by Scott McEwen
They’d found their true calling as policemen, and had managed to serve throughout their careers without ever taking a single bribe, always watching each other’s back whenever fellow police officers tried pressuring them into corruption. They had faith in Mexico and its future.
Juan Guerrero believed his life was in the hands of God, and that God alone would decide his fate. If he were to fall, it would happen through His will, and Guerrero’s own example would leave a lasting impression on the youth of Mexico. He was not pride-filled in his faith, though he did believe that a man could aspire to a great deal less in the world before being called home to sit humbly in the shadow of the Holy Father.
Today was the first communion of his goddaughter Nayeli, and he was seated in the front row of the church, dressed in his uniform and smiling proudly as the priest spoke over the precious eleven-year-old girl who sat before him in a chair, her back to the congregation. She looked simply resplendent in her white dress, with her raven hair coiled so carefully and beautifully about her head as she prepared to receive the body of Christ for the first time.
Nayeli was the closest Juan Guerrero would ever come to having a daughter, and he was every bit as proud of her as her own father was. This was an important day in the life of a Mexican girl, as she prepared to enter the world of womanhood, and it was important to him that she be treated as the princess he believed her to be in his own private heart. This was why he had humbly petitioned her parents, who were relatively poor, to accept his financial gift and throw a big party for her and her many cousins.
With the ceremony drawing toward its conclusion, Juan Guerrero stood beside Nayeli as she received the sacrament, and his heart swelled with the knowledge that her life would be forever different from this moment on; that she was a woman now in the eyes of the Holy Father. He received the sacrament himself a few moments later and was unexpectedly struck by a vision of himself as the priest he had never become. For a brief instant in time, it was as though he stood outside of his own body to see himself wearing the vestments and offering the Holy Communion.
He had never believed in visions before, but the suddenness of this daydream—the very vividness of the moment, was undeniable, and he was overcome by the most fulfilling sense of peace he had ever known, like warm water poured from a holy chalice. He looked toward the great door of the church to see beyond it a bright and beautiful day bathed in the rays of the sun. And he knew with absolute certainly that his Calvary awaited him beyond the threshold.
He shook hands with the priest and Nayeli’s parents, congratulating them on their daughter’s achievement. Then he touched her hair and smiled, leaning to kiss her on the cheek and whispering into her ear that only God was greater than herself. She smiled bashfully and thanked him. His brother appeared at his side a few moments later with two other policemen, all of them dressed in their class-A uniforms for the occasion.
“The car is ready out back,” said Diego Guerrero.
Juan Guerrero smiled at his brother. “Isn’t she the most beautiful child on earth?”
His brother smiled back. “They’re all beautiful, brother.”
The chief of police shook his head. “Not like her. I wish I did not have to miss the party.”
“We agreed it was safer for the family if you didn’t go,” Diego said. “You’re not changing your mind, are you?”
Juan Guerrero shook his head. “No. No, of course not. I’m just going to miss her, is all.”
Diego chuckled and patted his brother on the shoulder. “She’s not growing up that fast, brother.”
“No,” said Juan Guerrero. “I know that. Let us go out the front with the family. It is such a beautiful day.”
Diego looked at him, seeing a serenity in his brother’s eyes that he had never seen there before. “What is it, Juan?”
“Do you remember when we were young?” Juan reflected. “When I first told you that I had decided not to become a priest? We were standing barefoot in the mud along the river where Señor Alvarado used to fish.”
Diego remembered the day like it was yesterday. It had been his own day of personal deliverance. For if Juan had decided not to become a priest, then he too would be free to make that same decision. “Yes, I remember.”
“You trusted me then,” said Juan, his eyes bright. “And you’ve trusted me since.”
“Ever since, brother. Yes. Why are you saying these things?”
“Because I want for you to trust me now,” said Juan. “I want for you to trust that I know what I am doing.”
Diego felt pressure begin to build behind his eyes. “I trust you, Juan. I will always trust you.”
“Then promise me something very important.”
“Yes, anything.”
“Promise me that from this day forward, you will listen to what our gringo friend has to teach you—and to live by the true meaning of our name.”
“I promise, Juan. Of course, I promise.”
Guerrero was the Spanish word for warrior.
15
MALBUN, LIECHTENSTEIN
14:30 HOURS
Gil and Lena were headed for the airport in a rented car. Lena was driving, and Gil had a hand inside his jacket as they sped along the snowy mountain road, his eye on the side-view mirror.
Lena kept a firm grip on the wheel. “Are you going to tell me why they wanted to castrate you?”
Gil shivered involuntarily, flashing back to the pinking shears. “Thank you for saving my ass.”
“It wasn’t your ass that I saved—and you’re evading my question.”
“I killed a bunch of their friends in Istanbul awhile back—freed some girls who’d been sold into prostitution.”
She cut him a surprised glance. “The Russian rescue that was in the news? That was you?”
He still had his eye on the side-view mirror, a bad feeling rising up in his gut. “Me and a grumpy Spetsnaz guy, yeah.”
