Ballistic(33)

The memorial had begun by the time they parked the car a few blocks behind the large stone Talpa Church, on a steep hill above the plaza. They followed the rumbling noise of the crowd, and canned patriotic music played on a tinny public address system as they walked down the hill. The music stopped, and a woman began speaking to the crowd. It was not Elena Gamboa’s voice, but Court thought it sounded like one of the other police wives from the dinner the previous evening. She railed against the narco traffickers, the lack of opportunity for the youth of Mexico, and the corruption in the local police force. Gentry could not understand more than half of it, but it seemed pretty rambling and disjointed, even if it was delivered passionately. He and Cullen passed some Puerto Vallarta Municipal Police manning a wooden barricade just as the speaker called out their department as being in the back pocket of the “terrorist” Daniel de la Rocha. The cops glowered down the hill towards the protest with their right hands resting on their pistol grips.

“This shit could turn ugly,” Court said as they began pushing through street vendors and stragglers at the top of the long stone staircase that ran alongside the big square.

“Yep,” Cullen said tersely; he looked over the edge of the railing down towards the podium, searching for the Gamboas.

Moving down the big staircase was an exercise in both diplomacy and aggression. Court would tap one person on the shoulder and politely ask permission to pass, and then physically adjust the next person to make way for himself and the old man. The plaza below to his left was every bit as crowded, easily two thousand people crammed into a single city block to listen to the speaker. Court worried there were some in the crowd here to encourage trouble, and likely others who were just trouble-loving spectators hoping for a little excitement.

Finally, at the bottom of the steps, Court said, “Why don’t you get close to the family? Be ready to move them away and out of the action if this all breaks bad.”

“Alright. But what about you?”

Court turned slowly, 360 degrees. Then he looked back to Cullen. “I need to stay on the perimeter. Get a feel for the action, the crowd, the streets. The vibe.”

“How is that going to accomplish anything?”

“I’m pretty good at this. You brought me here because you think I might be able to help. Let me help.”

Cullen nodded. “Call me if you see something.”

“Let’s establish coms right now and keep the line open between us.”

Cullen called Gentry, popped his earpiece in his ear, and Court put his earpiece in and answered. “Good luck,” the Gray Man said into his mike, and the men set off in different directions.

Moving west through the mass of humanity, away from the stage, Court immediately ID’d troublemakers in the crowd. There were groups of dissenters here and there; around him he heard angry comments, arguments, even some pushing and shoving. A woman mumbled that the Policía Federal shouldn’t be blowing up boats in the bay, and another woman snapped back that DLR was a son of a whore and the only pity was that he survived.

Within sixty seconds of leaving the captain’s side Gentry spotted men who clearly did not belong. Heavies, stone-faced tough guys watching the others around them instead of focusing on the speaker. He passed two of these individuals within yards of each other, picked them out as undercover operatives working for the police, the government, or maybe even one of the drug cartels.

Court saw bulges on their hips, evidence the men were wearing guns secreted into the waistbands of their blue jeans. Plainclothes police agents were common at Latin American protest rallies; it was nothing Court hadn’t seen before in Brazil or Guatemala or Peru or a half dozen other places. Often they weren’t as dangerous as they looked, but still he knew to keep an eye out for these assholes.

Court spoke into his mouthpiece. “Chuck, have you made it to Elena yet?”

“Just about. I’ll get up on the dais with the family. One more speaker after this broad and then it’s Elena’s turn. When she’s finished at the podium, I’m going to do my best to get everyone back up the stairs and away from this crowd.”

“Roger that.”

Court arrived at the three-lane street just below the Parque Hidalgo. There were a few cars and trucks parked along the curb, but no traffic flowed. Instead, PV cops had the street blocked to the north, and easily two hundred people stood in the middle of the road or on the sidewalk next to it, their eyes riveted to the stage.

The speaker finished, and she received polite applause from some and angry whistles from others. Gentry passed another tough-looking hombre who neither clapped nor paid attention to the speaker; instead he made eye contact with the bearded gringo pushing to the east before turning his eyes towards another part of the audience.