In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  The scattered information was all just the debris of a false life, breadcrumbs spread carefully over the years. It was an elaborate personal cover story, probably concocted with the help of the CIA itself, and proved nothing. Marks had become a Nowhere Man. The thick dossier didn’t contain a résumé of jobs that Nicky Marks had performed with government authority and permission.

  However, just because someone wanted to vanish didn’t mean he could. Nobody lived in a post-office box. The real trail had to begin within the CIA itself. Marks obviously didn’t punch a clock, so someone had to be his primary contact—if it wasn’t his boss at the top of the food chain, which would be Marty Atkins, then at least the intermediary between a plan and the man.

  Marty had included an abbreviated history on the field operative who dealt with Marks. The CIA identification photo showed a man of thirty-three, with a square jaw and a slightly sloping brow that seemed bigger because he made no attempt to cover the creeping baldness. Instead, his brown hair was cut very short, very exact, with the touch of a stylist. The face was deeply tanned. It was not a Florida tan or the product of a tanning booth or a liquid spray but, rather, the product of months of working outdoors beneath a hot desert sun. Squint lines burrowed at the corners of brown eyes that looked straight at the camera lens. The name was Lucas Gibson. The thing that leaped out was that he had no military record. Swanson flipped back through the pages and there was no mention of Gibson serving. Why would Atkins leave out something so important and basic?

  Swanson puzzled over that as he finished his drink, then went into his room to start packing. Arrangements had been made, and he would be on a plane across the Atlantic first thing tomorrow.

  BERLIN, GERMANY

  THE GRAY GERMAN SKY began leaking as night fell, dragging a curtain of light rain up the River Spree, along with white blades of lightning and the smell of burned ozone. Pedestrians ran for cover to wait it out. Kyle Swanson paid the fare on the taxi meter and dashed across a sidewalk and up the stone steps of the Restaurant Äpfel. He brushed away drops clinging to his coat as he stepped inside. A tiny Asian hostess, tightly wrapped neck to knees in a crinkly black dress, smiled with emerald eyes. “Guten tag.”

  “Hello,” he responded, peeling out of his damp topcoat. “Do you speak English?” Her nametag read “Aurora.” He was guessing Filipina.

  “Of course,” she bubbled in silky reply. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “Yes, I’m meeting another gentleman. The reservation is for Herr Schmidt.” That was one of the most common surnames in Germany, and similar to using Jones in America.

  “Herr Schmidt is already waiting at table, sir. Please follow me.” She spun and walked confidently down the aisle, her doll-like figure pulling all male attention away from other matters. She pushed through the potted palms that lined the back wall and opened a set of pocket doors to reveal a private dining area. Luke Gibson was sipping a drink.

  The Berlin rendezvous was frequented by foreigners who enjoyed dining later than the average German. The menu mirrored eateries in New York or London. Marty Atkins wanted the men to meet at a neutral site and keep things as far as possible from Washington. Swanson had flown in via London, with time to spare. Gibson was spirited out of Afghanistan aboard a private plane of the Air Branch of the CIA Special Activities Division, the latest incarnation of the infamous Air America from the Indochina days. Reality does not die; it just changes names, and the agency always needed its own birds for special work.

  “Ah,” Gibson said with a grin. “So you’re Kyle Swanson. From everything I’ve heard, I expected you to be about nine feet tall.”

  Swanson sized him up. Usually a soldier’s lifestyle slides inexorably away when he becomes a civilian and sheds that skin. The demanding military schedule, the regimentation, the automatic authority, the chain of command, and even the physical bearing erode, for his life no longer depends on such things. Luke Gibson was way beyond that. He was squared away, but in a totally civilian manner, as if born to wear a trooper’s uniform without ever having done so.

  They didn’t shake hands. Swanson gave his coat to Aurora, who withdrew and closed the doors. A low cello melody oozed from hidden speakers and the lighting was subdued, a combination that provided a sense of isolation in the huge city. He eased into a chair and got down to business. “Where can I find Nicky Marks?”

