“My dress is ruined,” said Coastie, looking at the stains. She pulled a curtain across the space behind the seat for some privacy and wrestled her way out of the clothes, stripping down to a sports bra and running shorts. A black sweater, jeans, socks, and sneaks were on the floor at her feet. “OK, Mark. I’m ready now. Get up here and rake this goop off my face.”
Dixon slid into the driver’s seat and went to work with creams and towels to clean her up, pretending not to see the tears forming in her eyes. She dabbed them, but in a low voice told him, “That was horrible.” She yanked off the long-haired wig and replaced it with a black combat beanie.
“Up close, it always is,” the former Ranger said in a comforting tone. “Just let it go, Beth. We’re still on a mission. These tears are just a normal reaction. No prob.”
“I know.” She sniffed and wiped her nose, then was out of the van door again, climbing the ladder attached to the back. Up top, she gave a kick to a rolled sleeping bag and sprawled out on her stomach to face the hacienda some 250 meters away. From a cushioned box, she removed an M-40A3 sniper rifle and adjusted the cheek piece and the recoil pad to her comfort. She slid an AN/PVS-10 nightscope onto the rail, and added a clip of M-118LR rounds, working the bolt to put one of the 7.62 mm bullets into the chamber. When she finished adjusting the weapon, the nightscope illuminated the target area, and she swept it back and forth.
If things went sour, Coastie would give precision covering fire to Kyle. This was better, and she was back in her zone as the familiar weight and smells of the big weapon helped clear her mind about the savage death of the Zombie. She concentrated as never before, remembering the lessons of controlled breathing and almost hearing Kyle’s advice on the practice range. Her heart rate slowed and her vision sharpened, and she listened to the night and the faraway music and shouts of people still out having a good time. She touched a little microphone attached to the earbud. “Ready upstairs,” she reported.
“Ready down,” came a flat voice from within the van.
Smith was now at the wheel. “Ready front.”
Swanson, who had a similar bud in his ear for internal communication within the strike team, acknowledged, “I’m gone.”
A few minutes later, he plodded by the van at the same lethargic pace, eyes down at the sidewalk and not giving any sign that he even saw the vehicle. The broad sidewalk seemed like a shimmering thin tightrope in the sparse moonlight, and every step had to be exact to get him where he needed to go. A long stiletto blade, razor sharp on both sides, was in a leather case attached beneath his left forearm by a simple strap of Velcro. The pistol was in his belt and the silencer in a pocket. Halfway between the van and the hacienda, he clicked the transmit button on his radio twice, the signal to ask if everything was clear. He heard two clicks in response from his partners. Go.
The drone was in the air at only five thousand feet, flying lazy loops over the house, and its infrared cameras had identified the positions of the remaining guards. Zombie Two, as usual, was also on countersniper patrol about a mile away on a different patch of high ground, and was therefore not a factor. Zombies Three and Four were in static positions at the front and rear, and Five, the team leader, roamed the grounds. All was quiet, and the protectees were asleep, which made it harder for guards on such routine duty to stay awake, much less keep sharp.
The specter that was Kyle Swanson reached the edge of the grounds, walking in the deep darkness of the big pomegranate trees and putting on a pair of soft black gloves. He tightened the cylindrical sound suppressor onto the barrel of his pistol. He pressed the transmit button only long enough to say, “Location Zombie Five.”
The van observer who was flying the drone had seen the flare of a cigarette lighter and whispered, “Z’s Five and Four are in back. Just lit up smokes.”
Kyle moved forward. That bored pair would be back there swapping lies for a while. Good luck improves any plan. Swanson kept his face tilted down to further hide his features as he approached the front plaza, where the guard designated as Zombie Three was leaning back with his chair propped against the wall, hands behind his head beside the entry. Zombie Three saw exactly what he expected to see: the dark shape and general appearance of Zombie One, back early from his patrol. The man grunted. Kyle grunted. The garden was redolent with the scent of flowers.
