In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  KYLE AND COASTIE ARRIVED at the waterfront seafood restaurant first, a small and dark place with about a dozen tables spread with white linen, a long bar that had a stripe of ice down the middle of the granite to keep drinks cold, subdued lighting, and dark walls. Kyle was glad to find that it didn’t have loading nets and fishing buoys and anchors on the walls. It was the pricey kind of place favored by local VIPs whose hot wheels were babied by valet parkers. Tourists preferred the lower-end crab shacks.

  Coastie wore a formfitting but modest dark dress, with a matching shawl across her shoulders, high on her neck, and minimal makeup. Her diamond wedding ring was still prominent on the third finger, left hand, and a small Beretta .380 semiautomatic nested in her purse. She ordered a glass of Merlot, and Kyle had a scotch when the server in a clean white apron greeted them. The reservation had been made for four people, so he didn’t rush them, although he leaned in to light a short candle in the middle of the table. “I had just as soon stayed at home. I feel out of place here,” Coastie said.

  “I need you to meet Janna and Lucky on neutral ground. Plus, the food here is probably better than Chinese takeout, and I can’t have you just moping around like you were probably doing in Mexico.” Kyle unbuttoned his coat and adjusted the pistol on his hip. His eyes had acclimated to the light, and he looked around as the drinks were served.

  “Would you like to see the wine list now, sir?”

  “I’m thinking a bottle of champagne with dinner, so you can chill one up. You choose a nice vintage. Our friends will be here shortly.”

  “Very good, sir,” the waiter said, and disappeared. The man hadn’t mentioned price. That usually meant a good tip was on the way.

  Beth sipped the purple wine and sat the glass down carefully. “Janna is with Excalibur and Lucky is FBI, right?”

  “Yeah. She’s a piece of work, just like you. She was Lucky’s partner and a really good special agent when I stole her. Lucky was an eight-year-old kid in Mogadishu when I was in Somalia, way back in the day. I sort of adopted him and his grandmother, and got them to the U.S. They settled in Minneapolis, and he made a name for himself playing basketball, excelled in college, and then again with the FBI.”

  “How will I recognize them? I’m nervous about this.”

  “Trust me. That will not be a problem. Did you have a good workout?”

  That brought a smile to the glum face. “Three-mile run. Met up with that personal trainer you arranged at the gym, and she ground me down to get an analysis and set a program to ‘build up my core’—whatever that means. When can I start shooting?”

  “Soon. Ah!” Kyle looked toward the entrance as Janna stepped inside.

  “My God, she’s gorgeous. And big!”

  Janna was dressed in a creamy silk blouse, a long black skirt slit on the side to show maximum leg, and black leather boots with heels. Over her shoulder was slung a bag large enough to carry a cannon, which it did, an M-1911 .45-caliber Colt. Janna didn’t like small pistols. She waved and whispered to Lucky, who stepped beside her. “My God, she’s tiny! And Kyle wasn’t kidding about her beauty. Look at those cheekbones.”

  Lucky Sharif was as dark as his wife was pale, and moved with a quiet sense of total confidence. As they walked to the table, they both swept the place with steely gazes—Janna doing the right side and Lucky doing the left. No threats. Kyle made the introductions, and Coastie extended her small pale hand to welcome them.

  The waiter hurried over with the champagne bucket, uncorked the bottle, and poured generous glasses for them all. It took about thirty seconds for Janna and Beth to decide to become friends.

  “I’m so sorry about the death of your husband,” Janna said, with her palm on Beth’s forearm. “It was a terrible thing.”

  Coastie looked down. She hadn’t expected to find a real friend, and tears welled in her eyes. She dabbed them away. “Thank you. It has been hard to handle.”

  “Then to absent friends and Colonel Francisco Miguel Castillo.” Lucky raised his glass in the traditional toast, and they clinked glasses. He didn’t ask for information because he had already been briefed on the incident. A real shit sandwich.

  “Hey, look,” said Lucky, holding up his forearm and grinning. “My rich wife bought me a new watch this afternoon. Claims that her petty tyrant of a boss gave her a promotion.” He twisted the wrist so the Rolex caught the light.

  Kyle said, “Another toast, then. To Janna, the new vice president of Excalibur Enterprises.” Glasses clinked again, and the mood lifted. He noticed a new gold-link necklace at Janna’s throat.

