Ballistic (18 page)

De la Rocha tucked his single white rose between dozens of varied flowers and several candles, many of which had burned down to leave nothing but colorful wax smears on the cement slab below this throne of bones. Amidst the flowers and candles were dozens of other offerings for the icon: cigarettes and cash and bottles of tequila and bullets and DVDs and apples.

The skeleton sat passively amidst all this booty, stared ahead vacantly with an icy grin.

Finished with the presentation of his flower, Daniel put his hand back in the hand of the leader of his
sicarios
; he clenched his eyes tight and said a prayer to la Santa Muerte.

The Saint of Holy Death. There were hundreds of roadside shrines just like this for la Santa Muerte positioned all over the country. The icon had been adopted by the poor and helpless, and by many in the drug trade.

Daniel spoke, his voice low and reverential. “Glorious and powerful Death; thank you for saving me today, for stopping the bullets that raced to my heart and to my throat, for protecting me from those who would do harm to my brothers and myself.

“Death Saint, you saved me today. You are my great treasure; never leave me at any time: you ate bread and gave me bread, and as you are the powerful owner of the dark mansion of life and the empress of darkness, I want you to grant me the favor that my enemies are at my feet, humiliated and repentant.”

He continued to pray aloud, with the rest of the Black Suits clutched close alongside him, while the ten men by the SUVs surveilled the road down the hill towards the city and glanced nervously at their watches.

Nestor Calvo, at fifty-seven the oldest man in Los Trajes Negros's inner circle by over a dozen years, was tight in the scrum of prayer by the shrine, but he himself could not help but crack open an eye and steal a glance at his Rolex. He heard the sirens down in Vallarta, the helicopters circling just to the west of their location, and he knew that there were hundreds of police and military desperate to secure the bloodbath that had just taken place. Soon enough they would branch out, look for evidence or gunmen in the hills, and they would come to this place. Calvo wanted to be long gone by then. He wished he knew exactly when “then” would be.

It was the not knowing that got to him. As director of intelligence, his job was to know things, all things, before his boss asked him a question. Since leaving the Parque Hidalgo not fifteen minutes earlier, he'd received a few quick updates from his sources there on the scene. He'd learned that many of the GOPES families had been wiped out, according to plan. But the biggest prize of all, the immediate loved ones of Major Eduardo Gamboa, had managed to escape. Surely, there was more information available at present; his mobile phone had been vibrating nonstop since de la Rocha ordered the escaping convoy to pull over at the first shrine of la Santa Muerte that they passed as they raced away from danger. But Calvo had business to attend to, and this ridiculous pit stop for the joke of a cult that his leader and the majority of his colleagues worshipped was beyond asinine.

But there was nothing he could do but stand there and wait. His
patrón
was a believer, an idolater, and separating an idolater from his idol was never a good idea, especially when the idolater signed your paychecks and carried a gun.

Daniel de la Rocha had asked the Death Saint for a sign; he knew she did nothing for free, and she had given him a great gift today. He wanted to repay her,
needed
to repay her, and he knew the white rose was nothing. What did she want from him? How could he settle up with her? He waited quietly there on his knees for three minutes. His men around him were silent; they would give him all the time he required here at the shrine. Even old Nestor Calvo, who was probably shitting in his pants right now due to the delay, knew better than to disturb de la Rocha.

It was quiet. He heard only the birds in the trees and an occasional crackle from a radio in the SUVs behind him on the road, and of course he heard the choppers and the sirens down near the ocean. But nothing else. It was so quiet he could hear the beating of his heart, and this self-awareness finally caused him to focus on the bruising on his chest and on his throat where the bullets had struck him but had not penetrated.

His eyes opened slowly, and they opened wide. He looked down to his chest, saw the hole in the left lapel of his jacket, and in an instant he knew he had his sign. He took off his tie quickly, opened his coat and pulled it off, slipped off his vest and, under it, his hand-tailored white shirt, which barely contained the muscles in his shoulders and arms. He began to unbutton the shirt but found his hands trembling too hard to continue, so excited was he by what he knew he would find. Giving up on this dexterous task, he instead tore open the shirt; ivory buttons fired into the air in all directions like shot from a scattergun. The men clutching him in prayer stepped back so that he could get his shirt off, baring his ripped chest and back, and the holsters and grips of the twin silver .45-caliber pistols on his hips.

Daniel Alonzo de la Rocha Alvarez looked down at his body, at the single red bruise where the first bullet had struck, just over his heart. It was centered perfectly on the belly of the large tattoo of the Santa Muerte inked into his chest—the skeleton bride reached an imploring hand forward.

The belly of the woman.

Tears formed in de la Rocha's eyes.

He had his sign. He knew what his matron wanted from him. He knew how to repay her.

“Nestor?”

Nestor Calvo, the oldest man in the group, looked away from his watch quickly and answered back.
“Sí, jefe.”

“The major's wife, she survived, yes?”

“
Sí, jefe.”

“She is pregnant?”

“
Sí, jefe.
”

“Spider?”

“
Sí, jefe.
”

Daniel de la Rocha stood slowly, those kneeling next to him did the same, though Emilio Lopez Lopez stayed down long enough to pick his
patrón
's coat, vest, tie, and shirt off the ground. He tossed it all to one of the other bodyguards and shouldered up to DLR.

