by Scott McEwen
“I understand.” Fields settled into his chair, resting his briefcase on the floor.
Serrano placed his hands flat on the desk. “So what can I do for you, Señor Fields?”
“We have a problem,” Fields said, coming straight to the point. “Director Pope thought I should talk to you about it in person.”
Serrano appeared stoic. “I am listening.”
“Agent Vaught is still alive.”
A flicker of uncertainty. “How is that possible? His body was sent back to the United States two days ago.”
“The PFM falsified the crime scene,” Fields explained. “One of Ruvalcaba’s men is a deep-cover agent. He can place you with Rhett Hancock. The PFM is using both Agent Vaught and the deep-cover agent to build a case against you for corruption—possibly even as an accessory to murder.”
Serrano was no longer feigning patience. “Why am I only now being told?”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly call you on the phone,” Fields pointed out, “and the situation has been developing rather quickly.”
“You could have come yesterday—even the day before—the very hour you knew that Vaught was still alive!”
Fields remained pacific in the face of Serrano’s displeasure. “There was no initial hurry. Vaught was under our control, and it was our intention at CIA to fetter the PFM investigation—thereby protecting you.”
“And now?”
“Now Vaught has disappeared, and we need to find him.”
Serrano’s temper flared. “You should have killed him when he was under your control! Now he’s a danger to us all!”
Fields held up a finger. “First, we were not in a position to safely remove him. Second, we didn’t have the proper assets in place to do that kind of work. Third, we had to play by the rules.
“And, finally, Agent Vaught poses no danger to the CIA—only to you.”
Serrano chortled, rocking back in his chair and reaching for a Cuban cigar. He took his time about clipping the end and lighting it with a stick match, shaking out the match and dropping it into a crystal ashtray. “Hancock is your man, not mine—a gringo sniper trained by the American army. The CIA sent him down here to help remove Alice Downly, and Agent Vaught has seen his face. I am no detective, Mr. Fields, but to me it seems that both of these men pose a threat—not only to the CIA but also to your Director Pope.”
The naivete of people in high government never ceased to amaze Fields. “I’m no detective either, Senator, but what I can tell you is this: there is no connection between Hancock and the CIA—none—other than your word, which won’t carry a great deal of weight with the US State Department. Pope is considered a national hero in my country, as you well know. Hancock was guided to Hector Ruvalcaba through an intermediary, after putting himself on the market as a mercenary for hire. He has no clue that he’s working for the CIA because he’s not working for the CIA. He’s working for Hector Ruvalcaba, and Agent Vaught can connect you to Hector Ruvalcaba.
“Therefore,” he concluded, pointing his index finger at Serrano, “both Agent Vaught and Rhett Hancock are direct threats to you.”
Had Serrano been in a position to do so in that moment, he would’ve ordered Fields shot. “You’ve left me holding the bag, you son of a bitch.”
“Not at all, Senator.” Now that Fields had broken Serrano’s spirit, he would build him back up. “It is still very much our intention to help make you president. That’s what we very much want to see happen, and that is why I am here. Mistakes have been made, yes, on both sides. After all, Vaught was in your personal custody following Downly’s assassination, was he not? You were in a much better position to deal with the problem than we were, but you failed to do so. However, this isn’t about pointing fingers or even about sharing the blame. It’s about working together to solve a problem. That’s my job, Senator: to help you solve the problem. Now, with that understanding, all we have to do is find Agent Vaught, tell Rhett Hancock where he is, and let nature take its course.”
Serrano saw immediately that Hancock would want Vaught dead to protect his identity. He watched with veiled trepidation as Fields opened his briefcase, removing a large envelope and placing it on Serrano’s desk.
Fields set the briefcase back on the floor. “In that envelope are the names and photos of eleven deep-cover PFM agents, one of whom is Agent Luis Mendoza. Mendoza is the agent who can place you in the same room with Rhett Hancock on the day of Alice Downly’s assassination.”
Serrano reached forward to lift the envelope, his fingers trembling. He would have gladly paid a million dollars for the names of so many agents, but here Fields was giving it to him for free. “What do you want for this?”
Fields smiled. “Nothing more than your help in controlling the narcotics trade once you become president of this great country.”
Serrano held the envelope in his lap, suddenly feeling like a child on Christmas morning. “I thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Fields, and I apologize for my loss of composure.”
36
TOLUCA, MEXICO
3:50 HOURS
Sixteen infiltrators from the Ruvalcaba cartel had moved into the city early in the day and were now set to assault the Toluca police station with hand grenades and automatic weapons. The assassination of Chief Juan Guerrero days before had been only the first step in Hector Ruvalcaba’s plan to move back into the city. As expected, Juan’s younger brother, Diego, had taken over as de facto chief of police, and though he was weaker than Juan, city officials were determined to support him. So to finish off the last of the police’s determination, Ruvalcaba’s men would storm the station and massacre the entire night shift in a shock-and-awe-style attack.
