Ballistic(46)

Court sighed. Neither could he, but that didn’t stop him from packing one now. He wished she was still packing. He let it go, looked back up, and he and Laura made long eye contact in the rearview. He said, “You did good back there.”

“So did you,” she said. “Thank you.” Court’s eyes flicked back to the road ahead for just a second, then back into the rearview. Laura Gamboa continued to stare at him. She said, “Please don’t steal another car.”

For a long time the eye contact continued. Finally, Gentry looked away. “Whatever you say, officer.”

The Gamboas prayed together: Laura led the prayer, Ernesto’s voice was the loudest, Ignacio mumbled, and Luz could only sob softly along with the words. After the prayer the conversation trailed off. The six surviving Gamboas stared out the window while Court drove. He himself was worn out from the exertion and the danger, and he found himself sad about the old Navy man. Cullen was a stud, Gentry recognized. He would have enjoyed another night drinking tequila with him, hearing his stories. Hell, he would have even enjoyed the old geezer chiding him about his long hair and his vague answers.

But, Court told himself, that cranky bastard went out like a hero.

And there was something to be said for that.





They arrived back at Elena’s house shortly before three p.m. Ernesto immediately turned on the television and sat down, while Luz retired to the kitchen to begin dishing out leftovers from the previous evening. Heavy-set Ignacio grabbed a beer from the fridge and went out back to smoke, Diego disappeared into the bathroom, and Elena and Laura stormed around the house arguing with each other about what they were going to do next.

Court could not understand a word the two women said.

Gentry stood in the living room with Ernesto and the TV, watched news reports from Vallarta—a reporter did a stand-up in the local morgue amid rows of bodies lined up on the floor. Bloodstained sheets and blankets covered the fresh cadavers, and only the feet stuck out; paper toe tags were attached to the left big toe of each body with red twine.

There would be cops here at Eddie’s house soon enough. Court didn’t know what kind of police, didn’t know if they would be friends oror enemies. He hoped what remained of this family had the sense to leave town for a while, maybe hook up with some friends or family in another part of the country where the Black Suits weren’t so firmly entrenched.

But Court’s ingrained sense of self-preservation had begun kicking into high gear on the drive up the coast, and his own predicament came into sharp focus. The Gamboas weren’t out of danger by any stretch, but he had his own problems. He was in the country illegally; he’d just shot dead a shitload of people, most of whom wore badges; and any police officer he ran into would likely want to have a word with him about that.

There really wasn’t much left for Court to do now, he reasoned, but disappear. He did not want to hang around to await the arrival of the authorities. Despite all the bullshit sermonizing by the Mexican government about the United States’ treatment of illegals, illegals caught in Mexico were not entitled to anything much more than a jail cell.

He figured the media would show up here as well. The residents of this house had been at the memorial, the six people here with him were likely the largest surviving family of those who’d been on the stage when the battle erupted, and the reporter on the television wasn’t having much luck interviewing the eyewitnesses with the toe tags.

Court began moving towards Ernesto to explain why he had to run now and to wish him and his family luck. But the image on the TV broke away from the reporter suddenly and showed the Parque Hidalgo. This was clearly footage of the incident itself: the square was full, and the camera was positioned up in the square just above the street. The videographer caught de la Rocha the moment he was shot and knocked from the hood of the truck, and then it shook and spun; people moved in front of the lens; the cameraman seemed to stumble and then to regain his balance with the jostling of those all around him.

Court sat down on the edge of the sofa and watched the replay of his day.

The crackling of gunfire and wisps of gray gun smoke above the crowd, and then . . . no . . . yes . . . Oh shit, thought Court.

The camera caught it.

Court groaned as the television broadcast the image of a bearded man in a blue baseball cap, wrinkled khaki pants, and a brown shirt as he used a bent iron bar to slide down a telephone wire across the street, a short-barreled rifle hanging from his chest. He dropped and disappeared into the crowd.

There was no doubt in Court Gentry’s mind that right this moment, several men and women in Langley, Virginia, coffee cups in hand, would be watching this same feed on a large monitor in a darkened room. Right about now one of them would adjust his or her glasses, lean forward a tad, and say to those around, “Holy shit? Is that Violator?”