by Scott McEwen
Vaught kicked open the door and got out, taking a look up and down the line of crashed traffic. A propane truck exploded ten cars ahead, and he ducked back inside, covering the unconscious Paolina with his body as the roiling black-orange cloud of fire swept across the ceiling of the tunnel. Valencia shrieked from the front seat, and injured motorists fled past the taxi, some of them in flames. Two more cars caught fire and exploded, threatening to engulf the entire tunnel.
Vaught reached forward to pull Valencia back between the seats.
“Ayúdame!” moaned the cab driver. Help me!
“Women and children first,” Vaught grunted in English, pulling Paolina from the backseat, with Valencia gripped in the opposite arm. “Good thing you’re so tiny,” he muttered, hefting the young woman over his shoulder.
Two more cars exploded as he ran toward the entrance to the tunnel, with the cabby shouting for him to come back.
Once clear of the tunnel, Vaught found a safe place to put down Paolina and Valencia, and then started back for the cab driver. Burn victims ran past him as the tunnel filled quickly with black smoke, obscuring his vision. He reached the cab to find the driver praying out loud for his life.
He jerked at the door but couldn’t open it, so he slid across the crumpled green hood and climbed in on the passenger side, seeing the firewall jammed up against the driver’s knees. “Goddamn,” he said, choking on the smoke. “You’re stuck!”
Burning gasoline on the pavement set the engine compartment on fire, and the driver began to scream, sweat pouring down his face.
“Keep calm,” Vaught told him. “I gotta think!”
But the driver did not calm down: he began thrashing around like a wild man as the flames licked up around the hood.
“Santa Maria! Santa Maria!”
Vaught grabbed the cabby’s shoulders and pulled, but his legs were caught fast, and the man howled. Smoke now filled the car, making it almost impossible to breathe, and Vaught knew he would have to let the man burn to death. Fleetingly, he considered knocking him cold and breaking his neck to save him the suffering, but he couldn’t do it.
“I’m sorry! I can’t get you out!”
“Please!” the man begged. “Please!”
The car in front them burst into flames, and the heat became intense.
“Don’t let me die!”
Vaught got out, standing beside the open passenger door. “I’m sorry!”
“Don’t leave me! For the love of God!”
That’s when Vaught realized for the first time how close the seat was to the steering wheel. He ducked back inside and reached beneath the driver’s legs, finding the release lever and pushing the seat back a full six inches. The driver gasped with relief, and Vaught yanked him free, heaving him over his shoulder and running for the entrance as the taxi burst into flames.
Paolina was holding Valencia in her lap when Vaught finally set down the driver beside them at the side of the road. As of yet, there were still no emergency personnel on the scene.
“I thought you left us,” she said, cleaning the blood from Valencia’s face with the little girl’s shirt.
“Why the hell would I do that?” he asked irritably.
She shrugged. “It would be easier for you.”
He glanced around at the injured and the people helping them to get clear of the acrid black smoke now billowing from the tunnel. “Well, you don’t know me, Paolina. You don’t know me at all.”
21
TOLUCA, MEXICO
22:00 HOURS
When the emotionally shattered Diego Guerrero lifted his head to see Crosswhite standing in the threshold of what had been his brother’s office, it was as though Saint Michael the Archangel had suddenly appeared before him with a pistol tucked into the belly of his jeans.
“I understand there’s been some trouble,” Crosswhite said in Spanish.
“Yes,” croaked Diego, now the de facto chief of police. “My brother is dead.”
Crosswhite shook a cigarette loose from its pack, pulled it out with his lips, and lit it. “It was the francotirador . . . the gringo sniper.”
Diego rose from behind the desk, trying to look like the chief of police without feeling it. “Estába espeluznante,” he said despondently. It was horrifying.
“That’s how it is the first time,” Crosswhite said. “And this won’t be the last.”
“I know. I will be next.”
Crosswhite nodded. “Possibly, but that’s not what you think about. What you think about now is keeping your police force together—your police force. The Ruvalcabas will be moving to take over the town again.”
Diego’s voice was thin and reedy, his eyes filling with tears. “I am afraid.”
Crosswhite drew from the cigarette. “Get angry,” he advised. “After that, the rest takes care of itself.”
Diego smirked despondently. “What good is anger against a man who kills from so far away—like a ghost?”
Crosswhite stepped into the room, dropping his ruck onto a chair. “Popular opinion holds that it takes a sniper to kill a sniper, but a sniper’s no different from any other predator. He’s got two eyes set in the center of his face. That means he doesn’t see what’s comin’ up from behind him—so that’s where we’ll be.”
“For that, we need to know in advance where he will be.”
Crosswhite smiled, squinting against the smoke of the cigarette. “Nothing worth doing ever came easy.”
Diego watched the American for the slightest hint of put-on bravado, but there was nothing phony in what he saw. “Why do you want to help this town? You are not even from this country.”
The American glanced out the window with a sigh. “Maybe it’s because I got debts no honest man can pay.”