Swanson covered the distance in three quick strides, pinned the man’s neck in his left hand, and used his right to stuff the pistol against the heart of the seated guard. He fired twice. The noise was quashed by the sound suppressor. The body bucked on the impact of the big slugs, but Kyle held him in place. Had stealth and time not been factors, he would have also delivered a head shot. He looked into the dim eyes. This guy was dead. Kyle left the body balanced on the chair, so a quick look from a distance would give the impression that the man was asleep, which would also explain why he would not answer a call. That would buy a little time. Every second mattered now.
He keyed the mike. “Zombies Four and Five?”
“No change.”
The front door was made of huge planks of oak that had darkened over many years and were held together by forged bolts. Heavy hinges of black iron attached it to the stone house. There was at least a 50 percent chance that it was unlocked, since the guards on exterior security might need to get inside in a hurry. The people inside were considered secure because the mercenaries with guns were outside. Swanson let out a long breath and softly depressed the large lever handle. It went down smoothly, and the giant door gave way with an easy push. He was inside in a single step.
27
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
THE UPSCALE condo was less space than Douglas Jimenez wanted, and the payment plus homeowner fees was a little more than he could afford. It was located in a maze of such homes that were the nests of many Capitol Hill worker bees that had latched onto the properties before the real estate crash, eager to get a toehold in the prestigious, prosperous community. Then the “no money down” American dream became the “no money in the bank” nightmare.
Since most of the homeowners in this clutch of Washington commuters worked in some shape or form for the government, there was no real concern about losing their jobs. Even in crisis, the government still rolled out the paychecks. If one lived somewhat frugally, one could almost pretend the outside market forces were not taking a toll on one personally. The project developers had gone bankrupt, and with that promised assistance gone, the homeowner association’s finances were getting rocky, and as its rules were unbending, maintenance fees kept rising. The administrative aides of members of Congress and young financial magicians and health care specialists and naval officers did not cut their own grass or shovel snow off the steps; that was why illegal immigrants were invented and unofficially sanctioned.
Jimenez lived well when he was at work on the government dime, but when he was paying his personal expenses, he had become much more careful. His credit cards were almost maxed out, and the interest was eating him alive. Since he expected the monthly HOA cost would soon be increased by at least another hundred dollars a month per household, he had to cut back on something. Dumping the Beemer, which cost five hundred dollars per month to lease, and riding public transit instead was a horrible possibility. He had to stay dressed properly, which meant the clothing and cleaning bills had to stay in the budget. The financial magazines were telling him to save, save, save and invest at a modest 8 percent annual gain so as to be a multimillionaire by retirement, and then not outlive his money. Where was he going to find an 8 percent annual gain when the banks were offering less than half of 1 percent? That was assuming he had any money to invest, which he did not. Maybe he had enough clout now to get a K Street lobbying job. Fat chance of that happening, he thought as he puttered around his kitchen.
As a sacrifice to reality, on the evening after pulling off the biggest backroom coup of his professional political career, he was celebrating by himself at home, cooking a hamburger with sautéed oni
ons and a slice of cheese, accompanied by a bottle of Coors Light beer. The meal would cost twenty dollars, plus tip, at any saloon between the District and Bethesda, except for Mickey D’s and BK, and he wasn’t desperate enough to eat at either of those places. Yet.
The melodic chime of the doorbell broke his dour reverie. It was not unusual in this complex, which contained many singles of both sexes, for a party to crank up on the spur of the moment. The old saying that misery enjoys company was never truer than these days around the Beltway, and anyone showing up with a six-pack or a bottle of wine was welcome. Things would grow from there when the tweets and texts alerted everybody else in the block. He wiped his hands on a cloth towel and walked quickly across the carpet, just as the doorbell dinged again. Impatient. “Yeah! I’m coming,” he called and opened up.
