But he had another duty today, and that irked him to no end. Young Daniel, his boss, was unequivocally more interested in finding a fetus and ending its life in order to satisfy the perceived whim of some stupid idol. De la Rocha put more stock into the gaze of a plastic figurine on his bedside table than he did in the reports of his intelligence chief, and he ordered Calvo to focus on doing the bidding of the statuette, instead of doing the business of running the second-largest cartel in the region.
To this end, for this stupid fool’s errand, Calvo had made and taken over fifty phone calls in the previous three hours. And even though his heart wasn’t in this task, even though he found it an idiotic, unprofessional, and reckless waste of time to divert his attention, the Black Suit’s men, material, and political capital to such a trivial task as the life of one unborn child — well, Nestor Calvo was nothing if not a professional, and he did his job.
And he did it well, as evidenced by the fact that he had, in fact, determined the general location of the Gamboa family.
De la Rocha shot out the back door. It was one in the morning, but he still wore his suit and his tie; his face around his trim mustache and goatee had been shaved clean for dinner with his men, so he still looked as fresh as he had when Calvo had first seen him at eight a.m. the previous morning.
“Emilio said you wanted to talk?”
“Sí, Daniel.”
“Tell me you have found something!”
“I have found something.”
Daniel moved closer, sat on a leather and wicker settee next to the desk. He poured himself a shot of rum from the Waterford service next to his intelligence chief, leaned back in the sofa, and crossed his legs.
“What is it?”
“You already know that the two Policía Federal sicarios who survived the gringo at the Parque Hidalgo were killed in Nayarit on the way to eliminate Elena Gamboa.”
“Yes.”
“Witnesses of the attack on the road said two men in PF uniforms killed our men.”
“Federales killed the federales?”
“Sí.”
“Madrigal’s men did this?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So, if it was not los Vaqueros, what do you make of it?”
“I have a theory.”
Daniel smiled. “Of course you do, consigliere.”
Calvo nodded. “On La Sirena—Colonel Gamboa’s assault force was how many men?”
“Eight.”
“And how many of their bodies were recovered.”
De la Rocha nodded thoughtfully. “Only six.” He sipped the warm rum from the Waterford crystal glass.
“Exactamente. Two were never found. And then today, two federales appear and kill our sicarios. My contacts in the federal police report no desertions in the Nayarit area; all men on duty are accounted for. Of course, it is still possible that men not on duty did this, but why? The only other person in the area with any control over government forces is Constantino Madrigal, but if these men were working for los Vaqueros… explain to me how Madrigal benefits by killing sicarios on their way to kill the wife of a dead PF officer.”
De la Rocha was sold on Calvo’s theory. “Constantino does not do anything that does not benefit him.”
“I agree. I think there is a very good chance that two of Gamboa’s men are still alive, they somehow survived the explosion on La Sirena, they killed our two sicarios, they rescued the Gamboas from the municipales and the army up in San Blas, and now they are working to protect what is left of Eduardo Gamboa’s family.”
“Along with some gringo, apparently.”
“Yes.”
“Okay… so where does this all take us?”
Calvo had a road map open on the desk, he spun it around towards his jefe, and as Daniel leaned forward, Nestor placed a manicured fingernail on a city in the interior of the country.
“Tequila? Explain.”
“Two Suzuki Policía Federal motorcycles, just like those owned by our sicarios, were seen on the road near Tequila. With them was a large Ford truck, similar to the one owned by the late Major Gamboa.”
“Do we own the municipal police in Tequila?”
“Por supuesto que sí.” Of course we do.
DLR stood, drained the dregs of the rum into his mouth.
“¡Perfecto! Get them out on the roads. Find where these people are hiding. Tell Spider to put together a local force of hit men and get them in position. We will find the Gamboas, and we will kill them all right where they hide!”
Nestor cleared his throat. Drummed his fingers on the oaken desk. “Daniel. We have made an incredible statement today. Finding the Gamboa woman and killing her is something well within our power, but what more will it achieve? Why can’t we just let it go?”
De la Rocha looked out over the patio, into the night. He sighed. “I’ll tell you why. Madrigal controls a portion of the federales, just like he has men in the municipales, the judiciales, the state police, and I can accept that. But the GOPES? No… these men are too clean. If they start working for Madrigal, then I must show them—”
“There is no reason to think Major Gamboa knew he was doing the work of Constantino Madrigal.”
Daniel waved the thought away. “Gamboa was smart, but he thought he was smarter than he actually was. He thought he would use the intelligence of the Madrigal group and then kill Madrigal on his own. I don’t like smart men who will not play by the rules. And I want to show any other man who thinks he is so pure and clean and perfect and smart that I will start by killing him, and I will end by killing everything that he has ever loved.”
Calvo said nothing.
“You will find Elena Gamboa. Spider’s men will then kill her and her baby and anyone else around.”
Calvo nodded at his boss. There would be no changing his mind. “Sí, patrón.”
De la Rocha turned to go into the house, but he stopped, called back to his consigliere. “And Nestor. Do not question me again about this.”
“Sí, patrón.”
TWENTY-SIX
The hacienda did not have electricity, but it did have a telephone, and it rang at two a.m., startling everyone in the home and waking those sleeping. Laura had just come up from the cellar, and she ran into the candlelit main sitting room to answer it. She grabbed it on the sixth ring, just as Court entered the same room through the door to the back patio. He’d spent the last two hours preparing for an attack that he prayed would never come.
“¿Bueno?”
“Good morning, sorry to disturb you so early. May I speak with Señora Elena Gamboa?”
Laura looked up to Court, her face white. She whispered, “De la Rocha.”
Without hesitation Court stormed through the dim, crossed the dusty tile flooring of the expansive room. Laura held the phone out for him and he pulled it to his mouth.
“Tell me you speak English, asshole!” His voice boomed against the stone walls, echoed down dark, lonely hallways, and rattled old panes of glass in the windows.
A long pause, then a low laugh. “Ah. The norteamericano. The one who swings like a monkey on television. How nice to finally talk to you, man to man.”
“I don’t know what you are, but marking an unborn child for death makes you no kind of man, you sick fuck.”