“Perfect.”
“But you will have to get them out of the hacienda, away from all the sicarios out there, by yourself. How the hell are you going—”
“I’ll get it done.”
Martin had not been part of this conversation. He’d just looked blankly at the tile floor in front of him. His gaze unfixed; his thoughts, Court assumed, were on his young brother Pablo. Court got Martin back into the discussion by going over ideas for the two of them to sneak out of the hacienda in broad daylight. Court thought it unlikely that they would both make it out, but they all agreed, if they went in opposite directions at the same time, one of them would stand a decent chance.
Of course, using their motorcycles would be suicide. There was over two hundred yards of driveway from the casa grande to the front gate, and the enemy would know of the escape attempt in plenty of time to assemble there and kill the biker before he could get away.
So they would have to try and escape on foot, they’d have to do it simultaneously, and all three decided, Martin and Ramses needed to go right now.
THIRTY
The two GOPES commandos embraced each other in the front driveway. They’d already said good-bye and good luck to the gringo and the surviving Gamboas. They’d packed water bottles and rolls into the pockets of their pants, taken fully loaded weapons from the dead marines lying around the house; they’d synchronized their watches and discussed the timing for going over the walls—Martin to the east and Ramses to the west. The men walked past their Suzuki crotch rockets and headed off in opposite directions, and Court stepped back inside.
It was only nine in the morning, and Court was dead tired. He had a plan to get out of here, sort of, but it was thin as hell and he knew it. It was so thin he’d decided to wait as long as possible to tell the Gamboas about it, because he was certain they would freak out. But he also knew it was the only possible way they could survive.
Court stopped in the kitchen for some fresh coffee, took it with him to the rear mirador, and sat on the tile there and sipped.
He looked to his watch. Ten minutes from now Ramses and Martin both planned to be at the wall, on opposite sides of the hacienda. Court could not see either from his vantage point, so he just sat and waited. Hoped like hell he did not hear any gunfire.
Five minutes now. Laura had come up to see him, had asked him if he thought it was okay for her to take a nap in the cellar. He told her to catch a few hours because she’d need it later, and then she’d lingered a minute longer. She thanked him for all he had done. He’d said no problem; they looked into each other’s tired eyes a few seconds longer, and then she’d drifted back down the stairs.
His tired eyes followed her. Damn she was beautiful. Tough and resolute but kind and gentle. He wondered what it would be like to touch her, to feel her touch him, to just be somewhere quiet and safe, and to be together.
Fuck. I’m getting delirious.
Court shook his head, tried to clear his thoughts. Still, he knew now that Eddie had been right about his sister all those years ago. She was something special.
Court looked at his watch. It was time. Right this second both men should be on the top of the wall—one on the east side, one on the west side—looking for a break in the patrols of the corrupt federales , hoping to beat the odds and make a run for freedom.
No gunshots. That was good. Not so far any—
A motorcycle’s engine revved in the driveway on the opposite side of the casa grande. What the fuck? Who the hell—
Court leapt to his feet, ran from the veranda into the bedroom and into the hall, took the stairs three at a time into the sitting room, sprinted past the kitchen. Diego was there, and he ran behind Court as they made it into the entry hall and opened the front door.
Martin Orozco Fernandez shot out of the parking circle on his Suzuki, sending dust and gravel high into the air behind him. He passed the wrecked truck with Ignacio’s body, raced down the driveway at high speed, a Heckler Koch MP5 submachine gun in his right hand and held out in front of him. The bike bounced on the stones, but he kept control with one hand as he raced down the drive into the forest and out of sight, heading right for the front gate.
Right into the hands of the enemy, who would certainly be converging on the noise, positioning themselves there, ready to blast the biker into oblivion.
And this would allow Ramses, on the western wall, time and opportunity to escape.
Gunfire erupted in the distance now at the front gate, sounding over the whine of the motor. Court stood on the front porch, his shotgun in his hand, and he shook his head. Martin was giving his life to buy his compadre a few precious seconds to reach freedom. Somewhere to Gentry’s left, a couple hundred yards away, Ramses would hear the bike, the gunfire at the front gate, and he would realize what his friend was doing for him right now.