The Mexican watched him a moment longer and then said, “That makes no sense.”
Crosswhite looked at him. “It means I cannot be redeemed, Diego.”
“We are all redeemable in the eyes of God.”
Crosswhite took another drag. “It’s not the eyes of God I’m worried about.” He moved the pistol around to the small of his back beneath his jacket. “Your brother was a brave man. His same blood runs in your veins. You remember that.”
Diego looked at the floor. “I will try.”
“You’ll do better than try,” Crosswhite said. “I guarantee it. Now let’s see to your men. Unless I miss my guess, Serrano’s gonna try to make an example of this town. That’s why he had your brother killed.”
Diego looked up. “Lazaro Serrano?”
“Right. He’s the real power behind the Ruvalcaba cartel.”
Diego dropped into the chair, sinking his fingers into his dark hair and pulling. “Oh, my God. Serrano is going to be the next president of Mexico.”
Crosswhite turned for the hall. “Don’t bet on it. Now get your butt outta that chair. We got work to do.”
22
STUTTGART, GERMANY
13:00 HOURS
“I WANT TO know who this Gil Shannon is and what he was doing in Liechtenstein,” Sabastian Blickensderfer said to his German attorney, seated across the table from him in a private dining room. He was a calm man, handsome, blond, with blue eyes and an unmistakable air of importance. “A man who takes the fight to the Russians in Turkey does not go skiing alone in Malbun.”
“I’ve already had him checked out,” said the well-dressed attorney, stirring sugar into his coffee. “It’s not good. He is an American war hero, one of their navy’s elite—and he was in Malbun to kill you.”
Blickensderfer scoffed. “Nonsense. I’m protected by the CIA.”
“You were protected,” the attorney replied. “The CIA has a new director now, a man named Pope, and he fired nearly everyone at the executive level when he took over. So the old guard is gone, and it’s not likely any of
their agreements will be honored.”
“But if Shannon is with their navy—”
“Shannon is CIA. I can’t find anything to link him directly, but he’s one of theirs. He was killing Russian mobsters in Turkey five months ago. And now he’s traveling with Lena.”
Blickensderfer smiled, realizing he was supposed to be rocked by the revelation concerning his former fiancée. “Where are they now?”
“At her home in Bern,” the attorney said. “But knowing Lena, they won’t be there for long.”
“How did he get away from the Russians?”
The lawyer shrugged. “I don’t know.” He checked his phone for messages, but nothing new had come in. “He’s listed as a contractor with Obsidian Optio, the private mercenary company. However, my contact with Obsidian tells me that Shannon never does any actual work for them. This is further evidence that he’s CIA. And as for our Russian friends in Malbun, I’m guessing they’re dead. This Shannon is a very hard man to kill.”
“Not for much longer,” said the still-smiling Blickensderfer, lifting the bottle of expensive champagne from a sterling silver ice bucket and pouring himself another glass. “He’s traveling with a woman now, and not just any woman. He’s traveling with Lena; and Lena is nothing if not a distraction.” He chortled, savoring the taste of the champagne. “I should probably be thanking Shannon—but I’m not.”
The lawyer sipped his coffee and sat back. “I’ve looked into Pope as well. He’s even more dangerous than Shannon. If he has marked you for assassination, your chances of survival are not the best. You’re going to have to spend a lot more on security.”
Blickensderfer shrugged. “It’s only money. But do this: send Pope a back-channel communication. State to him plainly that he’s made his point. I will immediately cease all dealings with terrorist organizations, however benign. That should appease him. He’s going to need me in the future if he’s going to fight the growing ISIS threat. He’ll need my weapons connections. Make sure he understands that I will be very cooperative when the time comes.”
The attorney nodded. “That might work.”
“It will work,” Blickensderfer said. “If Pope is what you say he is.”
“Then what are you going to do about Shannon?” the attorney asked. “You can’t kill him and expect to make friends with Pope.”
Blickensderfer considered his options. “Isn’t Shannon unpopular with Russian slavers? Hasn’t he cost them millions? Haven’t Istanbul and other major cities in Eastern Europe been cracking down on illegal prostitution? Well, all we need to do is whisper Shannon’s location in the correct places, and I’m sure he’ll turn up dead soon enough. But be sure they are careful about Lena.”
“That might be difficult to guarantee.”
“I’m not asking for a guarantee, Gunther. I want Shannon dead and Lena back with me where she belongs. Is that understood?”
“Quite.”
“Good,” Blickensderfer said. “These temporary little infatuations of hers are not exactly new, but she’s a woman of means. She’s not about to fall in love with some cowboy who cannot afford to perpetuate her lavish lifestyle.”
23
BERN, SWITZERLAND
02:00 HOURS
Gil stood in the dark, staring down at the snowy street beneath the window of Lena’s bedroom. He was thinking of his wife back in Montana and how much he missed her, but something within him was changing. Or had it changed already? All he knew for sure was that he no longer wanted to go home; no longer wanted the calm ranch life he had once loved. He felt like a shark now—a shark that would drown if it ever dared to stop swimming.