  The waiter swept by and distributed menus, and by the second glass of champagne the food began to arrive: oysters and scallops and the best the Chesapeake Bay had to offer. Beth was feeling better, knowing that these three people were totally on her side. They all wore plastic bibs to catch the squirts and splashes of shellfish being dismembered. Laughs erupted, and when it was done the tone changed; coffee replaced wine, and Kyle got down to business.

  “I leave for Afghanistan tomorrow, gang, which is the other reason for this meeting. What we say here does not go beyond this table. There’s a rogue agent, name of Nicky Marks, on the loose, and I’m going to find him.”

  “The guy from Mexico?” Coastie was all attention. “Let me go with you.”

  “Let me finish this, Coastie. I’m being partnered with a veteran CIA guy named Luke Gibson, who was with me in Berlin when the same dude threw a grenade at us. He knows the bad guy, and we’ll track him down.”

  “So? Seems like a pretty straightforward deal now that you know who you’re hunting,” said Lucky, leaning back and listening carefully. “I know the FBI already has Marks as a high priority over here. He won’t last long.”

  Kyle poured himself some more coffee. “That’s not why we’re here. It’s my partner, Gibson. I don’t really know him at all, other than what the agency has revealed, which isn’t much. Marty Atkins swears he’s a top gun, and I’m supposed to take that for granted. I don’t. I can’t.”

  The other three caught it. “You want us to do an independent background check?” Janna asked.

  “You got it. Everything from when and where he was born up to today. Don’t trust the CIA brief. Lucky, there might be a terrorist angle in this before all is said and done, so you can clear it with your boss to do a bit of independent fieldwork. Go see his parents’ headstones, check paper records, follow him as a kid. I want to know everything. The agency thinks highly of him, and I want to believe that. In fact, I really have no reason to think otherwise. Janna, you coordinate things and get one of our trusted computer guys on it.”

  “What about me?” said Coastie softly.

  “You’re not ready. But some news on that front, too. Our buddy Orville Oliver Dawkins is retired from the Marine Corps, but you know he can’t sit still.”

  “I’m going to work with Double-Oh?” Beth felt a tingle of excitement. The former marine master gunnery sergeant had been her mentor in Task Force Trident.

  “He’s up in Vermont, running a camp for veterans dealing with PTSD and drugs. He’ll help whip you into shape again. I want you to be my partner as soon as possible, Coastie. But right now you can help most by hanging with Double-Oh. Let him make the call on when you’re ready. The personal trainer can wait until you get back here. Deal?”

  “Oh, yeah.” For the first time that evening, she actually smiled with genuine joy.

  * * *

  THEY LEFT THE RESTAURANT together, and a pleasant wind along the waterfront closed around them with a smell of brine. This was no war zone but a stretch of the big city that had been renovated, gentrified, commercialized, and made safe over the years. Heavy crime remained on the far side of North Street, a planet away from the showcase extending from Harborplace to Fells Point.

  Plenty of foot traffic roamed the area as Lucky and Kyle handed the valets the tickets to have the cars brought around. Girlish trills of laughter erup
ted from a clutch of teenagers taking selfies in odd contortions. Couples strolled the boulevard, lost in each other’s presence. A panhandler in droopy khaki pants, who hadn’t yet been moved out by security, approached them, shouting, “Hey, can you lend me twenty dollars for a hotel room?”

  The four friends didn’t respond. The whiskered man moved a few steps closer, and Lucky growled, “Get lost. Nothing for you here.”

  The man stopped and lit a cigarette, and the nicotine cloud joined the other smells. Urine. Beer. Grime. He gawked at them. “Rich bastards,” he squawked. “Gimme those wallets!” Then he made the move—an energetic dash that belied his original appearance—and dug into his jacket pocket.

  Janna had her .45 out in a heartbeat, and backhanded the bum hard across the face, sending him sprawling on the gray concrete with a broken nose. When the attacker’s eyes cleared, he got to his knees and was kicked in the ribs by Lucky. After catching his breath, he looked up to see four people standing around him, all pointing guns at his head. Both men were showing badges. His own gun had been scooped up by Snow White.

