Laura looked confused. “I thought . . . I thought you would tell us what we should do.”
“I don’t have any idea what you guys need to do now. I’m not even supposed to be in Mexico. I’ve got to get out of here myself.”
“Go? You are going to leave us here?”
“You live here.”
“You think we should stay?”
Of course they shouldn’t, Court knew. But he had neither friends nor connections in Mexico. In truth he had no real friends anywhere.
“You don’t want to go with me; I guarantee you that. Find someplace safe. Contact some friends who can help you.”
Elena stepped past her sister. The pregnant woman said, “We do not know who we can trust.”
“I don’t know, either. I’m not from around here.”
“We trusted the GOPES until Eddie was killed. We trusted Capitán Chuck. And we trust you.”
Shit.
Court said, “Surely Eddie had some friends here, in the government, the army, who can protect you.”
Elena’s voice rose, a growing panic in her heart as she realized the man who had saved their lives was about to hit the road. “His unit was wiped out. It seems likely his bosses were involved in the corruption. Who can we turn to now?”
“What about in the U.S.?”
Elena shook her head. “Eddie worked undercover for thirteen years. Almost all of it overseas. You don’t make friends working undercover. He had friends in the Navy, but I don’t know them. I can not just show up, pregnant and running from killers, and ask people I do not know for help.”
Court felt completely on the spot. The entire family stared at him, and he took an unconscious step backwards, bumped into the cement block wall. Softly, he shrugged. “I . . . don’t know. I think you guys should get away from here. But where you go . . . what you do . . . who you trust? I have no idea. I can’t help you. I wish I could.”
No one spoke for a long time. Gentry looked longingly across the room at the front door. It seemed miles away.
Young Diego shook his head in disgust, turned, and disappeared up the hallway. He did not understand all of the English, but he’d picked up the fact that Joe had decided to leave.
Laura said, “You can help us. You did help us. You took charge. The shooting and everything in Puerto Vallarta. You—”
Court wanted them to understand. “The shooting and everything . . . that’s pretty much my specialty. I don’t know how to do much of anything else. My plan ran out when the bad guys disappeared. You all need to just leave town. Get away from the Black Suits. I won’t be any help to you with that.”
Elena began begging him to stay.
“Leave him alone,” shouted Laura, interrupting her sister-in-law. “He is done with us! That’s fine.” She looked at him. “Thank you for everything. We’ll be just fine.” Court’s interpersonal communication skills were not refined enough to discern whether or not she was being sarcastic, but he had his suspicions.
Court nodded. Shook everyone’s hand, wished them luck, and left through the front door.
TWENTY-ONE
Gentry walked through the mercado that ran along the road north of the town square in front of the church of San Blas. He felt miserable for the Gamboas, but he had no doubt that if he didn’t get the hell out of here right now, he would be found and killed by the CIA or Gregor Sidorenko’s henchmen or, in what was a pretty lousy best-case scenario, thrown into a Mexican jail for not having papers or for murdering federal police.
He justified his leaving the imperiled family behind by telling himself that his presence around them did them more harm than good. Ernesto had a good relationship with the local cops that would deteriorate if they realized he was harboring a man on the run from both the American government and the Mexican police.
And if Russian assassins dropped into San Blas? Well, that would really annoy the local constabulary.
They’d be okay. Laura and Elena and Diego and Luz and Ernesto. The locals would gather around them, just as they had last night, and protect them. De la Rocha had made his point with the shooting in Vallarta; the Gamboas would be in the spotlight now, so they would be safe.
As Court had explained to Elena and Laura, he was helpful in a shoot-out. But, he told himself, his presence was pretty much a hindrance in most other situations. He’d been on television for God sakes.
And the motherfucking Gray Man did not go on motherfucking television!
He passed the church and neared the bus station, his arms swinging freely as he moved. His canvas bag was back in Chuck Cullen’s car, so he had no belongings other than a wallet and the hidden revolver with three live rounds. He passed a barbershop and a beauty supply store, kept walking for a moment, and then slowed.