Twenty minutes later Court lay on the second-floor balcony, facing east, and he watched the soft light of a clear dawn roll slowly over the forest. The white of the back wall of the property appeared slowly, as if it were being painted before his eyes on a black canvas.
Although Court did not expect a daylight attack, he recognized a new danger. With the light of day came the potential for snipers in the distant hills; anyone out on these verandas would have to remain on their hands and knees to stay below the level of the railing.
The rooster continued to crow. Damn rooster. Court’s veins had been filled and then sapped of adrenaline so many times in the past twenty-four hours, he just needed to sleep now, now that it was time to begin a new day.
He heard a noise in the distance, just on the other side of the wall, and his vision cleared with a fresh rush of adrenaline. A man’s shouting. Court fixed his attention on the part of the wall from where it came; he could just see the white band sixty yards from his position. Another shout, and just then something dark flew through the air, over the wall, over the jacaranda vines, and it hit the long grass, bounced high and awkwardly like an oblong ball. It rolled and came to rest in lower grasses, twenty-five yards from the far edge of the murky swimming pool.
Ramses and Martin appeared on the balcony next to Gentry. They had been “floating” through the house on patrol, and they had seen it, too.
“What is that?” asked Martin.
Court took the binoculars he’d pulled from a dead marine and peered through them; there was not enough light for the small optics, but he could see the roundish shape lying there in the grass. “No sé,” he answered. He did not know.
“A bomb?” asked Martin.
“If it’s a bomb, we’re okay,” said Court; it was still a good distance away from the house.
“A head?” asked Ramses while picking at the bloody bandage on his arm. Everyone knew that narcos loved to chop off heads.
Martin chuckled. “Did you see it bounce? That’s not a head.”
Ramses chuckled, too, though he winced from the pain in his wounds as he did so. “Yeah. It’s not a head.”
Court entered into the gallows humor while he scanned the length of the wall. “Plus, we would know if we were missing any heads. We’re not, are we? Should we do a head count?”
Ramses laughed and translated for Martin, who chuckled as well. Court knew they were all near delirious from stress and exhaustion.
Court put down the optics and rubbed his eyes. Sipped the last dregs of coffee that Luz had brought him earlier.
A few minutes later the light improved as the sun rose and morning glowed over the peaks of the Sierra Madres to the east. Court took the binoculars again, squinted, cocked his head, willed the daylight to grow and show him what was there. There was no question the sicarios wanted him to see it. They’d called out so that someone would be looking right there when the object came over the wall.
Suddenly, his delirium-induced humor was gone; he had a deep sense of foreboding about this . . . thing, out there in the grass.
Whatever it was, he knew only that it could not be good.
Wait . . . A little more light shone on the left side of the object. It became clearer slowly. “It’s . . . it’s a soccer ball.” He blew a slow sigh of relief. Held some of the exhalation. Could it just be a soccer ball kicked over the wall at six in the morning?
“Is there a note on it?” asked Martin.
Court kept looking; he just needed a bit more light on the righthand side.
Laura appeared out on the back balcony. Court had no idea if she recognized the threat of distant snipers, but she mimicked the three men, dropping to her hands and knees as she crawled in from the bedroom. Her hands and knees made no sound on the stone tile as she shouldered up to the American and lay down flat. “What are you looking at?”
Martin explained that someone had kicked a ball over the back wall. He and Ramses and Laura speculated about this, but Court was not involved in the conversation. His eyes were in the binoculars.
“What the hell is that?”
A little more light shone in the valley. He forced his eyes open wider to take in more light. Yes, that helped.
It was a . . .
No . . . not that.
Oh my God.
Gentry shut his eyes tightly.
Now he knew. He whispered to himself in English. “What the fuck is wrong with you people?”
“¿Qué?” asked Laura.
Court lowered his optics and looked back towards Eddie’s sister. “Laura. I need you to find me a large plastic bag, a towel, a water bottle, and I need your cell phone.”
“The phone doesn’t work.”
“Does it have a camera?”