Ballistic(126)

“Dios Santo,” Ramses muttered. “I have never met anyone like you who was . . . how can I say it? Not on the other side.”

“I am different from other good guys, because I am not afraid to go down to the level of my enemies.

“If you know guys down here, good guys, guys who can still sleep at night . . . let’s not involve them. I’d rather do what I’m about to do affiliated with Madrigal than with the good guys, does that make sense?”

“You are a good man.”

“Thanks, Ramses, but you won’t say that when I’m done. You are going to think I am the sickest son of a bitch you’ve ever met.”

“You have my number. I will help you in any way I can, and not involve anyone else. If you need something, anything, call me.”

“Thanks.”

Court hung up the phone, watched the man with the dog for a moment, and then opened the door to the Mazda truck.

Forty seconds later the poodle was all alone and barking wildly, his leash wrapped around a signpost in front of a tienda that had not yet opened for business.





The dank, dark, ten-by-ten storage room smelled of mold. Lizards and spiders crawled the walls and hung from the ceiling, casting frightening shadows when they moved in front of the two-million-candlepower flashlight that Gentry had positioned in the corner, facing the center of the storage room.

There, in the center, sat Captain Xavier Garza Guerro of the Puerto Vallarta police. According to Madrigal’s intelligence chief, Garza was a paid sicario for the Black Suits, and he oversaw the cartel’s security operations here on the west coast of Mexico, from the Guatemalan border in the south to the southern edge of Sinaloa in the north. He had been instrumental in helping de la Rocha’s efforts in the region. Protecting his drug shipments, his production facilities, his safe houses, even Daniel’s motorcade travel through the city was often aided by squad cars with flashing lights.

Gentry ripped the duct tape off the bald man, tearing mustache hair out by the roots. Captain Garza’s left eye was swollen shut, the result of his face’s impact with the pavement outside the storage room. His hands were strapped behind his back; his clothes had been cut off with a long, thin fillet knife.

For the first hour Garza had tried to be reasonable with Court, had given him the locations of the meth labs that he knew about up in the mountains to the east. He thought this might buy his freedom; he felt the man must certainly be working for one of the other cartels, and if Garza could only convince him he would play ball, then whoever had sent this man would see that a well-connected police officer, with knowledge of the inner workings of de la Rocha’s enterprises, would be much more valuable alive than dead.

But then the gringo stepped in front of the light. He showed himself. The kidnapper made no attempt whatsoever to hide his face from his victim.

And the dirty cop knew what that meant.

Captain Garza was fully aware that now his only chance was to connect himself with Los Trajes Negros, to frighten his kidnapper into letting him go.

He shouted, “You lay another finger on me, and DLR will send Spider after you!”

The American reached out a hand, pointed his finger, and pushed it hard into the sweaty forehead of Xavier Garza. He finished the motion with a shove.

Then the norteamericano looked back over his shoulder at the garage door to the storage room. “When will he come? I would very much like to see him.”

“You will see him, gringo!” Garza tried to control his anger. “Look, if you let me go right now, I’ll forget this, but if you—”

“Oh, Xavier . . . you will never forget this. Not for the rest of your life.” Court looked down to his watch. “You can remember for at least three minutes, can’t you?”

“What do you want?” Garza’s question came out in a scream.

The American shrugged. “Nothing from you, asshole.”

“Nothing? Then what is this? What are you doing?”

“I’m just a force of nature, Xavier. You have lived by the sword . . .” The gringo turned away, disappeared into a dark corner, returned seconds later with a large metal cleaver. “You will die by the sword. Or, in this case, by the meat cleaver.”

“You are with los Vaqueros?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“With the United States of America.”

Garza cocked his sweaty bald head. “DEA? You are not DEA.”

“No, I’m not.”

Garza thought he understood now. This man was some antidrug avenger. “Look, we are just businessmen. All of us down here. We only provide the supply. You gringos provide the demand. We just respond to that demand.”