Ghost Sniper

by Scott McEwen

  “Again?”

  Mendoza smiled his crooked smile once more.

  “You made me piss myself!”

  “I had to make sure you didn’t do anything else stupid before I could figure out how to save your worthless life.”

  “So what the fuck do we do now? I’ve got a bullet in my arm, and it’s going to need attention soon.”

  “Right now the PFM is asking the CIA for permission to use you.”

  “I don’t work for the C-I-fucking-A either!” Vaught flared in English.

  Mendoza had a hatchet face, bushy eyebrows, and a protruding Adam’s apple. “We’ll soon see who you work for, my friend.”

  “Fuck this!” Vaught said, again in English, getting up weakly from the table. Mendoza took up the stun gun and zapped him in the thigh to send him toppling to the floor.

  Vaught grabbed his leg. “Oh, you fuckin’ cocksucker!”

  Mendoza sat laughing in the chair. “You owe me a life, my friend. So now we’re going to wait until my superiors talk to the CIA.”

  “You motherfuckin’ cocksucker,” Vaught muttered, digging the can of Copenhagen from his pocket and putting a dip into his lip. “You just wait!”

  3

  MALBUN SKI VILLAGE, LIECHTENSTEIN

  16:10 HOURS

  Wearing a camouflage snow parka, Gil Shannon lay well ensconced within a copse of tall pines halfway down one of the most challenging ski runs in the mountains above the village of Malbun, a .308 Remington modular sniper rifle pulled into his shoulder as he eyed his target: a man dressed in a yellow ski jacket and green pants. He and his blond fiancée were flanked by five security men, all of whom had pulled to the side of the run for a breather. A heavy snow had begun to fall over the past few minutes, and with the coming of late afternoon, Gil knew this would be the group’s last run of the day. If he didn’t take the shot now, it would mean spending a fourth night in the Malbun ski lodge.

  Landlocked between Switzerland and Austria, the small country of Liechtenstein covered only sixty-two square miles and was the only nation located entirely in the Alps. Traveling on a Canadian passport, Gil had spent the last three days stalking Sabastian Blickens­derfer, a forty-year-old Swiss banker on holiday with his wife-to-be.

  CIA Director Robert Pope had targeted Blickensderfer for termination because of his financial ties to the Islamic terrorist organization Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP). Blickensderfer’s money-laundering operations were well known to the CIA. However, the US and British governments considered him untouchable due to his close financial and familial ties within the Swiss government, which viewed Blickensderfer’s illicit business affairs as inconsequential: if Blickensderfer didn’t launder AQAP money, someone else would, and at least the millionaire businessman was able to provide useful intelligence on the movements of certain Islamic clerics. This was enough to keep Western intelligence agencies such as the CIA and MI6 from filing serious grievances.

  There were more and more profiteers like Blickensderfer operating in and around Europe, and Pope understood the important role they played. He also understood that if they began turning up dead, others would take notice and be forced to think twice about doing business with Islamic fundamentalists. As the world stood at present, there was one rubric for the ruling elite and another for the bottom 99 percent. Pope regarded these hypocrisies and double standards as anathema, and his aim was to change the dangerous paradigm from within.

  Gil’s aim was to destroy whomever Pope put in front of him. At present, that person was Sabastian Blickensderfer. He’d read the corrupt banker’s dossier and agreed the man was in need of removal. For Gil, the mathematics were simple enough: Blickensderfer was making it easier for AQAP to carry out terrorist operations. AQAP was responsible for the 2012 attack on the American mission in Benghazi, Libya. Former Navy SEALs had been killed in Benghazi. And if Sabastian Blickensderfer didn’t mind helping to kill Navy SEALs, Gil Shannon sure as hell didn’t mind killing Sebastian Blickensderfer.

  Of course, Gil knew that Pope’s future targets might not always be quite so easily sorted out, but the Swiss banker was a good place to start. If Pope ever targeted anyone Gil didn’t agree needed to be removed, he would simply take a pass.