De la Rocha stood face to face with the shrine of the hollow-eyed skull under the sheer white veil. He kissed his fingertips and reached out, pressed them to the smiling plaster teeth. “Spider . . . Find the woman. Kill the baby. La Santa Muerte has spoken.”

“
Sí, jefe.
”

A minute later they were back in the five Suburbans and headed east; DLR rode in the middle seat of the third vehicle. His suit coat was back on, though he'd left the shirt and vest and tie off. With him in the truck along with the driver were Emilio, his bodyguard; Spider, the leader of his armed wing; and a couple of Spider's best riflemen. Also riding in the Suburban was Nestor Calvo, DLR's intelligence chief and personal advisor. Daniel felt Calvo's unease. He turned to the row of seats behind him and smiled towards his older consigliere. “What is wrong, Nestor? You don't like my visits to the skinny girl? Still you do not see the power of la Santa Muerte?”

The gray-bearded fifty-seven-year-old shrugged. “It wasn't the Death Virgin who stopped the bullets racing to your heart. It was the one-hundred-twenty-thousand-peso Kevlar suit you are wearing, it was the tailor in Polanco who designed it, and it was my suggestion that everyone in the inner circle of the organization wear them every day.” He shrugged, bowed sarcastically. “Apologies to the holy virgin sitting on the side of the road back there with pigeon shit on her head.”

De la Rocha laughed aloud, a roar in the tight confines of the full SUV. Calvo was funny when he was frustrated, and Daniel knew that he frustrated the man to no end, which gave him great pleasure. The leader of Los Trajes Negros actually appreciated honesty and candor from his men, but the natural order of things had all but eliminated the personal opinions of his underlings from daily discourse. He'd killed employees and associates with whom he did not agree, many times, and although he'd found it necessary to do so, he recognized that this stifled outspokenness in his workforce.

But Nestor Calvo had been his father's best friend, and Calvo was a genius when it came to the world of the cartels. As intelligence chief of Los Trajes Negros, he served as a go-between in DLR's relationships between him and the government, the police, and the military, and Calvo, therefore, knew he was immune to violent retribution. De la Rocha loved the grumpy old goat like his father, may la Santa Muerte keep his eternal soul, and he'd listen to Nestor say anything he wanted. Even if it was blasphemous.

Daniel pointed to the bruise on his throat. “Do you see this, Nestor? Do you see where this second bullet hit me?”

“In the knot of your necktie?”

“In the knot of your
Kevlar
necktie?”

“Dammit, Nestor, I know the tie was bulletproof, but the bullet came one inch from hitting above the tie, striking my throat.”

Nestor shrugged. “Therefore, your conclusion is that a resin skeleton in women's clothing somehow controlled the trajectory of the bullet? If you had not insisted on coming to the rally in the first place, standing on top of a truck with a megaphone, thereby making yourself an easy target, I imagine you would not need the magic of your bony girl. Even without this attempt on your life, the hit teams Spider arranged to attack those on the dais created a dangerous environment to which you should not have exposed yourself.”

Spider Cepeda spoke up angrily. “My men knew where the trucks would be, and they knew to keep all fire towards the dais. The man who shot don Daniel was not one of my
sicarios
.”

De la Rocha started to enter the argument, but Nestor grabbed his vibrating mobile phone to answer a call. So Daniel turned to Emilio, the leader of his protection detail, who was seated to his right. “The man who shot me. Did you get him?”

“I think so,
patrón
.”

“You
think
so?”

“I was on the other side of the truck, but one of my men swears he killed
el chingado cabrón
.”
The fucking asshole.

“Your job, don't forget, is to kill
los chingados cabrones
before I get killed or hurt. If I was hurt, you would be dead now. You know that, don't you?”

Emilio said, “La Virgen de Muerte has honored us both with a gift today.”

Daniel stared the man down for a long moment, then smiled broadly, reached out, and hugged him. “Indeed she has, amigo.”

Now de la Rocha's mobile buzzed. He looked down at the screen and answered it. It was his wife. “
Hola, Mami.
No, no, I am fine, thanks be to God. Oh, some
pendejo
tried to shoot me but he failed. Emilio and his men took care of him. How are the kids?
Excellente. Bueno, mi amor
, give them each a kiss for me. I will be home soon.”

De la Rocha hung up the phone, took a sip of water that burned going down due to the bruising on his throat.

“¿Jefe?”
It was Nestor Calvo; he was putting his phone back into his pocket.

“What is it, nonbeliever?” he asked with a smile.

Calvo did not return the smile. “That was my contact with the local cops. There was a gringo there, at the Parque Hidalgo.”

“Yes, I saw him, the old man in the blue hat on the stage.”

“No, not him, another. A young hombre with a blue hat and a beard. He killed five of our
federales
and one of the Puerto Vallarta police working for us.”

De la Rocha just stared for a long moment. His face reddened slowly. Finally, he shouted back at him. “Six
sicarios
? I haven't lost six men at one time in two years fighting Constantino Madrigal and the government. Who the fuck was this gringo?”