  “Man. Man. Guys! Hold on. Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.” He put his hands behind his head, fingers interlocked, and in a moment steel handcuffs bit into his wrists. The guns were put away, although the little woman seemed disappointed that she hadn’t pulled the trigger.

  The valets had brought out the cars and were standing beside the doors, gawking at the scene. People who dined at the restaurant normally didn’t carry an arsenal of weaponry when they sat down for a meal. Lucky showed his FBI badge. “No problem, boys. Just a drunk. I’m going to drop him at the cop shop.”

  Kyle shoved the man into the back of the silver Lexus and slid in beside him. Lucky got behind the wheel. Janna and Coastie would follow in the Beemer. As the cars moved out, the man was wishing that the cops had shown up. In less than a minute, he had gone from being in control of an easy mugging to being hog-tied in a car with two very unhappy campers.

  Kyle ran his hands through the man’s pockets, unbuckled his belt and tore open the waistband, snatched off his shoes and threw them out the window. “Hey!” the man protested, and caught an elbow in the mouth.

  “Who are you, and what were you doing?” Kyle gave a painful finger jab into the appendix

  “Man. Stop it, okay? Just stop it. I want a lawyer.”

  “Don’t blame you for that, but it ain’t going to happen.” Kyle ripped open the dirty shirt to expose a hairy chest. No wallet. No cell phone. No wire. No listening devices. No dope and no needle tracks. “You’re neither a drunk nor a druggie. Good watch, reading glasses, clean fingernails, key ring with a Mazda entry fob, and a wedding ring. You’re a player, asshole.”

  The face changed. He said nothing, and struggled against the cuffs. An effort to raise his feet and kick at the driver stopped when Kyle nailed him with a hard bash into his balls.

  “Do something like that again and I’ll put a bullet in your stomach, understand? Now, who the fuck are you, dumbass?”

  “Richard Dale. Private detective.” The captive closed his eyes and leaned his head back, recognizing that his situation was hopeless unless he gave up everything he knew. Escape was not an option. “Your name is Swanson, right? I’ve been following you for two days. Took pictures, that was all.”

  Kyle caught Lucky’s eyes in the rearview and saw the slight shake of the head. “You had a gun. You were going to shoot me.”

  Dale gurgled a laugh. “It ain’t even loaded, man. My client said just to wave it around, like, scare you. Said you would get pissed off but not take me down because you’re a pro. Now, that Snow Queen—didn’t count on her. And the little one was about to cool me out until you stopped her. You guys date weird women.”

  In the front seat, Lucky got Janna on speed dial and asked her if the weapon she had taken was loaded. “No bullets,” he told Kyle.

  They were well away from the waterfront, heading north into the darkness. “You from around here, Dale?” Kyle said.

  “Jersey,” he replied. “Trenton.”

  “Then you might have figured out that we’re heading out on the Delmarva Peninsula, where there are miles and miles of coastline. Many a body has been found out in those rugged dunes. Who’s the client, Dale?”

  “He calls himself Prince—that’s all I know. He pays cash in hundreds, in advance. Baseball cap, sunglasses. No remarkable features. Looks like a million other dudes. I figured you might be screwing his wife or something personal like that. You know, take the pictures and put a scare into you. Routine stuff.”

  Kyle paused and thought it over. “Dale, have you ever heard of a guy by the name of Nicky Marks?”

  The PI shook his head. “Never. Who’s he?”

  “Never mind. Lucky, pull over and let this asshole out.” Kyle unfolded a knife and slit the leather belt. They got him out of the car in the brightness of the headlights from the trailing BMW and made him hobble into the roadside ditch. The pants fell around his feet, which were bare. The handcuffs came off.

  “Don’t kill me, man.” He rubbed his wrists. “C’mon. I don’t know how to contact Mr. Prince. He said he would know what happened because he would be watching tonight. I didn’t see him. Dude, he may have been there!”

  “You get to go home tonight, Mr. Dale,” Lucky said. “It is a onetime pass. You stepped into a probable terrorist operation, so Big Brother is going to be watching you from now on. If you report this, your next address will be some cave jail in Africa. Understood?”

  “Yuh. Got it, man. Thanks.”

  Kyle’s cell phone chimed before he got back into the Lexus. Luke Gibson’s name flashed on the call screen. The voice was neither calm nor excited, just a bit out of breath. “Kyle, watch your ass tonight, pal. Somebody just took a shot at me.”