  As he eyed Blickensderfer through the scope at a hundred yards, he watched the man laughing and handing a flask to one of his security men whom Gil knew—from seeing around the lodge over the past few nights—to be carrying a Beretta pistol beneath his jacket.

  At last, after three long days of stalking his prey on the snowy mountain, the moment came right. The air was still, and the snow fell straight down all across the slope. Gil placed the reticule on Blickensderfer’s sternum over his heart and began to squeeze the trigger.

  Inexplicably, Blickensderfer’s fianceé lunged forward into the sight picture just as the trigger was passing the point of no return. Gil twitched as the rifle went off, and the .308 Lapua magnum blasted almost silently from the end of the suppresser at more than 2,500 feet per second. His heart stopped as he watched, waiting for the woman’s head to explode. It did not. He saw her blond hair kick up at the nape of her neck as the round passed through it, soundlessly impacting the white powder thirty feet beyond.

  The woman brushed absentmindedly at the back of her neck and pulled her ski poles from the snow with a laugh. Apparently she had lost her balance and nearly toppled off her skis.

  Gil rolled behind the trunk of a pine and pulled the white watch cap from his close-cropped head, breathing a deep sigh of relief. He had very nearly murdered an innocent woman.

  He lay there with large snowflakes landing silently on his face in the quiet surroundings. He stroked his stubbled chin and tried to recall his estranged wife’s face. Montana seemed very far away as he dug the cigarettes from his parka and lit one with a Zippo lighter. He knew that Pope could not have been watching via satellite due to the cloud cover, but that was a moot point. Gil was on his own for these off-the-books missions, which meant no overwatch.

  Still, he told himself, you never knew what Pope was up to.

  As the Blickensderfer party skied off down the mountain, Gil finished the cigarette, knowing he’d see them around the lodge again that night. “Fare thee well,” he muttered, thinking of the pretty woman who had no idea that a hot .308 had passed within two inches of her spine at the base of her skull. “And enjoy yourself tonight, Sabastian. I won’t make the same mistake tomorrow.”

  Tucking the cigarette butt into his pocket, he disassembled the rifle and packed it away before taking off his reversible parka and turning the red side out. Then he stripped the white pack cover from his red rucksack and skied off down the slope dressed as a begoggled member of the Malbun Ski Patrol.

  4

  CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  13:00 HOURS

  Cletus Webb, deputy director of the CIA, stepped out of the restroom in the CIA building in Langley to find Mark Gurich, director of foreign operations, standing against the wall waiting for him. Webb glanced at the red file folder in the man’s hand. “I take it that’s for me?” he said, put off to be ambushed outside the john.

  “I couldn’t find you,” Gurich said. “The proverbial shit just hit the fan down in Mexico. Alice Downly and Bill Louis were assassinated in what looks like a major cartel attack. Damn near her entire DSS team was wiped out. Our embassy’s on full lockdown—marines, machine guns, all the frills—and Mike Ortega, Mexico chief of station, is asking me for an Operational Immediate I don’t think I’ve got the authority to give him.”

  A crease formed in Webb’s brow. “You’re telling me Downly’s dead?”

  “That’s been confirmed by Mexico station.”

  “What the hell happened?” Webb was tall, with a basketball player’s build, thinning blond hair, and contemplative blue eyes.

  “Mexico station says it looks like she was kille
d by a sniper, but that hasn’t been confirmed.”

  “You’re the director of foreign operations.” Webb grabbed the file. “What do you mean you don’t have the authority to give an Operational Immediate? What the hell is Ortega asking for, a drone strike?”

  “Not exactly.” Gurich, a foot shorter than Webb, had darker features, brown eyes, and a prep school haircut.

  Webb spent the next couple of minutes standing there in the hall outside the restroom, reading.

  “As far as I know,” Gurich remarked, “nobody’s done anything like this since the Cold War, and I didn’t think I’d better give it the green light without first getting your approval.”

  Webb did not look up from the file. “Have you spoken with DSS?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So Agent Vaught’s people don’t know whether he’s alive or dead?”

  “Correct.”

  Webb finished reading the five-page affidavit and handed the folder back to Gurich. “Give it to Fields.”

