Chapter 116
TWO NIGHTS LATER, around eleven in the evening on November second, Mo-bot pulled a tan Ford van over and parked down the street from La Fuente, a five-star cantina on Pino Suárez about a block from the Ministry of Justice in central Guadalajara.
In the rear of the van, I checked the action of a Smith & Wesson .45. Pablo Cordova, the big Mexican in the long black duster sitting in the front seat, had provided the weapons as well as the van. Cordova was once a top investigator with the Mexican federal police. Now he runs our Mexico City office and is one of those guys who operate on the right side of the law.
For the most part. When it suits his purposes.
Cordova had met us at the Manzanillo airport about five hours from Guadalajara earlier on the second Day of the Dead, an annual celebration that involves everyone’s ancestors and lots of tequila. The streets were filled with revelers wearing skeleton masks.
“Sci?” I said into a Bluetooth device in my ear.
A blare from a mariachi band before Sci replied from inside the cantina. “They’re paying up now.”
“How drunk are they?” Justine asked. She was cradling a Remington pump-action combat shotgun with a halo sight.
“I saw them drink seven rounds with cerveza chasers,” Sci said. “But they probably had one more before I got in here because they’re not looking too steady on their feet.”
“Perfect,” I said.
In the front seat, Cordova nodded, said, “I’m up, Jack?”
“Seems time,” I replied.
Cordova tugged a skeleton mask down over his face, climbed from the van, shut the door, and started down the sidewalk toward the cantina just as Commandant Raoúl Gomez of the Jalisco State Police stumbled from the bar, followed by his drinking companion, Chief Arturo Fox of the Guadalajara Police Department.
“This could get ugly and has big downsides,” I said. “Last chance to bail.”
“Here we go,” Justine said, tugging down her own skeleton mask.
Mo-bot and I did the same, despite the fact that our plan could backfire and get us thrown into a Mexican prison for a significant stretch of our lives.
“Okay, Cruz,” I said. “They’re heading toward Independence.”
Mo-bot threw the van into gear, came parallel and then abreast of our targets and Pablo Cordova, who was quickly closing on them. Cruz, wearing a skeleton mask and a long black duster like Cordova’s, appeared in front of the drunken cops. The right sleeve of the coat was empty. Cruz’s right hand lifted, parting the coat, revealing a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun, which he aimed point-blank at the stomachs of Chief Fox and Commandant Gomez. We eased to a stop, blocking any bystanders’ view of what was happening. I slid back the door.
“Get in!” Cruz ordered. “Or die.”