  Gibson took a slow sip from a heavy crimson drink, savoring it. “Well, hello to you, too. They create a helluva Bloody Mary here. Finlandia vodka, the usual veggies and crumbles of bacon. Bacon improves everything.”

  Swanson leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “I’m not here to talk about bacon, and it’s too late in the day for a Bloody Mary. Director Atkins said you’re the Marks contact.”

  Gibson avoided the challenge by raising his glass again and drinking before he answered. “It’s a good drink, no matter what the time or place. You remember in the MASH movie, about Korea, how the new surgeon demanded an olive in his martini? Some things make the world a better place.” Gibson took the slice of celery from his drink, bit off a piece, and crunched. Swanson remained silent.

  Finally, Gibson spoke again. “Yeah, Nicky was one of mine; apparently, he’s decided to go out on his own. He’s a very talented boy, and with a high market value. You won’t find him.”

  Swanson felt a sudden jolt of anger, remembering the cemetery explosion that desecrated the grave of his good friend. “Can you still contact him?”

  “Let’s hypothesize about that for a moment, Mr. Swanson. If you went rogue and did something horrible, would you ever let anyone find you?”

  Swanson studied the calm man across the table and was reminded of the proverb that the eyes are windows to the soul. Gibson was unflustered, outwardly open and friendly, but if the old saying was accurate, then Swanson was looking at a rat’s nest of a soul, a place filled with spiders and screams. “Maybe you didn’t understand me, so I repeat: Can you still contact him?”

  Gibson pushed his drink aside and folded his hands as the grin vanished. “Don’t patronize me, Swanson. Nicky is in the wind. As the boys and girls at Langley probably told you before you left, all his accounts have been closed, his apartment was abandoned after being wiped clean, the hard drive on his company laptop contained nothing of value because it had been drilled multiple times, and none of his friends have a clue where he went. His girlfriend says he dumped her two weeks ago. There has been no activity on cell phones, because he only uses burners. Nicky is in the fucking wind.”

  Swanson filtered that. If Marks had dumped the girlfriend two weeks ago, that meant the assassin had laid out his getaway before even showing up in Mexico. That suggested meticulous planning. “I’m getting tired of you dancing around my question, Gibson. Can you or can you not contact this shitbird?”

  “I tried right after I got the summons from Atkins. No luck.” He shrugged. “I was out in the middle of Afghanistan at the time. I don’t know where he is.”

  “Or why he bailed?”

  “Probably money, because it sure as hell wasn’t out of loyalty or idealism, or any flag or religion. As I said, Nicky is gone.” Gibson spread his empty hands palms up.

  “Then we have both wasted trips to Berlin.” Swanson prepared to rise but stopped at a passing thought. “What was his hook to Mexico?”

  “Unknown. To me, the whole thing smacks of drugs. Maybe some cartel hired him. Those people throw around good paychecks for this line of labor. He had done some enforcer work before, back in the day.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “About six weeks ago, in Kabul. Nicky was cool then. He seemed perfectly normal. At least, as normal as he ever was.”

  Swanson disagreed about the cartels. “The drug lords in Mexico keep whole death squads at the ready; plus, they have local cops and military on their payroll. Why reach all the way to Afghanistan to bring in an expensive specialist?”

  Gibson regained his pleasant attitude. S
wanson noted that the strong shoulders had relaxed. “No fucking idea, other than that Marks is very, very good. Somebody knew somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody else who recommended him. His name has gotten around quite a bit among the jihadis and they put a reward on his head, with no luck. If they couldn’t kill him, why not just get him a new job somewhere else? Like I said, Nicky is a great mercenary. He would go to a high bidder. I can’t blame him for being tired of Afghanistan. I am, too.”

  Swanson sighed with frustration and started to get up from the table. “I’ll ask him all that when I find him. And I will find him, eventually.”

