Diablo

by James Kent

  ‘Eh? What? Well, yes and no,’ he replied, confused. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘”Yes and no”? What the hell does that mean? I ask,’ replied Silva with sarcastic emphasis, ‘because the Ferret might have left a clue as to who this other random asshole is! Maybe Eddie knew him and had been communicating with him long before. Maybe he really is the same bent cop what his ex-girlfriend was hanging out with. Are you stupid as well as deaf?’ Silva impaled Cricket with his unblinking stare as he waited for an answer.

  ‘Well, ahh yeah, I mean “yes” as in I managed to get in, finally, after carrying out loads of my own forensics looking for booby traps; and “no” as in, soon after I did, the whole system crashed big time anyway. Like we’re talking major meltdown! Eddie was very clever and careful, and he spiked the whole system so that anyone logging into it, even after taking all the usual precautions, would end up wiping the entire drive by triggering his trap. And I can’t fix it any time soon. If ever. So there’s no retrieving any data he may have left behind. At least not for a while. Which means if this other guy is indeed someone he knew,’ Cricket added with emphasis, ‘we can’t find out who he is or, indeed, how he knows Eddie. And that about sums it all up!’

  Silva stared at him blankly. Then he was off again. ‘“INDEED?” Who the hell says “INDEED”? You some kinda smarmy douchebag with a silver spoon up your ass?’ Silva continued to stare at him with anger. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about that?’ he asked. ‘Do I have to ask for every specific little detail before people tell me stuff? Is that it? Is that what this is about? Everybody deliberately keeping me in the dark, feeding me bullshit! Is that it?’

  ‘There was no point telling you! It is what it is,’ replied Cricket. ‘Eddie had won that round so I gave up on it and just used my own shit . . . and I didn’t want to ahh, upset you with more bad news.’

  ‘“Upset” me? A bit late for that, you smarmy halfwit! Everyone’s “upsetting” me at the moment!’ Silva turned away, looking defeated, and said nothing more for a few seconds. He looked out the windows to the mountains in the hazy distance. ‘It seems I’m surrounded by enemies and incompetent fools! First, it’s Eddie! And then it’s Dolan! And then it’s Pedro and Randall! And now it’s you!’ he said. ‘I should shoot you in the face right now for being just another useless goddam mouth to feed!’ He subconsciously reached into his suit coat pocket and felt for the Glock, but he didn’t pull it out.

  Cricket looked across at the door and thought about beating a hasty retreat until Silva calmed down, but he stayed put. He decided to deflect the conversation back onto safer territory, like the original topic.

  ‘Well maybe this other guy is a cop or a Fed or something? He sounds like he’s something like that at least. He must be. But maybe he’s crooked. The mystery is how he’s connected with Eddie in the first place. But honestly, I doubt Eddie would have known him earlier because all the indicators are that he came along recently. Whoever he is, maybe Randall’s in custody now and he’s spilling his guts to the Feds.’

  Silva ignored him. He was lost in thought again. Then he suddenly turned back to Cricket with a frown. ‘What do you mean, “he’s real close”? You said he was close. How close?’

  ‘I mean, he’s hardly a mile away! Looks to be slightly southwest of here, judging by my tracking the whereabouts of Pedro’s phone, like you told me to do. I got a lock when he rang just before. I haven’t pinned it down exactly yet, but I’m getting close . . . it takes time to zero in. Anyway, he must be watching us because there’s nothing around closer than a mile, except some hills. And why would you just stop a mile away and then make a call? Doesn’t make sense unless you’re also watching, like, to see what happens. So, either he’s out there lying in the desert scrub somewhere or he’s in them low-lying hills. Probably got big-ass binoculars on us right now! That’d be my guess.’ Then a scary thought went through his mind, but he didn’t dare voice it to Silva. Maybe he’s a hitman out there with a huge rifle as well, waiting to pick us all off! Shit! Cricket felt a shiver run down his spine. He turned white with fear and stared out the huge windows to the nearby hills. He felt his skin crawl.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ asked Silva again. ‘You look like you’ve just seen a ghost! Go get the guys! Tell ‘em all to get their weapons and go track this guy’s ass down for me! But tell Decker I want to see him first,’ ordered Silva.

