Ballistic(148)
Court took a few minutes to deflate his small rubber boat and to tuck it into a dry nook in the grotto out of sight of the coast. Then he turned to his equipment arrayed on a rocky shelf just above the water line. He donned his scuba gear and his fins, slung a long coiled rope to his tank, connected his Glock to his Buoyancy Control Device, and attached his bag of clothing, extra magazines, and other items to his utility belt.
He pulled a mobile phone out of a protected case, powered it up, and made a phone call. Court said what he had to say and then hung up as the man on the other end screamed and cussed.
The phone went back in the case; the case went back in the bag.
At twenty minutes past eleven p.m. Court sank slowly below the water in the grotto, pushed off with his gloved hands, kicked his legs, and began swimming away from Los Arcos and towards the shore.
He passed the two boats twenty minutes later, traveling sixty feet below them and breathing as slowly and as shallowly as he could to minimize bubbles above. Twenty minutes after that he was below the surf, the ocean floor crept up towards the beach, each wave that surged him forward was followed by an undertow that pulled him back, but he kicked to maximize his progress and, after ten minutes of heavy exercise, he worked his way ashore. He’d let the current push him south of the lights of the building, south of the beach and into the rocks.
He took off his scuba gear, turned off his tank, and stowed it between boulders at the water’s edge. He pulled off his fins and his clammy wetsuit. Underneath his neoprene he was dressed head-totoe in black cotton. He slipped into soft-soled shoes, pulled a black ski mask over his face, put his extra magazines in the cargo pockets of his pants and a black Glock into the holster on his belt.
At midnight he began climbing up the rock, careful to stay out of view of the sentries on the beach, the spotlights from the boats, or any guards in the windows of the house.
His progress was slow and arduous, but he made it to the south side of the villa and then proceeded silently to the front, careful to move in shadow and concealment.
Daniel de la Rocha knelt before his throned idol in the candlelit dining room, the huge high-ceilinged main sala of the villa was open and empty behind him; both rooms were illuminated by the light of over one hundred white candles as well as a little ambient light that filtered through the sala’s window overlooking the bay. On the floor, on tables, on wall sconces, and on tall narrow stands, the burning candles emanated not just light but pungent aromatic wax as well.
DLR was bare chested, his lean and muscular body adorned with tattoos. The large Santa Muerte on his chest in red and black and blue, the names of his six children in ornate script across his back. Guns on his biceps, army unit patches across his midsection, the names of dead Black Suit colleagues wherever a clean space of physique had been found to inscribe them.
He remained kneeling in supplication, all alone in the candlelit room, until slowly his head rose.
He did not turn around as he said, in English, “She told me you would come.”
No one responded to this comment. DLR then said, “You knew that we were monitoring that telephone line. You had us send our sicarios to Concordia to get them away from here.”
The reply came now, the voice firm and authoritative. “You move a fucking muscle, and I’ll blow your head all over your girlfriend’s dress.”
The Gray Man moved silently closer across the white tile of the large sala, his Glock pointed at the back of Daniel de la Rocha’s head. As soon as he realized there was a second-story balcony overlooking the sala, he spun on the balls of his feet, swung his weapon along the sight line, and scanned quickly for threats above. But it was black and quiet on the balcony, just as it was here in the sala, and ahead in what Court could only imagine had been an open dining room before DLR converted it into a throne room for a silly skeleton statue.
“May I stand?”
“Slowly, first thread your fingers behind your head.”
DLR complied, Court closed to within twenty feet or so, but he kept his eyes darting around, confused by the lack of protection for the narco boss in front of him.
“May I turn around?” DLR asked. He seemed calm.
Court jacked his head and his weapon back to his six o’clock position, then up again to the balcony on his left and behind him.
Empty. Dark, quiet, and empty.
“Slowly.”
DLR turned, faced the Gray Man below him. “She told me you would come.”
“You said that. Where is Laura?”
“You did not give Nestor to Madrigal.”
“No, I did not.”
DLR smiled a little. “The Cowboy is going to be mad at you.”