Gibson looked across the table. “I saved your life tonight.”
“I appreciate that, and no offense intended, Luke, but it changes nothing. We are not a team.”
Atkins stopped them. “With no backup, you’ll be a sitting duck for Nicky Marks. It’s an order, Kyle. You and Luke work it out. And you have to be debriefed by the GSG Nine people. It’s not exactly a secret that somebody threw a grenade in the middle of Berlin tonight. They’ll want answers.”
Swanson scratched an ear. “What’s happening is that we’re playing by rules being set by Nicky Marks. He tried to kill me twice and failed, because I was sloppy. If we throw a full deck of operators at him, he’ll just run away. If we don’t, then he’ll be emboldened to try again, whatever his reason. Next time, he loses. If you want me to be the lead on this, let me lead.”
“What do you think, Luke?”
“If Swanson wants to take that chance, fine by me. He’s hung up on the whole ‘partner’ thing, but that’s okay. I can be his backup and his single contact with the agency. He doesn’t want a high profile, so I can deal with the cops and the stuff he might need. After all, I’m the one who knows Marks best.”
“Done, then. You guys make it work. Let’s find out what’s making Nicky Marks tick.”
YUCATÁN, MEXICO
THE SNIPER COULD SMELL the green of the subtropical jungle of the Yucatán Peninsula. The playground of Cancún was on the toe of the north-facing boot, but outside the tourist haunts the ancient forests still ruled. An underlying stench of rotting vegetation was the predominant odor, and everything was so green the color was almost tangible. It was a palette that spread from bright harlequin to somber avocado, accented by the shadows of the sunlight that fell through the leaves in graceful lines and the long vines that crept around the jungle floor. The sniper’s clothing matched the tangled surroundings. A handmade Ghillie suit stuffed with twigs and leaves and vegetation belied any telltale sign that a human being was underneath it all. Even the skin of the rifle and the optics tube were camouflaged.
Perched among the curling roots of old trees, the shooter felt invisible to the target, Ramiro Delgado, who hadn’t even glanced toward the brush line in the past hour. He was too busy selling drugs and making money. The Mexican cops wouldn’t arrest an American for carrying or using a small amount of almost any drug, but a dealer wouldn’t be as lucky. A vehicle would come along the busy main road out of Cancún and turn left at the crossroad that led south toward El Naranjal, making two more turns onto roads even less traveled until it found Delgado’s mighty GMC Sierra pickup parked in a clearing.
The informant had said that young Ramiro was rich for his age because he operated an all-service drug emporium on wheels, complete with a sophisticated communications suite. He alerted his clientele of the day’s marketing location by Wi-Fi message. The informant was to be one of the day’s customers.
The drugs that Ramiro Delgado carried in the spacious truck bed would be dealt out on a cash basis, cut and resold on the streets of Cancún and Cozumel and up and down the Yucatán coast. Business had been brisk. The sniper waited, not wanting to attract attention by having to contend with collateral damage. Not that killing two dealers instead of one mattered. It’s just that it was an unnecessary complication.
The slender Delgado spoke with the latest arrival at his truck, as he carefully counted through the wad of U.S. bills, then stuffed it in his pocket and walked to the back of the truck to pull out two cardboard boxes. He sliced one open with a knife and handed a small plastic bag—a bolsita—of cocaine to the buyer, who also took out a knife and opened the baggie.
The customer liked what he tasted and stuffed the tiny bag into a shirt pocket, gave his supplier a fist bump for luck, took both boxes, and drove away. Ramiro had cut the coke earlier, and the contents would be diluted even further in a final bit of processing before being peddled at a price of about half a gram for ten U.S. dollars. By then, the product had been reduced to a point that bore little resemblance to the original pure syrup but still packed a powerful kick.
It made no difference to the sniper. Heroin, syringes, cocaine were all part of the drug food chain that would slake the thirsts of partying tourists and Mexicans alike, and maybe even reach up into Texas and farther north, with the price escalating at every step. What was ridiculously cheap for an American tourist in Mexico would be borderline expensive in Connecticut.