  Cricket nodded, his eyes wide with fear and worry, then he turned and walked out to find Decker who was asleep in the hammock last time he saw him, out on the verandah. He’d seen the other five guys walking around, heading round the back to smoke another joint in the shade.

  37

  Foothills of the Cerbat mountain range.

  As fellow snipers like to say, there’s something satisfying about “reaching out and touching the enemy” with a high velocity round from a huge distance. There’s no warning. The bullet arrives with a sharp “crack” or a high-pitched zipping sound well before there’s any distant report of the rifle shot that sent it. Initial confusion and uncertainty are quickly followed by fear and panic. But before you’ve had time to process the full extent of the danger and figure out where’s safe and where’s not safe, another high velocity round arrives to hit someone else, someone beside you. And then you think, “Am I next?” Yeah, maybe.

  Swann opened the quart of water and poured a quantity out onto the dirt just beneath the muzzle of the rifle to prevent the inevitable puff of dust as the bullet exits the barrel; the slight, but rapid change in air pressure disturbs the ground nearby. At night, it’s the muzzle flash. In daylight, it’s the dust cloud that gives you away. Swann doubted Silva’s guys had long range rifles of their own and that they would be up to the task of dealing with a distant sniper, but there was no point being careless and negligent. Yet it was more through habit than anything else. He screwed the cap back on the water bottle and put it aside, out of the sun, then he inserted a pair of ear protectors in his ears, completely blocking out all sound. Shame he could no longer hear the chirruping birds.

  He settled himself into the rifle and brought his eye to the scope, moved the reticle onto the guy in the hammock and smiled. He can wait! he thought. Vehicles first. Eliminate their means of escape and then pick them off one by one, or set the place on fire by putting a few hot rounds through the gas cylinders.

  As always, the first shot is down a cold, unseeded barrel so it will almost certainly be slightly off center, maybe a few inches at this distance. But that hardly matters when the target is an engine block. It wouldn’t matter if the target was a man either. A high velocity fifty caliber bullet is guaranteed to kill a human being no matter where in the main body mass it hits. A leg or an arm shot will take the limb completely off. Swann had already made a preliminary measure of the distance from the top of the hill to Silva’s ranch using the online map’s distance tool, so he knew the range was just shy of one mile, around fifteen hundred yards. A challenging shot even for a competent sniper. To refine it further, he used the laser rangefinder and dialed it in exactly by lasing the nearest vehicle, zeroing it in to within a few inches. Close enough. He knew that a small scope-adjustment would be required in order to re-zero the rifle from where he’d set it on the range a few days earlier when he’d been grouping at one thousand yards; and he knew instinctively from years of experience what kind of adjustment would do it. He rotated the elevation knob on his rifle scope a few clicks to adjust it from the previously set zero point, then he reset that as his new zero for this precise distance to the target. He expected another slight tweak would still be required after the first shot, but it would be close enough to punch a large hole through the front grille of the first vehicle, and then he would correct from there. He checked the windage and did the same; a few clicks to compensate for the steady breeze from west to east; he could judge its strength from the movement of the grasses down on the flat ground, and the waving piece of sheeting iron he’d seen through the binocula
rs. Again, it was a calculated guess based on years of practice on the range, and experience in the field.

  Swann settled the scope’s reticle on one of the vehicles he could see parked up beside the ranch, the nearest one. A pimped-out Cadillac Escalade. Silva’s personal ride, according to Eddie’s list, he thought. It was parked all on its own while the other two - a Dodge Durango and a Buick by the looks of things, although it was hard to tell - were together, off to the left, leaving a respectable space in between them and the Cadillac. Some things never change. From the corporate world to the criminal underworld, the boss always gets his own parking spot nearest the main entrance. Too bad! thought Swann as he steadied his breathing. He lay motionless and burned a hole through the target vehicle’s shiny front grille with his concentration. Its highly polished silver front lattice reflected brightly in the sun. It shimmered and danced in the heat haze like a mirage. He waited some more and then he let out a long, slow breath and gently squeezed the trigger with a constant pressure, all the way through the release.