“Come back to bed,” Lena said, naked beneath the blanket. “No one is going to come after you here. You’re safe with me.”
He turned to look at her, his heart breaking, eyes welling with tears. “I can never go back, Lena. The life I had with Marie, it—it slipped through my fingers somehow.”
“I’m sorry, Gil, but whatever else the past is . . . it’s gone.”
He sank into the chair, putting his head into his hands, and began to weep for the first time in many years.
Lena slid from the bed and went to his side, caressing him as she stared out the window, knowing the cry would be good for him; that he would be stronger for it. She understood that men who killed for a living carried demons, and that the only way to exorcise such demons was to let them out. Too many men were not strong enough to let them go, but Gil seemed to possess that strength, and this gave her a certain hope that he might survive.
After a short time, he went into the bathroom and took a shower, returning to lie beside her on the bed, touching her soft blond hair, kissing the nape of her neck. “Sorry about that.”
She turned into him. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. How do you feel?”
“Better,” he said quietly.
“Good.”
They hadn’t been asleep long when the phone rang. Lena answered. “Hello?”
“You need to let him go, Lena.” It was Blickensderfer, and she could tell that he was very drunk. “I understand that he’s a fun new toy for you, but you need to let him go.”
“Sabastian, it’s very late. We can talk tomorrow when you’re sober.”
“The Russians are going to kill him,” Blickensderfer went on, his words slurring slightly. “You know that I can’t protect you. You have to let the man go.”
“I don’t have to do anything. Don’t call me late at night anymore, and don’t call if you’ve been drinking.” She hung up the phone and laid back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling.
Gil raised up, seeing her clearly by the light of the window. “What did he say?”
“He said I need to let you go—that he can’t protect me.”
He leapt out of bed. “Get dressed!”
She sat up. “Gil, it’s okay. He’s just drunk.”
He stood looking at her. “We have go—now!”
“No, Gil. We don’t have to go. We’re not in Baghdad. Come back to bed. No one will attack my house. This is Switzerland, not Iraq.”
He stood on uncertain footing, knowing they should leave but at the same knowing how silly he must have appeared. He glanced warily out the window, his ears tuned for danger—hearing nothing.
“Gil,” she said softly. “No one is coming. You’re safe.”
“I need a gun,” he said.
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll find a gun. Tonight come to bed.”
He got into bed and pulled up the blanket. “I’m not used to living in the city.”
She wrapped herself around him. “What you’re not used to is no one trying to kill you.”
24
MEXICO CITY, MEXICO
23:40 HOURS
With the moon on the rise, Vaught and Paolina were still stranded on the streets of Mexico City, where they found themselves unable to abandon the dozens of motorists injured in the smashup. The tunnel fire had burned itself out, but only the very worst of the injured had been taken away in a pair of ambulances. The rest were still on the scene, with no professional medical personnel to look after them. The city’s emergency services were stretched beyond capacity, and it was easy to imagine that it might be days before the ambulances returned.
Initially, Vaught had insisted that they get back on the move for Toluca, knowing Crosswhite would be worried about his family, but Paolina refused, contending that their help was badly needed there and that Toluca was too far to walk anyway. Very few civilians had remained on the scene after the ambulances had first arrived, most of them fleeing homeward to check on their own families.
Cellular service was knocked out along with electrical power to that part of the city, so without the moonlight, it would have been dangerously dark. Sirens wailed far in the distance where damage to the city had been worse, and flashlights bobbed i
n the darkness along the street. Many of the burn victims were moaning, and a few children were crying. The cab driver was in great pain, but he was so thankful to have been saved from the burning taxi that he barely complained at all.
Local shopkeepers had donated a limited supply of food and bottled water early on, so there had at least been something to eat before it got dark.
Valencia had found a Rottweiler puppy to play with, so she was content for the moment, but Vaught had no idea where the animal had come from.
He was well aware that this would be a good time to make a break for the US Embassy, confident that none of Serrano’s people would be watching now that the city had been ripped asunder, but the idea was a nonstarter. He couldn’t abandon a pregnant woman in the midst of such chaos any more than he could abandon the crash victims, now that he’d taken responsibility for them.
“This is bullshit,” he muttered in English, and felt a little better about it.
“Do you have a signal yet?” Paolina asked, standing beside him with a bottle of water.
He checked his phone and shook his head. “It could be weeks before they get service restored.”
“I need to find a blanket for Valencia. It’s getting cold.”
“Stay here with the others,” he told her. “I don’t want you wandering off in the dark.”
He set off across the street, where he saw a light on in one of the local shops. As he drew closer, he could hear the hum of a generator.
“Hello,” he said through the locked gate.
A man in his twenties appeared from the back clutching a pistol. “What do you want?”
“Do you have a blanket I can buy?”
The man went into the back and returned a minute later with a beat-up brown blanket. “Two hundred pesos.” Approximately thirteen dollars.