“Mr. Douglas Jimenez?” Two men in neat suits were on his doorstep. The one in front held a little leather case flipped open to show a bright shield with an eagle on top, and the ID card with his picture and the big letters FBI printed in blue. He had neat black hair and friendless blue eyes that almost matched his shirt. “I’m Special Agent Lassiter, and this is Special Agent Martin.”
“Uh,” Jimenez said. His lawyer Spidey sense had immediately snapped to alert. Say nothing. Do not let them inside. “Yeah. That’s me. What’s this all about?”
Lassiter pushed him backward hard, with both hands, and Doug was flung sprawling across the foyer. Feeling as if his chest had been crushed when he bounced on the floor, he gasped for breath. Both agents were now inside, and Martin closed the door.
“Douglas Jimenez, you are under arrest for violations of the National Security and Official Secrets Act.” They flipped him over like a rag doll and cuffed him, ratcheting the steel bracelets tight.
Douglas caught his breath. “Hey! What are you doing?”
“We’re taking your sorry ass into custody. Isn’t that sort of obvious?” Martin, a large man with a boxer’s bent nose, smiled as he said it.
“Like hell you are. I know my rights!” He tried to sit up, but Lassiter kicked him hard in the ribs with a steel-toed shoe and Doug crumpled back to the floor.
“You have the right for me not to shoot you in the fuckin’ head right now. Beyond that, you don’t have any that I can think of. The act is pretty generous in how we deal with security issues. We may Miranda you at some later time, if you’re lucky and not considered an enemy combatant.”
The National Security and Official Secrets Act had updated the old Patriot Act, stripping out some of the unworkable parts but adding stern new ones. It had been passed by Congress after years and years of leaks of vital government information that aided enemies and rivals of the United States. Modeled on the old British Official Secrets Act, the NSOS left very few avenues of legal defense. The American Civil Liberties Union and defense lawyers howled, claiming it was merely antiwhistle-blower legislation. American voters weary of bootleg lone-wolf terrorist strikes had gone along with the idea that people who sign the governmental pledge of keeping secrets and protecting the country should do that, and keep their mouths shut.
“That’s crazy! What’s the exact charge?”
“Good question. Why don’t you just think of this as being taken into protective custody so that some future cellmate with body tats and a permanent hard-on doesn’t learn that you’re a traitor.”
“Do you know who I am? I work for Senator Jordan Monroe!” Jimenez’s voice was breaking in fright. His mind was bending under the weight of the unnamed charges. The NSOS was a mean motherfucker of a law.
Martin strolled to the stove and turned the fire out beneath the cooking hamburger. “Not any longer.”
“I want to call a lawyer.”
“I would imagine that you do. Sorry, but no. Anyway, you’re a lawyer yourself. So am I. Lots of lawyers around this town. You want anything else?” Lassiter and Martin each grabbed an arm and pulled Jimenez to his feet.
“I’m willing to make a deal.”
“That’s where things really get interesting. You don’t have anything we want, Dougie-boy. Not a damned thing. You broke the wrong law, so now out we go, and quiet or loud makes no difference to us.”
“I’ll yell my head off and my neighbors will see. They’ll report what you’re doing.” The steel cuffs were so tight that they were cutting off the blood circulation in his wrists.
“If you try that, an official answer is already in place: that you are a dirty old man and a child molester, as well as a spy. Child pornography will be found on your hard drive. We give the news to a local channel and supply a picture of you in chains. The traitor stuff will come out later, if necessary.”
“That’s illegal!”
“No, it’s not.” Lassiter yanked him forward. “Move it, Doug. Time for you to do the perp walk.”
SEVILLE, SPAIN
THE MAN IN BLACK slid the lock home on the thick front door, creating a barrier that he could control. The bad guys could not use it, and Swanson’s prey was now trapped, although he could leave when he wished. He paused and breathed in the strange surroundings, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light.
The spacious entry hall had a tiled floor that he moved across carefully. Kids lived here, which meant something could be underfoot at almost any step. Toe, then heel, five steps, and he was in the living room, where a single night-light plugged into a wall gave some illumination. Silence enveloped him. He pulled the little light from the electrical socket.