  The huge rifle suddenly unleashed a clap of thunder and bucked with its recoil. Swann absorbed it, but he didn’t move; he allowed the rifle scope to resettle, back onto the target. The high velocity armor-piercing incendiary round completely smashed the front grille and radiator, and penetrated the gearbox and sump because of the downward angle. Smoke began issuing slowly from underneath and from the front as the high energy impact ignited the now leaking sump oil. But Swann could see that the point of impact was high and right, so he made another small adjustment to the elevation and windage. Then he worked the bolt to chamber another round.

  He resettled on the same aim point as before, let out another long breath and then fired, sending another large fifty-caliber incendiary bullet crashing into the engine block. The round had hit very close to the aim point and started another fire as volatiles and oils exploded from the heat of impact and the incendiary material in the bullet, spewing more smoke and flame out of the front and from underneath.

  Satisfied with his accuracy, Swann swung the rifle to the left and settled on the next vehicle. He worked the bolt to chamber a third round, steadied his breathing again and burned another hole through the target with his concentration. The second vehicle, the Buick, was quartered on, facing slightly away. He let out another slow breath and gently squeezed the trigger again. The rifle barked as another massive round crashed its way through the vehicle’s right-front fender and into the engine. It too raised a cloud of dust and smoke as oils and other volatiles ignited around the cracked engine block. It wouldn’t have penetrated far, but it would have been enough to immobilize it. He could tell the round was true and accurate so there was no need to readjust the scope. He worked the bolt again and sent another armor-piercing round smashing into the vehicle.

  Swann moved the scope back to the main ranch to see if there was any panic, people running for cover. The five guys he’d seen before, wandering around with AR15s over their shoulders, were nowhere to be seen. He also noticed with a grin that the guy in the hammock had disappeared too. He was no longer snoozing in the sun. The hammock was swinging slightly as though it had just been vacated in a hurry. Either the guy had been called in to deal with the threat after the phone call to Silva, or he’d freaked when the Cadillac suddenly started burning and had jumped out in panic. He would have heard the first hit on the Cadillac. It would have happened suddenly, out of the blue and without warning; all would have been peace and quiet and then a loud impact like a giant sledgehammer slamming into the vehicle, followed by smoke and dust. Three seconds later, the unmistakable reverberation of a distant rifle shot from a large caliber weapon. Then, two or three seconds later, another loud impact on the Cadillac. Three seconds later again, he would have heard the second distant report of a big rifle. He would have erupted from the hammock and run inside for cover, knowing they were under attack. He’d obviously snatched up the AR15 as he ran inside because it was no longer leaning against the wall.

  The Cadillac was now ablaze, pouring thick black smoke into the air. Swann moved the rifle to the left again to acquire the third vehicle, the Dodge Durango - which was basically the same under the bonnet as Pedro’s Cherokee. He put the reticle onto its right-front fender. The Dodge was side-on to his view, facing east, so he aimed just above and to the left of the front tire which would be the position of the main engine block. Swann let out a slow breath and squeezed the trigger again. Again, the huge rifle crashed out its thunderous bark as another fifty-caliber bullet drilled a hole into the engine, taking out one of the six cylinders. Nice bit of kit! thought Swann as he watched it smoke from the impact. Shame to have to destroy it! The vehicle immediately started smoking and burning like the others as its oil and gas caught fire. Five rounds fired equals an empty magazine.

  Job done, Swann cleared the rifle and removed the magazine. The other loaded magazine was there ready if he needed it later, maybe to tap the gas cylinders. He lifted it aside carefully, resting it still on its front bipod. Then he moved to the smaller, but equally lethal, long-range L115 sniper rifle. He inserted ten sun-warmed rounds of Lapua Magnum .338 into two magazines, snapped one of them into the bottom of the rifle and placed the other on the mat in the sun, ready to use when needed. He lay prone again and rocked himself back into position as he slid his pack in front and rested the stock of the rifle on it. Unlike the much heavier fifty-caliber weapon, he preferred to rest the sniper weapon on a soft bag or cushion instead of on its fold-out bipod.

