Ballistic(134)

Daniel de la Rocha shot Emilio in the head right where he stood. In a single movement DLR spun, dropped to a crouched shooting position, and sent two rounds from his .45 into the heads of each of his men tied and writhing ten yards downrange. Their struggles stilled, but the impacts of the rounds caused their bodies to swing back and forth.

Emilio Lopez Lopez lay crumpled in a ball at de la Rocha’s feet.

DLR stood and said, “One more chance? A bodyguard does not get another chance. I’ve been in danger two times in the past week.”

None of the sicarios spoke.

Finally, DLR holstered his pistol. “Spider?”

“Sí, mi jefe.”

“You are my personal bodyguard now.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. You see what happens if you fail twice?”

“I will not fail you again.”





The banker stepped out of the nineteen-passenger Fairchild Metroliner turboprop and onto the tarmac in Manzanillo, two hours south of Puerto Vallarta on the Pacific coast. The sun was high in the sky, and the banker flipped his $4,800 Moss Lipow sunglasses down from the top of his head to protect his eyes.

A limo awaited the banker and his two bodyguards; they were the only passengers on the aircraft, so after taking his time to shake the pilot’s and copilot’s hands, the banker descended the stairs, his $3,000 Pineider leather briefcase his only luggage.

He approached the limo, and the driver opened the rear door for him. The banker leaned into the limo but then tumbled forward; his chest exploded onto the rich leather interior, splattered on crystal highball glasses, and dripped down smoked windows.

His Moss Lipow sunglasses shot off his head and tumbled across the floorboard. His Pineider briefcase fell free from his grip and bounced against the rear tire of the limo.

His corpulent body slid backwards off of the slimy leather, then slapped facefirst onto the tarmac.

The bodyguards dove atop him as soon as they recognized what had happened, but it was too late.

The bodyguards could do nothing now but guard the body.





Four hundred yards away the Gray Man closed the stock on the collapsible Sako rifle; in seconds he had the weapon stowed in a canvas bag, and the bag tossed into the passenger floorboard of his black Mazda pickup.

He’d killed the banker with one shot. The .338 Lapua round was overkill from only four hundred yards—it could be counted on to drop a man at more than six times the distance—but Gentry found the shack on the hillside not far from the airport’s ramp suitable to his needs, and the Sako was the only long-range weapon given to him by Hector Serna.

He wasn’t worried about overkill; he was worried about the result. And the result was clear.

With less than an ounce of lead he had eliminated sixteen years of expertise in money laundering.

Yes, Daniel de la Rocha had other bankers, and there was no shortage of qualified men in Mexico ready and willing to replace the corpse that now lay on its back on the tarmac while a frantic bodyguard futilely attempted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But the banker’s death was a body blow to the finance end of the operation.

Court did not spend one second on remorse or regret. No, he looked at his watch and stepped down harder on the accelerator.

He had two more jobs to do before the day was done.





“Gilberto Moreno was killed by a sniper at noon today.”

It was eleven thirty in the evening, and de la Rocha knelt at the icon of la Santa Muerte. He’d been praying silently in his chapel here at Hacienda Maricela, but Nestor Calvo had entered the room behind him, had exchanged glances with Spider, and then had called out the bad news to his kneeling patrón.

“The Gray Man?”

“Undoubtedly. And that was only the opening shot. At five thirty, a small explosion set fire to one of our warehouses in Colima; it destroyed an entire shipment of ephedrine from India. It will push back production of foco for a week.”

“Dammit,” DLR said, his eyes not leaving the skeleton bride in front of him. “He works fast.”

“And then he struck again just minutes ago.”

“Where?”

“Again in Colima. He hijacked a truck containing poppy paste. Killed the driver. The truck was driven off a cliff.”

“How much paste?”

Calvo shrugged. “Our heroin shipment was not as badly hurt as the foco . . . maybe two days to make up the production.”

DLR prayed for a moment more, and Calvo stifled a sigh. He kept his face impassive, Spider was looking at him, and he did not need Spider telling their boss that his old advisor was annoyed by Daniel’s displays of fealty to the dumb doll in the corner hutch.

De la Rocha looked up at la Santa Muerte. “She is angry.”