The sniper watched him go, then returned the scope to young Mr. Delgado. How old? About twenty-one? Not even shaving yet. Fuck him.
The wind was quiet as the sniper made the final adjustments on the Leupold Mark 4 scope, the distance exactly lasered, and it was time to shoot. Delgado made a note on a little pad, put the money in a safe beneath the front seat, then started punching information into his computer to summon his next customer. He sat very still in the front seat, concentrating on his work.
The sniper inhaled a soft breath, keeping things calm, let it escape, and barely felt the tightness of the trigger as it began to depress, ever so slowly, until it tripped and the M110 rifle fired, its bark reduced thirty percent by the stainless-steel suppressor on the end of the barrel. Even so, creatures were surprised and began their flights and chatter even as the 7.62×51-mm. round took Delgado in the left side, pulping the heart and spinning around the rib cage when it crunched bone. The body spilled across the seat like Jell-O poured from a mold.
Elizabeth Ledford Castillo took an easy aim and shot a second time, the bullet going into the drug dealer’s butt and up the torso. One shot, one kill—and one more just for the hell of it. No arrest, no trial, no Judge Judy to arbitrate—no mercy for the little worm.
“Enough, señora. We must leave now,” said the former Mexican marine who had been her spotter for the job.
She wanted to rush the other way, across the clearing and to the body, where she could dip her fingers in the blood of Delgado and scrawl THIS IS FOR MICKEY on the truck. Instead, she nodded and began to slide backward out of the hide. “Yes.”
While the marine stood a cautious overwatch nearby, Coastie peeled out of the Ghillie rig and changed into a modest faded blue top, old jeans and boots, then pulled her blond hair back into a ponytail. She washed her face and hands and came back to the real world. It would not do for the grieving Señora Castillo to be seen as some sort of alien creature. She felt good, even a bit bouncy, as she cranked up the four-wheel-drive vehicle and headed off. Not bad for the first time out, she thought. A bit ragged, but not bad at all. The marine stayed behind to clean up the site.
AFGHANISTAN
THE DEMISE OF MAHFOUZ al-Rashidi, warlord of the Wakham Corridor, not only left a sizable hole in the ground but also threatened to disrupt the tattered nation’s largest industry: opium. Under normal circumstances, the eldest son would have stepped into the breach and kept the chain intact. With all four of the old man’s heirs also killed in the attack, things in the Wakham Corridor were in disarray.
The entire area was not the common desert color of brown. At this time of year, it was a shiny bright poppy pink. The fragile ecosystem and the semi-arid climate had created a landscape that was almost perfect for the cultivation of the drug, and far enough away from the war zones that farmers could till their crops in relative safety. The righteous al-Rashidi had turned a blind eye to the trade, for the growers had paid tribute to the warlord who kept them safe. He, in turn, shared the tax upwards with the current reigning power in the region, whether that was the United States, the Taliban, ISIS, the Chinese, the Pakistanis, or the government in faraway Kabul. Over the years, the policy had been mutually beneficial, as the opium trade soared in importance and outstripped the next most successful crops by a three-to-one ratio. Millions of dollars were made by the time the product reached the addicts on foreign streets. Farmers could not only survive; they could get rich.
Now it was springtime, the cold of winter warming to a gorgeous temperature, and as the snow melted in the mountains to spill into t
he rivers and feed the poppies, al-Rashidi was no longer at the rudder to steady his peculiar ship. Nature did not abhor a vacuum any more than did the flourishing opiate economy of Afghanistan, which furnished ninety percent of the entire world supply.
Qari Abdul Razaq shook his head in worry as he read the reports of a small unit of Taliban fighters that had investigated the attack in the Wakham. There was no doubt that the entire circle of adult males in the family had been wiped out, and the villagers of Girdiwal were already disorganized. Some farmers eyed the situation as an opportunity to settle old scores or grab new land for cultivation, or both. Opium money propped up the Taliban, and couldn’t be ignored.