  The easy smile remained. “Maybe I misspoke, Swanson. When I said you wouldn’t get him, I really meant only that you will never find him by yourself.” Gibson shifted his position, leaning forward, switching gears as a negotiator. “Look, I’m as pissed off as you are about this. A recruit I brought in and trained has bolted over to the bad guys and did an abominable thing to your friend in Mexico. Nicky has dirtied my own reputation, and the agency will hold me responsible for allowing him to go off the reservation. Hell, I may lose my job.”

  Swanson sat back down. “You have my attention.”

  The tanned face turned serious, and the crow’s-feet deepened as he squinted. “I suggest that we work together. We’ll use every tool the company has available, every trick in the book and some that aren’t in any books, trace Nicky to his hidey-hole, wherever it may be, and then blow the fucker away.”

  “We should partner up?” Swanson was surprised by the suggestion. “No way.”

  “It makes sense. You and I are probably the tops in our weird game, and Nicky isn’t far behind with his skill set. Director Atkins wants him off the board and buried. So do you. So do I.”

  “I work better alone,” Swanson said.

  “Snipers work best in teams. You know that. How many shooters have you taught that rule?” Gibson had spent a lot of time doctoring this pitch before making it. Could Swanson deny his own doctrines?

  That was a cold fact, and Swanson knew it. Was it not the reason that he was even considering bringing Coastie back to work? The difference was experience and trust. She had proved herself repeatedly as being able to cover his back in combat, and they made an excellent team, while he had just met Luke Gibson. There was no foundation here.

  Gibson went on, “I just finished a gig up in the Badlands, and my partner was locally trained by the Green Berets. Asshole nearly got me killed. I think the damned mule we used to carry the gear was smarter. For me to work with a guy like you would be a privilege; plus, it would increase the odds of bringing Nicky down.”

  That made some sense. “Tell you what, Mr. Gibson. I’ll think about it overnight and run the idea past the director. Meet me back here tomorrow, same time. And, if I agree, you be ready to tell me everything you know about Marks. Maybe we can work something out.”

  Gibson’s smile broke out again. “Okay, you got a deal. Hey! Since we’re done here, you want to go have some dinner or a drink?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. My body clock is messed up after the long flight. Enjoy the rest of your Bloody Mary.”

  “Nah, I don’t like drinking alone. The company booking agent said you didn’t approve of their low-range hotel and upgraded to the Radisson Blu on your own dime. They did the same with me, so I changed over to the Hilton. Bureaucrats have strange priorities. He’ll be pissed that both of us ignored his picks.”

  “Our meeting was supposed to be secret,” Swanson observed.

  “Good luck with that. Every time I go on a job I worry about the long logistics tail. How many people were involved in just getting us together tonight? Dozens? No such thing as a secret.”

  Swanson had to agree. “Yeah. Well. Anyway, I’m out of here.”

  “I’m going in the same direction for a few blocks. If the rain has stopped, I’ll walk with you. Maybe I can find a nice warm bar with friendly women who are eager to please.”

  Swanson retrieved his coat from Aurora and the two men exited onto a broad sidewalk that meandered along the River Spree and sloped down beyond a protective hedgerow to the water’s edge. They turned north. The rain had passed, leaving a misty overcast that dulled the glare of the city lights. Cars and trucks were a steady ribbon of illumination. On their left, the broad river flowed dark and swift. Boat traffic was minimal, because the Spree was too narrow to be a significant maritime route.

  “What was it about Marks that made you recruit him in the first place?” Swanson shoved his hands deep inside his coat pockets as they walked.

  Gibson, in a climber’s coat, fished out a cigarette and lit it with the practiced flip of an old metal Zippo. “I had watched him work a couple of times when he was attached to merc units. He was so cool under fire that he made it look easy. I checked his records and thought he showed some promise, so I brought him aboard in starter work like recon. Within six weeks, I knew I’d found a winner.” Gibson exhaled and the breeze snatched away the ribbon of smoke. “Langley loved him because he didn’t worry about unusual assignments. He would push the envelope without changing his heartbeat.”

  “So they took over? Trained him up?”

  “Yeah.” He inhaled deeply, then exhaled and flicked the butt. It twirled away like a little spinning torch. “You know the drill. Time passed and a lot of bosses punched his ticket. I was just the middleman.”