  Gurich’s eyebrows went up. “Isn’t this a little public for him?”

  “Give it to Fields,” Webb repeated. “This Vaught character went off the reservation when he damn well knew better. He’s lucky he’s alive, especially since virtually everyone he was responsible for is dead. Give it to Fields. I’ll clear it with Director Pope.”

  “What do I tell Mexico station? The DSS?”

  “You tell Ortega to remain poised to assist whatever assets Fields puts into play, and you tell DSS that Agent Vaught is now under the aegis of the CIA in accordance with recent amendments to the Foreign Service Act. I’ll brief them personally after I’ve spoken with Pope. As long as we’re keeping DSS in the loop, they’re not going to raise any hell over it. Vaught’s little cowboy stunt in the face of his failure to protect Alice Downly isn’t exactly going to endear him to the director general of the US Foreign Service.”

  Like most agents with the Diplomatic Security Service, Agent Vaught was also a member of the Foreign Service, which in turn fell under the protective wing of the US State Department. This meant that Vaught was both a federal law enforcement agent and an arbiter of US Foreign Policy, and for an arbiter of US Foreign Policy to go chasing bad guys through the streets of a foreign capital—beyond the legal scope of his diplomatic duties—was a real good way to embarrass both the US Foreign Service and the US State Department.

  “So I take it to Fields, and then what?”

  “Tell him I said the ball’s in his court. He’ll handle it from there.”

  THREE MINUTES LATER, Gurich stepped into the office of Clemson Fields. There was no name or title on the door.

  Nancy Proust, Fields’s secretary, looked up from her desk. “Hello, Mr. Gurich. How can I help you?” She was a matronly woman in her forties. Her dark hair was cut in an angled bob. She never wore makeup, and Gurich had never seen her dressed in any color other than black.

  “Is he in?”

  She picked up the phone. “Mr. Fields, Mr. Gurich is here to see you.” She put the phone back down. “He said to go right in, Mr. Gurich.”

  Gurich thanked her and crossed into Fields’s inner sanctum to find the mysterious CIA analyst (his official job description) sitting at his desk, reading the Washington Post.

  Clemson Fields was a medium-size man in his early sixties, dressed in chino slacks, a button-up short-sleeve shirt, and a subdued tie. He was balding from front to back and wore a pair of round wire-rimmed glasses. He folded away the paper and stood up to shake Gurich’s hand. “I assume this has to do with Mexico City?”

  “You’ve heard?”

  “Just.” Fields put out his hand for the red file folder.

  “Did the DDO already call you?”

  Fields shook his head and smiled. “Red is the only color anyone ever brings me.”

  Gurich gave him the folder. “Webb said to tell you the ball’s in your court.”

  “Of course.” Fields took it and sat down to read, saying, “Thank you, Mr. Gurich,” in what was obviously a dismissal.

  Gurich eyed him for a moment and then left the office.

  Two minutes later, Fields finished reading the affidavit and set it aside to reach for the phone. He dialed a number and waited for someone to answer.

  “This is Clemson,” he said. “I assume you’ve heard the news by now?”

  “About what?” asked the man at the other end.

  “Alice Downly was assassinated right there in Mexico City—less than two hours ago.”

  “Who the fuck is Alice Downly?”

  5

  MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

  14:25 HOURS

  Daniel Crosswhite hung up the phone after talking to Fields and went back into the bedroom, where his twenty-one-year-old wife, Paolina, lay in bed. They had finished making love only a couple of minutes before the phone rang.

  “Who was it?” she asked in Spanish. She spoke no English.

  “The devil’s little brother.” He rolled his eyes and took a soft pack of Camels from the edge of the dresser. “Don’t look at me like that. We knew one of Pope’s men would call sooner or later. Today’s the day, that’s all.”

  Crosswhite was a former Delta Force operator and Medal of Honor winner. He had returned to the US after multiple tours in Afghanistan to take up a life of crime as a vigilante but had gotten himself caught. Only the intervention of Robert Pope of the CIA and Navy SEAL Gil Shannon had saved him from life in prison.

