The cop who had been doing all the talking spoke slowly as his arms rose in surrender. His English was excellent. “Get your gun out of my face, amigo.”
“If I was your amigo, I wouldn’t have my gun in your face, would I? Down on the street! Both of you! Facedown, arms out.”
“You need to listen to me very carefully, señor.”
“You don’t eat some dirt right now, señor, and I’m going to blow off your fucking head. Comprende?”
Both men went slowly to their kneepads and then down onto the hot, dusty street.
“You don’t understand. We are not regular federales like the men who killed the Gamboas.”
Court’s eyes furrowed. “Oh, sweet. You guys are just regular ole hit men. That makes killing you even less complicated.”
“No. We are el Grupo de Operaciones Especiales. GOPES. We worked under Major Gamboa. We came here to protect his familia from the Black Suits.”
Court held his revolver steady at the men on the street in front of him. “Bullshit. Everyone in Eddie’s team was killed on the yacht.”
“No. We survived. We went into hiding to protect our families.”
Court knelt over the talker. “So where did that blood on your pants come from?” Court had noticed a speckled splatter of red on the federale’s thigh.
The officer made to climb back up, but Gentry pressed the barrel of the revolver into the back of his head, made the man talk with his face in the dirt; his words blew a circle clean of dust and sand on the black pavement. “We were coming here in my car, but we heard a broadcast on the radio channel that the Black Suits use. Two sicarios federales were coming here to kill Elena. We killed them fifteen kilometers south of here, and then we took their bikes.”
Court did not know what to believe, but the man’s tone was extremely convincing. Even though their conversation was in a mixture of two languages, Gentry detected a tone of truthfulness. But he wanted to get an impression from the other man. He knelt next to the other masked federale, the one who had not yet spoken. He placed the revolver’s barrel on the back of his neck. “Do you speak English?” The man shook his head. Court switched to Spanish. “Bueno, so what do you have to say for yourself, cabrón?”
The man did not answer, but he looked up towards Court, turned his head slowly to do so. His right hand scooted along the hot asphalt to his face, and he pulled off his helmet, his sunglasses, and then his mask.
His right cheek and jaw were black and blue, an ugly fist-sized contusion. Court thought about the man in the building under construction across the street from the Parque Hidalgo. The masked man he’d knocked out with a punch to the jaw.
“Did I do that?”
“Sí,” said the officer; with the swelling his voice sounded like a tennis ball was lodged in his mouth.
“Huh…” Court thought it over. Could the man have really been there to provide protection for the family? There was no way for him to know; he had knocked him out cold before the fighting had begun.
Court just said, “Sorry.”
“No hay problema.” No problem, responded the man, but Gentry imagined the man’s jaw would be a problem for him for a few days.
“What’s your name?”
“Martin. Sergeant Martin Orozco Fernandez.”
Looking back to the first officer, Court asked, “How ’bout you?”
“I am Sergeant Ramses Cienfuegos Cortillo.”
“Where did you learn to speak English so well, Ramses?”
“As a boy I lived for six years in El Paso, Texas.”
“You are American?”
“No.”
“Got it. You were an illegal alien?”
Ramses looked up at the American kneeling over him. “I prefer the term ‘undocumented immigrant.’”
“I bet you do.”
The Mexican smiled behind his mask. Said, “And what about you? I saw what you did today. You are an assassin.”
“I prefer the term ‘undocumented executioner.’ ”
Ramses nodded. “You are with the American government?”
“No. I’m just an old friend of Eddie’s who stumbled into the middle of all this bullshit.”
“And you stayed to help?” Ramses spoke in Spanish to Martin for a moment, then directed his attention back to the gringo with the gun. “Do you mind if we get up?”
“Slowly.” This time Court let them both rise to their feet, but he kept the pistol on them. They brushed the grit and dust from their black uniforms. “What were you doing at the memorial?”
Ramses explained. “We suspected there would be trouble. We just came to watch over the families of our colleagues. Martin took overwatch; I stayed down in the crowd. I saw the gunmen standing around, known operatives for the Black Suits. Then de la Rocha himself appeared.”
“And?” asked Court. He thought he knew the answer.
“And… I shot him. Twice.” Then he added, an unmistakable tone of confusion in his voice. “I did not miss. I don’t know how he survived. Then the massacre began.”
Court believed him. This dude’s eyes, his voice, his body language, it all indicated that he was as confused about what happened as Gentry. Court slid his revolver back in his pants and told the federales to follow him back inside Eddie’s house. Everyone else had already moved back inside the gate; the Gamboas were finished loading the F-350 now, and once again, Laura was leading her family in prayer, thanking the Lord for the end to the standoff outside.
Court asked the cops, “So you guys are just playing dead, hanging out? Doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”
“We can’t go to our homes; we don’t want it revealed we survived. If it were known… our families would end up just like the others today. We are dead men — we know that — but our families are safe. And if we can help protect Major Gamboa’s family, that is a death we will be honored to die. If you all are leaving now, we’ll go with you on the bikes to clear the way ahead. We’ll have to dump the motorcycles at some point, but for now I think we are safer using them.”
Court nodded. For a moment he considered using this as an excuse to leave again. Now Elena had friends, capable men who would protect her and her family. But no, Court recognized he was only trying to help himself with this line of thinking; these guys were probably better than any half dozen regular dirty cops or cartel assassins, but there were a shitload of dirty cops and cartel assassins running around. Court could not just wash his hands of this entire situation because the Gamboas had a couple more guns on their side.
No, he’d stay alongside them as long as they needed him, and he’d work with these men.
But, he told himself, he’d keep an eye on them. Trust was not on the table.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was after nine when they reached the hacienda. They’d made it on one tank of gas; Court hadn’t stopped at all, and the big 4×4 had proved invaluable on the rocky mountain roads. As Laura had promised, this hideaway of hers was secluded, wrapped in a tiny valley that sheltered it from all sides. The little convoy had rolled through the town of Tequila thirty minutes earlier, then had driven through miles and miles and miles of agave farms to get here, but the terrain around the property itself was overgrown forest and uncultivated fields. Court followed Laura’s directions, leading the way in Eddie’s truck as the two Suzuki bikes followed, and they turned off the one-lane road, onto a gravel track that ended at a rusted iron gate under an arch made of whitewashed stones. On both sides of the arch a white stucco wall ran off into the evening darkness. Court assumed that it encircled the property. Ramses stepped off his bike and cut off the chain lock with bolt cutters he found in the toolbox in the back of Eddie’s truck; he pushed open the gate, and Gentry could hear the protesting screech of the rusty hinges even though his windows were rolled up to ward off the cool mountain air.