“No wonder,” she said. “You’ve brought them international attention, and it’s hurting their business. They won’t rest until you’re dead.”
He shrugged. “It might not have been the smartest thing I ever did, but it needed doin’.”
“The Russian mob is everywhere. Aren’t you afraid they’ll go after your wife in the US?”
He looked at her. “Somebody else already tried that. No. I’m not worried.”
They were approaching a tight curve bearing to the left, and Lena downshifted to slow the car. “Sabastian will help them find you—because of me.”
“Well, he hasn’t wasted any time,” Gil said, seeing a black sedan appear in the mirror. “This is them. Keep driving!”
He opened the door and bailed out as they went through the curve, rolling into a snowbank and springing to his feet. He pulled the Springfield .45 from his jacket and charged the approaching the car.
Shocked to see the American suddenly coming at them, the driver braked hard, putting the vehicle into a slide on the snowy road as Gil planted his feet, thrusting the pistol forward.
“Hoo-yah!” he growled, emptying the pistol rapidly into the windshield of the oncoming car. The bodies danced around in their seats. One man bailed out the back door, and Gil shot him through the neck as he rolled to a stop. The sedan plowed into a snowbank and stalled.
The only one still alive was in the guy in the passenger seat—the same guy who had intended to remove Gil’s private parts. He was bleeding from two holes in his chest and one through his cheek. Most of his teeth were shot out, and it was obvious that he was paralyzed, probably due to a bullet nicking his spinal cord.
Gil opened the door, reaching inside to snatch the Russian’s pistol from his lap. “Watch close now.” He shot the Russian in the face and jerked his body from the car, dragging it to the guardrail and throwing it over the cliff. He did the same with the other three bodies. Then Gil got
into the car and took off after Lena, who, to his surprise, had pulled to the side of the road to wait less than a mile beyond the curve.
He pulled up beside her, his adrenaline still pumping but glad she’d waited. “Thought I told you to keep driving.”
She grinned, her blue eyes shining. “If this is going to work, you’ll have to get used to me not doing what I’m told.”
“Roger that. Can you hide me in Switzerland?”
“Absolutely.”
He put the car in motion toward the cliff and stepped out, watching it drop over the edge and go careening downhill into the tall mountain pines. The sky was dark, threatening snow, and he knew that no one would likely spot the vehicle before spring.
The second he got back into Lena’s car, she leaned across the seat and planted her mouth on his, pulling at his belt.
“Lena, we gotta go.”
“Why?” she said, aggressively yanking at the buckle. “Didn’t you get rid of the evidence?”
“What about Sabastian?”
“Halfway to Stuttgart by now.” She was openly wanton, biting at his lips. “I’m not kidding, Gil. Take your pants down!”
16
MEXICO CITY, MEXICO
12:03 HOURS
Paolina practically threw Vaught’s breakfast at him as she brought it from the stove, shoving the plate across the table to smack against his glass of orange juice. Crosswhite had left before sunrise without telling Vaught where he was going, and Paolina hadn’t said more than two words since he’d gotten out of bed. He didn’t bother to thank her for cooking, knowing she’d only spit his words back at him. He was afraid of her and didn’t want to antagonize her, particularly when Crosswhite wasn’t there to protect him. Her resentment was palpable now, and he felt it was probably best to leave as small a footprint in her world as possible.
If Crosswhite didn’t return before he finished eating, he would wash his own dishes, and then go back to the guest room and shut the door. There was a television back there to pass the time. He was curious where Crosswhite had gone, believing it must have something to do with the operation, but he knew that Paolina was too loyal to tell him anything Crosswhite didn’t want him to know. Oddly enough, this didn’t really worry him. Crosswhite was so straightforward about everything that Vaught couldn’t help trusting him. What you saw was what you got with Crosswhite.
He drew a breath and stood up from the chair, making his way to the sink.
“Leave them,” she said without turning around.
“Thank you for breakfast.” The words slipped out before he could pull them back, and, of course, she didn’t answer.
He went back to his room and closed the door, switching on the television. The news came on shortly, and within fifteen minutes, Chance Vaught learned that he’d been reported dead to the entire world. He knew it was coming, but the report still hit him hard, and he panicked for a minute, feeling unexpectedly trapped and alone. The news ended a few minutes later, and he switched off the television, getting up from the bed and stepping out into the living room, where Paolina sat on the sofa reading to Valencia.
“I’m sorry,” he said, putting his hands into his pockets. “I apologize for jeopardizing what you and Crosswhite have here.”
She looked up at him, holding his gaze for a moment, and then went back to reading.
He shrugged and went back into the room, closing the door.
A HALF HOUR later, Paolina heard someone rap on the steel gate to the carport. Assuming that it was a neighbor, she set aside the book, telling Valencia to wait for her on the couch, and stepped outside into the carport, calling, “Quién es?” Who is it?
“I’m with the Institute of Health, señorita,” a young man answered in Spanish. “There’s been a case of dengue fever in the neighborhood, and we have to speak to everyone to make sure they know the symptoms and how to prevent mosquitoes from breeding in and around their homes.”
