocha shrugged. Clearly, he didn’t give a shit about Jerry Pfleger. Still, he said, “You are staying here with your prize; that’s what you asked for, wasn’t it? Somebody give Jerry a mask.” One of the federales pulled a balaclava from the side pocket of his cargo pants, tossed it to the American, who pulled it over his head, struggling to orient the holes for the eyes. When he had himself situated, he looked up at Gentry. Clearly, the prisoner could out him still, mask or not. This plan didn’t make much sense. Through the nylon mask he said, “Mister de la Rocha, what if—”
“Enough from you!” Daniel pointed the .45 at Jerry, and Jerry shut his mouth. He stepped back against the wall with his hands up in compliance.
De la Rocha looked to Court now. “You don’t make very many friends, do you? La CIA is desperate for me to kill you.”
Gentry asked, “And what do you get in return?”
“La CIA will provide us intel from the DEA on the Madrigal Cartel’s connections with governments in South America.”
Jerry took a step back towards the light again. “And money, right? I still get—”
DLR pointed the pistol at Pfleger again. “Plata o plomo?” Money or lead?
“Money, jefe. Definitely money.” Pfleger backed up again.
De la Rocha continued. “So I am going to leave you now; my associates insist I not be here when la CIA arrive. But I am going to take your little puta with me. The spy will be brought here to identify you and then taken away. The Little Butcher will have the next twenty-four hours to find out what you know about Elena Gamboa, and I will have the rest of my life to find out what little Lorita knows about Elena Gamboa.”
It was quiet in the room.
“The only question is, which one of us will have the most fun with our work?”
Spider took the girl by the hair and pulled her up to her feet. She screamed with the movement. DLR looked at Gentry one last time as he started for the door. “You have cost me much, and now you will repay me.”
As he entered the stairwell, he called back to the room, “Carnicerito, help our American friend Jerry here and torture this prisoner so bad he won’t be able to speak when the spy comes to identify him.”
The fat man replied, “Sí, jefe.” And he turned the dial on the table to its maximum voltage.
THIRTY-NINE
The Black Suits picked up the CIA man in Chapultepec Park; as prearranged he wore a red tie and stood on the steps of the National Museum of Anthropology. He was a thick man, blond hair that ran just past his collar and a chunky neck from which the tip of his chin barely peeked. He was getting thicker by the minute, too. He’d just finished a dulce de leche ice cream cone, purchased at a stand across from the steps, and had just wiped his thick hands clean of the sticky residue as the Black Suits pulled up.
He’d been one fit and fine son of a bitch a while back, but he’d let himself go.
His current job did not require staying in shape.
A gray van pulled to a stop in front of him on Las Grutas Avenue, the side door slid open, and the thick man from la CIA climbed in.
Four sets of well-practiced hands went to work on him immediately as the van drove off to the south towards Paseo de la Reforma. His briefcase was taken and searched, he was hooded and frisked, his wallet was pulled from his poplin pants, and his white button-down shirt was lifted up to check for a wire.
The hands that felt him up, he knew, would also be the hands that killed him if they were so instructed by their masters.
The van turned left, which the CIA man noted from under his blindfold, but he really did not expect to be able to discern where he was being taken.
He’d been to Mexico City before, yes, but this was not his turf.
He sat quietly between his minders as they drove through traffic; he’d ridden hooded in vans, surrounded by a local gun crew, more times that he cared to remember. In Beirut, in Kosovo, in Thailand, in Somalia, in other shit-splattered dumps around this godforsaken planet.