“We have to make a new alliance,” Razaq said as he spread the two-page document on his desk. He wore clean robes, but his beard was long and ragged, in accordance with Taliban rules that forbade shaving. Razak was hundreds of miles away from the Wakham Corridor, seated in his neat and spacious office in Doha, Qatar, the tiny Gulf State oil boomtown that provided the Taliban with a diplomatic window to the world. Razaq was much closer to the Al Udeid Air Base than he was to the battlefields of his home country, where the U.S. military was still at war with the Taliban, and the ISIS usurpers. The American troops were run by the U.S. Central Command headquartered out at the Al Udeid base, not far from his front door. Qari Abdul Razaq had gone full circle. He had been part of the mujahideen delegation that visited President Ronald Reagan at the White House in 1983 to show solidarity against the Soviet invaders of Afghanistan. Then in 1989, when the Russians left, he chose to work in the Taliban rebellion, which did stupid things in the name of religious law. The 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers was carried out by Osama bin Laden and Al Qaeda, although the Taliban had granted them safe haven in the Afghan wilds. So the Americans came charging in, only to quickly spin away to invade Iraq and topple Saddam Hussein, then allow ISIS to grow in his place. In Afghanistan today, the U.S. and the Taliban were bitter enemies; in Doha, they were neighbors. It was an international house of mirrors.
“I agree,” responded the civilian-clothed army colonel who represented the Pakistani intelligence service. “And the sooner the better.”
They were speaking English for the convenience of the third man in the meeting, who asked, “And if we put a lid on it nothing changes?”
“Exactly,” answered Qari Abdul Razaq. “We will figure out the loyalties later, but right now we need to put a successor in there so as not to lose the whole crop. We will support him for a year and see how it goes.”
“Avoid a flash point,” said the colonel. His English had a clipped flavor to it, like that of many Pakistani military officers, a unique accent left over from the days of the British Raj and training at Sandhurst.
“Do you have somebody in mind, Qari?” the third man asked.
“Yes. He is a middle-aged mullah of the same village, and his eldest son is a rather shy fellow who would much prefer the safety of the Wakham Corridor with his family than continuing to fight a war in which he is certain to be killed. With our combined backing, they can pick up right where al-Rashidi left off.”
“That should settle things for a while. Let the poppies grow in peace for another season,” said the Pakistani.
“Yeah. All right.” The third man rose and straightened his blue suit. “Do it, and I’ll inform the Prince.”
The Taliban minister threw a verbal jab along with a polite smile. “We would not have this problem at all if your people had not killed al-Rashidi and his boys in the first place.”
“Fat chance. We’re not going to allow a new Osama bin Laden to rise. They shouldn’t have been mucking about with ideas of taking out the Houston oil complex and Hollywood with biochemical weapons.”
“Yes. We had our eyes on him from the start,” said the Taliban negotiator. “We also were not going to allow him or the boys to actually carry out a strike, but had to let them play at a doomsday catastrophe to keep them happy. After all, who gave you the human intelligence on the plan?”
“You did, my friend, indeed you did. In your debt on that.” He started toward the door. “And one last thing: I was never at this meeting.”
“Of course not,” Qari told his American friend from the Central Intelligence Agency. “Please give my humble regards to the Prince.”
6
BERLIN, GERMANY
LUKE GIBSON ARRIVED AT the Alexanderplatz Radisson Blu Hotel only to discover that Kyle Swanson had checked out and departed last night. No note had been left. There was no forwarding address. After wrapping up the grueling GSG 9 debriefing, they had agreed to meet for breakfast at nine o’clock, then hire a private car to take them out to the Berlin Tegel Airport for their Lufthansa flight to Washington. “Well,” Luke muttered to himself, standing in the lobby and staring blankly at the giant aquarium. “This sucks.”
He went to a little café nearby and took a table, gave the snotty waiter his order, then opened his phone. No message from Swanson. Where was he? Gibson called the local CIA. They had nothing other than that Swanson was due in Washington that afternoon via Lufthansa to Dulles. That ain’t gonna happen, Gibson mused, but didn’t say anything. He looked out over the broad avenue. It was a beautiful morning in Berlin, and even the abrupt service by the waiter couldn’t really put Gibson in a foul mood, because he was learning things.