  11

  THE WAKHAM CORRIDOR

  AFGHANISTAN

  THE PAMIR MOUNTAINS AROUND the crossroads town of Girdiwal were pocked with caves, some little more than a few rocks leaning together and others deep and wide. Earthquakes rearranged them from time to time, but, as the Taliban had discovered, they were solid structures that were hidden from the prying eyes of Western satellites. Even if the space birds could somehow see inside, their nations apparently had no interest in doing anything. Anything or anyone could be in those deep holes. The Prince owned a few.

  Mohammed Azad, the opium broker, had purchased the crop of gum from Farida Mashaal, packed it with other such harvests until he had a full caravan of plodding, sure-footed mules, and sent it up the scant trails that laced the gray-brown mountains for processing.

  A chemical stench permeated the destination, which was the entrance to one of the largest caverns. Despite expensive air purifiers and ventilation, it was still a cave. Workers inside kept their masks on tight, wore white bio-suits and goggles beneath the artificial light. They worked only short shifts in the stifling and dangerous odor of calcium hydroxide, acetic anhydride, ammonium chloride, ether, and other volatile chemicals. No matter that many of them couldn’t read, lived in homes without electricity or running water—they cooked and stirred and strained and distilled and performed a miracle every day.

  The raw opium paste became morphine, then it was stepped up to low-grade heroin, and, finally, to brown heroin that was ninety percent pure. The final processing stamped it into bricks that each weighed one kilogram, or 2.2 pounds. The product was ready for sale and consumption, and began its trek to the markets of Europe, Russia, China, and America, once again aboard the backs of the mule train, one treacherous step at a time.

  The winded donkeys would finally plod into a receiving chute to be unloaded, and the heroin was prepared for onward shipment in secure warehouses at the end of a small dirt airstrip. Donkeys were good, but they couldn’t fly, and the Prince had long ago arranged the construction of the critical supply port. Unlike the superlab in the cave, the airstrip wasn’t a secret but nonaligned ground where various interests could be accommodated. Everybody used i
t for their own purposes. Planes brought in chemicals and took out dope. They flew in weaponry and took out dope. Special operators, intelligence agents of various nationalities, back-channel diplomats came in, and the planes flew out dope. They brought in cash, and brought out even more drugs. On all fronts, quality increased and prices fell and global dependency grew.

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  THE UNBLINKING STATUE OF Thomas Jefferson didn’t preside this time when CIA Director of Intelligence Martin Atkins met Kyle Swanson and Luke Gibson in the middle of the night. The lights burned bright in the headquarters building, and security had been heightened after the pair of agents had been tapped on the shoulder by a new person in the game, someone known only as the Prince. By this time, they wouldn’t even have trusted Mr. Jefferson.

  “Are we suspecting the Saudis now, or one of the royal houses in the Middle East? They have more princes over there than camels.” Swanson leaned back against a table with his arms crossed.

  Atkins had signaled his own frustration by rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt. “God only knows, Kyle. We’re playing the hand we’ve been dealt—Nicky Marks—and now the game has expanded. Luke, you need some aspirin or something?”

  Gibson shook his head. “I’m good. Why would this Prince character do something as stupid as sending a street punk to frighten me? What the fuck is he playing at? Nicky was my recruit, true, and we partnered up a few times, but I took good care of him. Why is this crap washing up on my doorstep?”

  Gibson had begun the meeting by describing how he had been running his miles out on the Mall after dark when a skinny kid stepped from between the parked cars only about twenty feet away. The guy was a punk, with a baseball cap turned to one side, a wool hoodie in April, and too large jeans that showed six inches of undershorts. He popped a shot at Gibson, missing by a good distance and pinging a tan Nissan sedan instead. Since Gibson already had momentum, he covered the gap between them before the shooter could adjust his aim. The boy took off in an attempt at escape, but his baggy pants made running impossible. Gibson tackled him three steps later. “Just a piece of junk .25-cal six-shooter. I leaned him against a tire and applied a little enhanced interrogation encouragement until he said some white dude with red hair paid him a hundred bucks to scare me, but not to kill me. He was also to tell me that the Prince was watching. I took the gun, broke his trigger finger, and told him to get lost in a hurry. No police report.”