Javier and Daniel were firing modern FN P90 submachine guns at life-sized rubber human forms attached to hooks that moved on tracks recessed in the ballistic steel ceiling of the firing range. One at a time the targets emerged from behind swinging steel doors in the backstop of the range, forty yards away. Like attacking gunmen the humanoid targets raced forward, darted left and right a bit, even stopped behind the cover of low pine walls laid out on rolling tracks on the floor.
One at a time Cepeda and de la Rocha took turns firing at the moving targets, a dozen times each before they darted off to the side, only to be replaced by the next wave of “attackers,” coming in from the side or popping up from behind the concrete walls.
It was a state-of-the-art system, costing millions of dollars, and Daniel even had two full-time employees for the range who lived on the property.
Quickly Daniel’s weapon emptied while shooting at a target sailing by close from left to right. He dropped the P90 from his hands; it fell and hung taught by the sling around his neck. DLR reached into his black suit, pulled his .45, and snapped four rounds into the humanoid head before it slid from view.
One of the Black Suits behind him shouted. “That is the Gray Man, jefe!” Others cheered.
Daniel smiled, pulled his ear muffs off his head. “I wish. I get another chance at him, and that is what I will do! Spider failed me last night and let the chingado gringo get out of Puerto Vallarta with his life. All of you have failed me!”
Spider’s sicarios looked down to the floor or up at the ceiling.
“As soon as Calvo’s operatives catch wind of where he is, all you fools and your men will be cast out into the street, and your shooting better be as good as mine.”
Nods from the men within the subdued silence.
Spider hefted his P90 from a table, stepped back up to the firing line, but Emilio Lopez Lopez patted his boss on the pack. “Daniel. Now that you are warmed up, the next targets are for you, as well.”
Spider lowered his P90 and stepped back. De la Rocha shrugged and reloaded his .45 and his sub gun.
Emilio nodded to the range master working in a booth against the side wall. He flipped a switch and the two doors at the rear backstop opened, and the tracked hooks on the ceiling brought targets out into the firing range.
But they were not humanoid.
They were human. Two men, their faces well beaten, their mouths gagged with rough hemp, their hands tied behind their backs, and their bodies hanging from ropes from the hooks, tied tight around their shoulders and causing them to writhe in pain from the strain of gravity.
“Jefe,” said Emilio. “These are two of the men in charge of the advance detail at the dinner last night in PV. After several hours of interrogation last night, we have decided they did not know the Gray Man was in the building. Still, for their failure, I have ordered them to pay with their lives.”
De la Rocha lowered his rifle. Nodded slowly. “What of the rest of the advance team?”
“Two more died during my interrogation. Two more were junior men who were stationed in the main dining room and were not part of the prescreening of the facility. I do not hold them at fault.”
The hooks conveying the suspended men stopped in the center of the range, the men’s feet dangled a foot off the floor. The human targets rocked back and forth, swinging under the hooks.
“You hold the men in charge at fault.”
“Of course, Daniel.”
“Emilio. Those are your men. You chose them; you trained them; you sent them to the restaurant. You are in charge.”
Lopez stammered.
“You believe in accountability, yes?”
“Of course, Daniel. I hold them account—”
“I hold you accountable. You should be out there hanging with them.”
Emilio looked at his patrón. He did not move a muscle. Spider had put his P90 rifle down on a table, but he drew his pistol slowly and held it to his side, the leader of the Black Suit’s killers daring the leader of the Black Suit’s bodyguards to try anything.
Emilio looked at Spider. He recovered from shock. “That is not necessary. I have my 9 mm inside my coat in a shoulder holster. Shall I remove it or would you like one of your men to take it?”
Spider reached back with an empty hand, waved one of his men forward. The sicario stepped behind Emilio, reached around into his coat, and pulled out the gun.
“I ask you to reconsider, mi jefe,” Emilio said, his voice calm, but a tremor in his lips belied his emotions.
“You served me well, my friend.”
“It . . . it has been an honor.”
“Too bad some pinche gringo had to come and ruin everything.”
“Mi jefe, if you give me just one more chance—”