Working with Kyle Swanson was going to be difficult if Swanson didn’t want him along. That was why Gibson hadn’t put up a fight over being dismissed as a partner. The fuckin’ super-sniper works alone. Okay, so be it. There would be less resistance when Swanson had to reach out for beans or bullets and Gibson would be there to help. It wasn’t as if Swanson had a lot of choice in the matter if he wanted to keep the operation secret. And in the background lurked the evil specter of Nicky Marks. Gibson willed himself to be patient, to ride it out. Good things would eventually happen.
Gibson bit into a monster of a Berliner, the mother of all doughnuts, and felt the sugar rush. Tourists wandered by, maps in hand. Gibson drank coffee, which perked him up even more. He should be mad at Marty Atkins, if anyone. The director of intelligence had turned to him for the premier assignments until Swanson came along. Nowadays, he was lucky to get a high-value job at all, and the new guy got the best assignments. There was no use trying to convince himself that Swanson wasn’t a great shooter, but Gibson doubted that the former marine was actually better overall at the job. For one thing, Gibson was younger, and trigger time wasn’t the only measurement. He believed Swanson had lost his edge, a victim of age who was pulling along the clanking debris of a long and difficult military life. Swanson was almost a dour old prisoner in a golden cage, while Gibson considered himself to be a free spirit who was current with the times and in his prime.
The bottom line was that Marty Atkins worshipped the guy. Gibson was number two. It was a hard place to find himself after being number one for so long. He finished his breakfast, flopped some bills on the table, and walked back to the hotel parking lot to retrieve the rental car. Like any good hunter, the sniper knew the secret was patience; he would just let Kyle Swanson come to him. Meanwhile, where the hell was he?
ABOARD THE EUROSTAR
SWANSON WAS HALFWAY TO London, relaxed in a premier seat aboard the Eurostar train that was dashing beneath the English Channel. He had left the Radisson Blu and caught the 10:14 PM City Night Line overnight sleeper to Paris. The train rocked him to sleep in a deluxe cabin, and less than fourteen hours later he was transferring to the Eurostar for London, and enjoying un petit déjeuner of strong coffee and a warm croissant. He wasn’t hiding, exactly, but he also hadn’t told anyone where he was heading. No use in advertising his whereabouts unnecessarily.
After reading a newspaper, Swanson plugged in his laptop, hooked up to the train’s onboard Wi-Fi, and from that to a private server, to send a text message to Beth Ledford. France was seven hours ahead of Mexico, so it was midnight for her. The Skype app remained off because he didn’t want to be overheard, a
nd she probably wouldn’t want to be seen.
You awake? If not, call me first thing in the morning.
He hit the Send key and waited. There was a ping of response as Coastie came online, and they slid into a silent conversation.
Hi. I’m still up. Can’t sleep hardly at all. U kno?
I know. Where are you?
At Mickey’s cousin on the Yuc Peninsula. Secure. Mama C is still hurting, but will pull thru. Where u?
In Europe on business. I wanted to check on you. Remember that job offer?
Sure. Sounds good. I’m not quite ready to come up yet. Tying up some loose ends down here. It is hard, Kyle … I miss Mick so much. Cry a lot. I’m still training, tho.
Natural to cry. You’re just about where you’re supposed to be in the grieving process, Coastie. Staying busy will help. I want to move up your timetable. Things have changed.
????
I need a bodyguard. Can’t give details by text.
WTF?!?
Same guy from the funeral tried again in Berlin. Situation urgent. Please get up to Washington SAP. Excalibur pays well.
OK. Just a few more days here.
Good. See you in Washington. Tnx and bye. Get sleep.
Swanson closed the laptop with a sense of quiet satisfaction as the train rushed through the Chunnel on its two-hour-and-fifteen-minute journey. The iPod music fed a playlist through the earbuds and helped him calm his mind.
He thought about Luke Gibson, how he seemed to be a nice guy and how he was obviously good, or else Marty Atkins wouldn’t be using him. And he had proved his fast reflexes in the grenade attack. Swanson was already ducking away when the device was thrown, but Gibson had moved even faster. Age? So, yes, maybe they could work together, as long as Swanson got to make the decisions.
In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel Page 5