  “If that ticket has a lot of fingerprints, then it’s no wonder the agency’s nervous. There might be a lot of blame to go around for him going rogue,” Swanson said, then paused. “So somebody back in the States was actually running him?”

  Gibson looked up at the tall buildings, then down to street level. Snipers always kept their eyes moving. “Don’t know, man. Beyond my pay grade.”

  A cream-colored automobile with a glowing yellow taxi sign on top abruptly broke from the line of oncoming traffic. The engine revved and the front wheels cut toward them. Swanson noticed that the passenger window was sliding open just as Luke Gibson hit him with a shoulder block that took them both to the ground. They fell to the left, over and through a waist-high border of shrubs and flowers, then down the grassy slope toward the water.

  A small oval object flew from the window of the car, hit the pavement, bounced once, then caught in the hedgerow and exploded.

  Swanson and Gibson were slashed with dirt and leaves, while the hot shrapnel of a hand grenade trimmed the greenery. By the time they raised their heads, the car had disappeared.

  “You okay?” Swanson was brushing off his hair and face. The blast had gone over them, but the dirt and grass had showered down. His ears were ringing.

  Gibson was on his hands and knees, coughing. “Yeah.” The man from Afghanistan wiped at his clothing.

  “The good news is we didn’t get our dumb asses killed. The even better news is that we’re not going to have to look far to find Nicky Marks. He threw that grenade. The bastard was laughing as he went by.”

  5

  “AGAIN?” MARTY ATKINS, BACK at CIA headquarters in Virginia, was on an encrypted call to Berlin, his voice incredulous. “You were attacked again by the same guy? In another country? Impossible!”

  “Not impossible, Marty. I just picked a shard of metal out of my coat. It was about as hard and real as I care to get.”

  Luke Gibson was also near the speakerphone. “Positive identification, sir. I saw him clearly. It was Nicky Marks who threw the grenade.”

  There was a pause while everyone digested that information. “I also think it was a bullshit piece of playacting, sir,” said Gibson. “If Nicky had really wanted to kill us tonight, we would be dead meat. Instead, he flips a grenade from a passing car—almost like a kid with a firecracker.”

  “Why?” Atkins remained confused.

  Swanson said, “To get our attention? To send a message? Who knows? The point is, Marty, that, once again, all three corners of this incident have CIA connections, just like in Mexico.”

  “With you as the
common link,” the director of intelligence said.

  “He knew exactly where we were. That means there’s a leak in the information stovepipe, boss.” Gibson rubbed his palms, but showed no other sign of concern.

  The director of intelligence knew that a bad situation had just gotten worse. “I’ll tighten the information flow on this end and try to deal directly with the two of you from now on,” he said. “This new incident may be a break we can use. Right now, you’re all in the same city. Kyle, I want you and Luke to work together until we nail this guy and find out what he’s up to. Swanson is the lead.”

  Swanson tensed. He had just been saddled with a partner not of his choosing. “Yes, sir.”

  “Gibson, are you on board with that?”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll find him. We have to work with the Germans, though.”

  Atkins was somber about that idea. The incident had happened on German soil, so there was no way to remain totally independent. And Gibson was right: they would need help. “Very well, I’ll contact the GSG Nine and you work with them. Keep it away from the locals.”

  Over the years, Swanson had forged a good relationship with the élite counterterrorism and special-operations unit known as the Grenzschutzgruppe 9 der Bundespolizei, which was always shortened to GSG 9. It was excellent, but the promised stoppage of information at the Washington end had just as quickly been opened on the other, and the short hairs began to tickle his neck. How could they hope to keep the incident away from the police when GSG 9 was technically a police unit and not a military team?

  “Marty, I don’t like the way this is going,” he said. “This guy has tried to kill me twice in a week and I’m getting pretty tired of him, but we’re moving too fast. I want to work alone; no cops, no partner—particularly someone like Gibson here, whom I just met—and with much less bureaucracy. It will be impossible to close the information channels, but the fewer people involved the better.”