  He made a small, calculated adjustment to the elevation and windage like before, then worked the bolt, loading a round, and brought the scope’s reticle onto the target. The front door of Diablo’s ranch.

  38

  Diablo’s ranch.

  He was awoken by a loud, dinging thud. Like a powerful hammer-blow against something metallic. It came out of the blue. Clyde Decker had been dozing in the hammock, in the warmth of the noonday sun, with a slight cooling breeze coming across from the west. The loud bang was somehow out of place, yet unmistakable. He knew instinctively what it was and yet he was confused and uncertain, like he didn’t want to trust his senses; he subconsciously didn’t want to believe what he already knew. He could smell something too, something metallic like hot, burned metal. And dust. And then smoke. He lay as still as the dead, with his eyes wide open, staring up into the verandah overhang waiting for clarity of thought; waiting for the faintest noise to explain it away, to put his mind at rest. Or to confirm it. His mind was suddenly razor-sharp and alert. He could see the finest details in the verandah roof, yet he wasn’t really looking at them. It was just his senses, fine-tuned to survival mode like a wild animal being hunted. And then he heard what he knew deep down was coming . . . the cracking report of a powerful rifle shot like a distant thunderclap; a large caliber weapon. Decker tipped out of the hammock in a lightning fast reaction, his instincts kicking in. He ducked as low as he could, scrambled for the AR15 rifle that he’d had leaning against the wall and ran inside. The other guys who had been wandering around with their rifles trying to look useful patrolling the premises, had also disappeared. Or maybe they were around the rear of the place smoking a joint and hadn’t heard the shot. Decker didn’t know for sure. And he didn’t care.

  He crashed into Cricket coming the other way and bowled him over. ‘What the hell?’ shouted Cricket as he lost his footing and stumbled backwards onto the floor, onto his backside. ‘The boss wants to see you!’ he said loudly with an annoyed scowl, looking up at Decker who seemed to be in a panic for some reason. Decker’s eyes were still wide and dilated, alert like the eyes of a predator.

  Another loud sledgehammer-like thud hit the Cadillac outside.

  ‘We’ve got a sniper you idiot!’ Decker yelled back at him. ‘He’s just plugged the Cadillac! Get up off the floor and away from the door! Decker instinctively felt for his Glock which was still in its holster. He held the rifle in his other hand. There is some comfort in being armed even when you have n
o idea what’s going on. A second later, the distant report of the rifle shot he’d heard before. Must be a fair distance away, he thought, judging by the delay.

  He turned and looked out the window briefly, saw the vehicle billowing smoke from underneath it. He grabbed Cricket by the collar and pulled him away from the window and doorway. Decker was unsure what to do until he could get a bearing on where the shots were coming from. He needed a sighting. He moved, pulling Cricket with him, towards the hallway that led to the lounge, putting as much structural material as he could in between him and the sniper who was somewhere out in the desert scrublands, as far as he knew. Or maybe in the nearby hills. Jesus! He could be anywhere! he thought. That’s the trouble with isolation . . . you’re vulnerable from every direction. You think you’re safe, but maybe you’re not.

  ‘What the hell is happening?’ asked Cricket. ‘You’re scaring the shit out of me!’

  ‘SHHH!’ said Decker, ‘Shut up and listen!’ Decker leant back against the wall in the hallway, waiting; breathing rapidly from the adrenalin rush. He was actually enjoying it, enjoying the excitement for a change. It was refreshing. Then he heard another distinctive, powerful thud of an impact on something solid. The same kind of sound; a tell-tale dinging thud as another large caliber round smashed into one of the vehicles. A few seconds later, the same distant report of a powerful rifle. It sounded like thunder, like before, that reverberated around and carried in the open air, then faded away.