  Paolina lay on her side in the midday heat and caressed her growing belly, which was just beginning to show. She was a Cuban national, but CIA Director Pope had pulled some strings for her and Crosswhite, enabling them to move to Mexico City, along with Paolina’s three-year-old daughter, who was taking a nap in the next room.

  “Who is Pope sending you to kill?”

  Crosswhite smiled. “Nobody.”

  She rolled onto her back and propped herself up on a couple of pillows. Paolina was five feet tall, slender, with dark skin, soft brown eyes, and long black hair full of tight curls. “I don’t trust him. He helped us move here only to use you as an assassin against the ­cartels.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through her hair. “I made a deal, corazón.” He caressed her breast and got to his feet. “I have to get dressed and go. You remember everything we’ve talked about, right?”

  “Yes. I want to know what’s going on before you leave.”

  “One of the cartels assassinated the US ambassador and some American woman a couple hours ago.” Crosswhite snatched a pair of jeans from the back of a chair. “I have to bring in a wounded DSS agent who can’t be seen at the embassy. He’s shot in the arm, so make a spot in the kitchen. It sounds like I’ll have to remove the bullet and sew him up.”

  “DSS?”

  “Diplomatic Security Service.” He crushed out the smoke in the ashtray on the dresser. “Hand me my socks, baby. Have you seen my boots?”

  “Under the bed.”

  USING THE GPS in his Jeep Rubicon’s console, Crosswhite found the building that Fields had given him the address for about seven miles from his house. He and Paolina lived in a nice neighborhood where there were a lot of Canadians, so he didn’t stick out, and all of their neighbors knew that Paolina was Cuban, so no one suspected he was CIA. Most everyone was under the assumption he was a retired American GI living on a government pension.

  He took out his phone and called the number Fields had given him.

  “Bueno?” answered a Mexican voice.

  “Soy Crosswhite. Estoy aqui.” It’s Crosswhite. I’m here.

  A door opened, and Mendoza waved for him to come inside. Crosswhite did not generally move around armed because getting caught with a gun in Mexico meant many years in prison, so unless he was sure there was going to be big trouble, he chose to rely on his fists, much preferri
ng death over incarceration.

  He locked the Jeep and stole inside the building. The smell of death and burnt powder flashed him back to combat, and his internal systems came online. The hair raised up on the back of his neck. Mendoza smiled, turning to lead him down the hall to a room full of dead bodies and one very pissed off Chance Vaught, who sat in a chair, handcuffed to a steel doorknob.

  “Why is he handcuffed?” Crosswhite asked in Spanish, glancing around at the dead cartel members. “Is this your work?”

  Mendoza nodded.

  “I’m handcuffed because he’s a fuckin’ bastard,” Vaught said in English.

  Mendoza explained that he’d needed to take a dump and couldn’t trust Vaught not to leave. Afterward, it had been easier to leave the increasingly mouthy American handcuffed to the door.

  Crosswhite looked at him. “You ready to go, champ?”

  “Go where?”

  “I got you a room at the fuckin’ Hilton. You ready or not?”

  Vaught looked sullenly at the floor. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  NINETY MINUTES LATER, Vaught sat in a chair in Crosswhite’s kitchen, flexing his wounded arm, examining the suture work. “It’s not exactly straight.”

  “Well, this ain’t exactly a triage unit.” Crosswhite snapped off a pair of rubber gloves. “And I’m not exactly a medic.”

  Paolina sat staring at Vaught from across the table, her gaze flat and reproving. She wanted him out of her house but knew they were stuck with him unless and until Pope’s man Fields found someplace else for him to hide out.

  Vaught smiled, asking Paolina her name in Spanish. “Como se llama?”

  “Paolina,” she said, not overly friendly. She glanced at Crosswhite.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Chance. I appreciate you welcoming me into your home like this.”

  “If it were up to me,” she said, getting up from the table, “you wouldn’t be here.” She caressed Crosswhite’s arm where he carried a scar identical to the one Vaught would now carry in almost exactly the same spot. “I’m going to buy food,” she told him. “I’ll be back soon.”