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Ballistic(94)

By:Mark Greaney


It would be a long night.

Meanwhile, three men checked the prepared banquet room, looked under the table, careful not to disturb the linen or the place settings as they did so. They scanned for listening devices and discussed arrangements with the servers. Then they entered the kitchen; the manager led the way as the staff lined up and underwent a quick frisking, even the women in the back of the house were patted down. Then the pantry was searched, the walk-in cooler, the dry storage areas, and even the freezer.

Everyone in the kitchen knew this routine.

Six more Black Suits arrived in another white Yukon XL Denali; two men headed straight through the dining room, and the patrons wondered if one of them was their benefactor for the evening. But they headed into the kitchen and stepped out the back door. They opened their coats and took up watch in the alley. The remaining four stepped into the dining room from the cool evening, and they moved with military precision into the four corners of the room. Again, coats opened and eyes scanned all in front of them but did not fix on any one thing.

One of the first men in the door spoke into his radio.

Five minutes later three more white SUVs stopped in front of the restaurant. A thick group of men in identical black suits entered; no one would be able to count the number with the speed and tightness of the mass, but there were certainly a dozen individuals. Their clothing and hairstyles, even their trim beards and mustaches, everything was virtually identical. They passed through the dining room; the patrons at their tables strained their necks and gawked; a woman tipped her wineglass as she leaned back to try and pick out the celebrity.

Was he a famous bullfighter? Was he the singer performing at the Auditorio Telmex tonight?

No one knew who it was, because no one could tell one man from the next. In seconds the mass moved into a back banquet room, the door was shut, and two suits stood at the door facing the restaurant.

The main dining room murmured and speculated. Several said, “Los Trajes Negros,” but none of the men in the black suits standing around nodded or answered back.

Soon the tables began ordering more wine, and the servers poured liberal glassfuls. Champagne corks were popped, and the staid dining room turned into a celebration.





Daniel de la Rocha sat at the end of the long banquet table, sipped his scotch, and gazed at the tea-light candle on the starched white tablecloth. He picked the soft middle out of a slice of crusty French bread and wadded it into a tight ball before popping it into his mouth. The table was set for twelve, but now only five sat with him. The other men paced around the room talking into mobile phones or radios; two were in the corner huddled over a laptop they’d set up on a serving table.

Emilio Lopez Lopez, DLR’s personal bodyguard and the leader of his protection forces, stood against the wall not five feet behind his boss.

A waiter in white offered DLR a menu, but he waved it away, asked the server to instruct the chef to prepare him something light. The waiter disappeared, and de la Rocha’s attention returned to the candle.

It had not been a good day. Elena Gamboa had survived the attack on the hacienda in the mountains near Tequila and had escaped. Nineteen marines, federales, Jalisco state police, and Tequila municipal cops, all under the control of Spider Cepeda, were dead, a couple of campesinos as well, and many more were wounded.

Calvo had worked his magic, the news reported that the men died heroically fighting the remaining Madrigal Cartel assassins who had attacked the rally in Puerto Vallarta, but this type of mess did not go away cleanly or quickly or cheaply. There would be blowback from Constantino Madrigal, from the government in Mexico City, from a meddlesome foreign press that Calvo could not so easily influence.

More men sat down now, and de la Rocha lightened a bit. He was with his brothers; they were together, and they would get through this chingado mess. The Gamboas would be found, and they would die, and the next wave of “heroes” working for the GOPES would not be so quick to come after him.

They talked about old times, talked about their days together in the army. Daniel was one of the boys now, and he enjoyed moments like this. He liked getting away from his properties, getting out into someplace different, even if it did require two dozen bodyguards and hours of coordination from the local police.

De la Rocha stood up from his chair. The others seated stood with him, but he motioned for them to sit back down. He stepped over to the corner nicho, knelt down at a Santa Muerte placed there just for him, and prayed alone.

When finished, he poured a double scotch for la virgen and left it there in the nicho beside her, then returned to his table.

Nestor Calvo had been pacing with his phone, but he left the dining room for a moment, returned minutes later, and then sat in his seat on Daniel’s right. He leaned into the ear of his patrón.