This was common in Latin America. Dengue fever was caused by a virus spread by mosquitoes, and this was the government’s usual response to an instance of the disease in any neighborhood. Paolina crossed the carport and peeked out the slot in the door to see a young man in his early twenties wearing the Institute of Health uniform and the proper ID tag around his neck. She knew that if she didn’t open the gate to take his literature and listen to his little spiel about the disease, either he or someone else would keep coming back until someone had heard them out. She pulled the latch to unlock the gate, and it burst violently inward, hitting her in the face and knocking her backward.
The young man clamped his hand over her mouth and kicked the gate shut. He had a gooey wet cloth in his hand that stunk of something medicinal. She felt herself beginning to go unconscious and stopped trying to breathe, pulling a razor-sharp stiletto from the small of her back beneath her shirt and swiping viciously at his groin.
She got him pretty good, just missing his penis and cutting deep into the thigh muscle. He let go of her instantly, seizing his crotch in both hands and shouting for help. Paolina stumbled dizzily backward and fell to the concrete, the effect of the chloroform too strong to resist. Two more men rushed in as she struggled to get up. They fell on her and slapped her unconscious, taping her mouth, and quickly securing her hands and feet with duct tape.
“Get her into the van!”
Vaught was still watching television in his room. He heard the young man’s shout and lowered the volume to listen for more. Hearing nothing else, he ran the volume back up.
Valencia slid off the couch and went to stand in the open doorway. Seeing two men in the process of kidnapping her mother, she immediately began to scream.
Hearing the scream, Vaught ripped open the bedroom door and was already moving at full speed by the time he vaulted over Valencia and into the carport. The two men lifting Paolina from the concrete watched in stunned confusion as he came at them, having had no idea there was anyone else in the house. Vaught drove his knee into the closest man’s face, knocking him backward against the door with his nose smashed flat, blood jetting. Then he spun smoothly around with a high backward kick that caught the second man in the side of the head and sent him sprawling.
The counterfeit health worker was bleeding in the corner and didn’t want any part of the fight, so Vaught ignored him, turning back to the first guy as he struggled to rise. He put him back down with a punch to the trachea and snatched Paolina’s stiletto off the ground, using it to stab both men in the throat before finishing off the imposter from the health department with a brutal kick to the temple. Then he lifted Paolina up and swept her into the house past Valencia, who was still crying. He set the young woman on the sofa, pulled the tape away from her mouth, and began freeing her hands and feet as the chloroform wore off.
She came awake flailing, and he grabbed her wrists.
“You’re okay!” he said in Spanish. “Look at me! You’re okay!”
Paolina jumped unsteadily to her feet and tottered over to her daughter, sinking to her knees and taking the frightened little girl into her arms to settle her. “Mommy’s okay. Mommy’s okay . . .” She glanced at Vaught. “We have to leave—now.”
He glanced around. “Where the hell are we gonna go?”
“Daniel said if anything ever happened while he was out of the city to go to Juan Guerrero.”
“Who’s Juan Guerrero?”
Still dizzy, she got to her feet and lifted Valencia into her arms. “The police chief in Toluca.”
“Toluca’s thirty miles south of here. Where the hell is Crosswhite?”
“Guadalajara.”
“What the hell’s he doing up in Guadalajara? That’s a six-hour drive. Did he fly? When’s he coming back?”
She moved toward the bedroom. “Stop complaining, Chance. Call for a taxi.”
“Goddamnit,” he muttered. “Right when you think things ca
n’t get any more fucked up.”
17
TOLUCA, MEXICO
The gringo sniper’s Barrett XM500 .50 caliber sniper rifle rested on the floor, propped on its bipod near the end of a long hallway in an abandoned elementary school. At the opposite end of the hall was a one-square-foot opening cut into the base of the concrete wall overlooking the street one story below. Almost a quarter mile away, at the far end of the avenue, was a church where a young lady’s first communion ceremony was taking place. Taped to the wall, knee high off the floor, was an eight-by-ten color photo of Police Chief Juan Guerrero.
Rhett Hancock sat against the steel door of an empty classroom, studying the gentle features of the face in the photograph. He would have time for only one shot, and it would have to be on the correct target. The chief had a gentlemanly look about him: dark eyebrows and soft brown eyes set in an oval face. His hair was cut short without style, and to Hancock he looked more like a gardener or a waiter than a defiant cop.
The Barrett XM500 was not a common model like the M82A1 or the M107. This rifle was of a bullpup design, with the action located behind the trigger, allowing for shorter overall weapon length. It was a variant of the old M82A2, which had never generated much interest on the weapons market. Another difference was that the XM500’s barrel remained stationary when the weapon was fired, facilitating greater accuracy at long ranges.
Hancock’s partner, Jessup, sat around the corner at the far end of the hallway. After Hancock’s shot, he would quickly shove the concrete block they had cut from the wall back into place to prevent anyone from pinpointing their location. The rifle report would be muffled by the building and covered up further by the clanging church bell.
