Court knew this was happening just like he was there in the room with them. His CIA code name would be broadcast throughout the upper echelons of the agency, and everyone who had ever worked with him would get an enhanced image of that jackass with the swinging Colt Shorty zip-lining between phone poles so they could positively identify their former employee and current wearer of a shoot-on-sight sanction.
Then the SAD would come. The Special Activities Division of the CIA wanted him dead, and now that they knew where to find him, executive jets from Virginia would be landing in PV within hours, not days.
Court said it aloud; it was the only English that had been spoken in the Gamboa house that day. “I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.”
He stood again to leave; it was all he could do not to break into a sprint right there in the living room.
But the TV screen changed again, away from the Parque Hidalgo. It was an interview with Daniel de la Rocha. Court assumed it was an old interview. The handsome man with the trim haircut and laserrazored goatee wore his ubiquitous black suit and black tie; he sat in a simple Catholic church at a simple wooden pew; the reporter next to him held a microphone and spoke softly, reverentially. She was pretty, and she did her best to look serious and professional, but her body language broadcast to an expert eye like Gentry’s an intense attraction for her subject.
“Tell us what happened today, Señor de la Rocha.”
“I came to the park to speak out against the corruption of the attorney general’s office. Their unfair persecution of me. The memorial for the assassins who were killed acting on its behalf was an outrageous—”
Ernesto sat on the couch just to the right of where Court stood. His Spanish was native, obviously, so he understood what was going on before the American. He shouted aloud, startling Court. “¡Chingado! The monster is still alive!”
No, thought Court, no way that asshole took two to the chest and is giving an interview three hours later. This was a live broadcast, and the smug bastard did not seem to have so much as a scratch on him. Court had seen him plainly during the shooting, both in person and just now on the television replay. He knew the man had not been wearing body armor, not even a Kevlar vest.
“After I was shot, I thought it was over for me, I thought of my wife and my little ones, but as my associates drove me towards the hospital, I said, ‘Hey, guys, wait a second. I don’t even think the bullets went into my body.’ It was some kind of a miracle, thanks be to God.” He crossed himself in the Catholic fashion and then wiped tears from his eyes. The reporter handed him a Kleenex. He took it with a nod. To Court it all appeared to be an act, as if he were hitting predetermined notes of faith, sadness, vulnerability, charm. DLR smiled at the reporter. “Gracias. I’m sorry. It has been an emotional day for me.”
Gentry looked around to find Luz and Elena and Laura in the room with him now. Diego came in from the hallway, and even Ignacio came in from outside after hearing his father’s shout. Court saw the red anger in their faces; he wished there was something he could do for them; they were in more trouble now than he’d thought.
But shit . . . he had to go.
By the end of de la Rocha’s interview he had the reporter eating out of his hand. She asked with a concerned look on her face, “What else would you like to tell the viewers, Señor de la Rocha?”
“Government agents working for the Madrigal Cartel have tried to kill me two times in the past two weeks because I have information linking them together. I lament the incredible loss of life today at the Parque Hidalgo, but it is only the beginning if the policía are allowed to kill anyone they want on behalf of the narcoterrorista Constantino Madrigal. It is obvious to me, and I am sure to the federal authorities in Mexico City, that Señor Madrigal ordered the massacre in Puerto Vallarta this morning in order to punish the GOPES for failing to kill me two weeks ago. This tragedy will continue as long as Constantino Madrigal remains a free man.”
While he spoke, all of the Gamboas sat in rapt attention except for Luz. The sixty-five-year-old woman disappeared down the hall towards the kitchen; she came back seconds later carrying a tray with plates of fried empanadas, beans, plantains, and salad. Leftovers from the night before. Court groaned inwardly as she tried to hand him his lunch.
Laura turned to Court. “What do we do now?”
Gentry looked behind him, back over his shoulder, to see who the hell she was talking to. There was no one else. “¿Cómo?” Huh?
“What now? What is our plan?”
“What are you asking me for?”