The dining room was long, with a large table and numerous chairs, reminding him of the old Zorro movies he had seen about the lavish lifestyles of Spanish grandees. The kitchen would be in back, maybe an office. The surveillance had determined that the household help lived elsewhere, but if the mother and father of Mrs. Torreblanca actually owned this place, it made sense that they would have the master bedroom.
Slowly prowling the ground floor, he found them, snoring lumps beneath the covers, in a comfortable bedroom downstairs. The older couple no longer wanted to handle the stairs on a daily basis. He closed the door silently and let them be.
Wide stairs along one wall led up to the other sleeping quarters, and he rested a hand on the metal railing, putting the weight of his feet at the ends of the wooden steps to prevent squeaks. Another hallway was at the top, with multiple doors and more decorative tile squares on the floor. He wanted more time for recon, but did not have it. Those guys in back would not smoke forever.
Regular doors at the far end and a double door filling an arch on the left. Another night-light in a bathroom next to the main bedroom. The kids are down there, so my target is in here. Kyle took a deep breath and put pressure on the lever, and again a door swung open without a sound. He did not close it all the way because he would not be here long.
The knife came out as he moved to the bed. The dark hair of the wife was spread on the pillow, and her face appeared relaxed in sleep. Torreblanca was on his back with his eyes closed, breathing in steady rhythm. Both arms were beneath the covers. Swanson studied the scene a few seconds to figure out the best way to kill him without awakening her and decided to slide the point in at the Adam’s apple and straight into the brain so it would not be trapped by bones, then yank it out and slash the big veins pumping in the exposed neck. When the blade was entering the skin, he would clamp a hand over the man’s mouth, and he had to gamble that the struggle would be short and without a scream, a movement that the sleeping wife might just believe was her husband turning over to adjust positions. Swanson gave some thought to climbing on the bed, a knee on each side of the victim to pin him down. He gauged the time he had left. Should be enough.
A light flashed on behind him and caught Swanson completely off guard, freezing him in place. The strip of brightness flooded through the six inches where he had left the door ajar and spread to the rest of the room. Easy footsteps in the hall. Kyle faded back against the wall beside the door to adjust to the changing situation, holding the knife a bit higher, ready to m
ake an offensive lunge. The people on the bed did not move. The steps were not those of anyone wearing heavy boots. Then the bathroom door was pulled shut and Kyle relaxed a bit. What could be more common than a child going to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Normal, familiar family noises would not alert anyone. He waited, knife in hand, for the child to finish peeing and go back to bed.
* * *
“ABORT!” The sudden voice in his earpiece sounded like a shout. “Bounty Hunter, abort!”
The target was in a deep sleep on a bed six feet away. A kid was in the bathroom. Armed guards were outside, and the call meant for him to terminate the mission immediately and get out. His mind whirled as he sorted through the situation and reordered his priorities, but he forced himself to remain calm. Panic would be fatal.
The abort order carried the highest priority. No other information came with it. The team was supposed to be dark with all communication for this part of the mission, so someone obviously had some important information that he did not. Standing alone in enemy territory was no option, as was speculating about what was happening outside. A soldier, no matter how well prepared, can see only a short distance beyond the rim of his helmet. His knowledge was limited. Were police on the way? Had a new load of Zombies showed up unexpectedly? Was the team outside in danger, which would limit his escape chances? The possibilities were endless, and he was wasting valuable seconds thinking about them. An abort order was always rock solid. Something bad had happened, and it meant the operator must stop whatever he was doing and get out as fast as possible. Explanations could wait.
Kyle stared at the inert figure of Daniel Ferran Torreblanca lying quietly beside his wife. There was no sympathy for the man, because Swanson considered him as only another terrorist. It would be so easy to take a few steps forward, slice his throat, and haul ass down the stairs. Then the toilet flushed in the adjacent bathroom, and the kid was back in the puzzle.
On Scope: A Sniper Novel Page 20