Such a brazen act of violence—not at all uncommon in Mexico—would send a terrifying message to the remainder of the police force, ensuring that Chief Diego Guerrero would be faced with mutiny unless he allowed the Ruvalcabas a free hand in the city. This same terror tactic had been used to great success in many northern border towns, and Hector Ruvalcaba was confident it could work just as well in the South now that Lazaro Serrano was running interference with government officials.
To plan the assault, Ruvalcaba had chosen one of his most ruthless killers, a man in his late thirties whom everyone called El Rabioso: the Rabid One. Though his loyalty to the cartel was unquestioned, El Rabioso was picked because of his love for killing policemen. To El Rabioso, la policia were nothing more than mangy dogs to be shot dead in the dirt. He had murdered more than thirty of them across southern Mexico over the past ten years, and his name and face were well known.
He sat behind the wheel of his gray Ford Excursion, holding a cell phone, his slow eyes staring balefully up the street at the station where the police were in the midst of shift change.
“How many are inside now?” he asked.
“Twelve or so,” answered a paid spy within the police force, the same spy who fingered Chief Juan for Rhett Hancock. “I told you they don’t all come in at the same time for shift change.”
“Twelve is enough,” said El Rabioso. He took a radio from his lap and gave his men the order to move: “Fuera!”
Four SUVs converged on the police station. Four men deployed from each vehicle, all of them hurling grenades at the entrance. The nearly simultaneous explosions essentially tore off the front of the building, destroying the security door and causing a breach.
El Rabioso watched with excitement as the raiders, wielding AK-47s, stormed inside. The sight of muzzle flashes and the sound of gunfire were too much for him to sit still. His anxiety got the better of him, and he pulled from the curb, clipping a passing car. The smaller car spun around wildly, and the young female driver was knocked senseless by the force of her airbag.
El Rabioso continued up the street in the big Ford, swearing foully at the stupid bitch for getting in his way.
A bullet came t
hrough the windshield, and before he could react, a second bullet took off the rearview mirror. A third round hit El Rabioso in the shoulder, and he cut the wheel hard to the left, crashing into a parked car. He jumped out and took cover behind the engine, gripping a Taurus 9 mm as he tried to figure out who was shooting at him.
Automatic fire tore into the hood of the truck, and he realized he was taking fire from the roof of the police station. The truck sagged on the far side with both tires shot out, and El Rabioso broke cover, running to the small car and yanking the young woman from behind the wheel. Using her as a human shield, he screwed the pistol into her ear and began backing away down the street toward the shadows.
The girl squealed in pain, screaming for help.
“Callate, puta!” sneered El Rabioso. Shut up, bitch!
He saw a muzzle flash on the roof of the station and was struck in his gun arm. The humerus bone shattered, and his arm fell limply to his side, the pistol clattering on the pavement. The girl broke free and ran. The pain from the shattered bone dropped him to his knees, and he vomited in the street.
When he looked up, he saw four heavily armed Mexican cops staring down at him. Chance Vaught was among them, a scoped M4 resting over his shoulder.
“Guess who fucked up!” Vaught said in English.
El Rabioso reached lamely for the Taurus with his left hand, but one of the cops stepped on the pistol.
“Es El Rabioso,” said the cop.
“Never heard of him,” Vaught said in Spanish, leveling the M4 on El Rabioso. “But there’s only one thing to do with a rabid dog. Take your foot off the pistol.”
The cop did as Vaught said, and El Rabioso reached again for the weapon.
Vaught shot him through the heart the second his fingers touched the grip.
BACK IN THE police station, Crosswhite stood with his hand on Chief Diego’s shoulder, the two of them staring at the bodies of Ruvalcaba’s men piled upon themselves in the corridor where they had fallen under the withering fire of the ambush.
“You’ve won your first battle, Chief. Well done.”
“The next one will not be so easy,” Diego said, sick to his stomach at the blood congealing on the tile, the smell of raw shit thick in the air. “The gringo sniper will return now.”
Crosswhite clapped him on the back. “That’s the plan, amigo.”
The other cops were busy searching the bodies for money and identification—in that order.
“Oye!” Diego barked. Hey!
They looked at him.
“The money goes to the Church! Understood? Every peso!”
His men nodded reluctantly, continuing the bloody search with noticeably less enthusiasm.
Crosswhite turned his back to the men. “May I make a suggestion?”
Diego nodded. “Of course.”
“Let them keep the money,” Crosswhite said quietly. “You need their loyalty, and they did really, really well tonight. We didn’t take a scratch.”
“You’re probably right.”
Diego stepped forward. “You can keep the money,” he announced, “but divide it evenly with the men on the roof.”
The cops grinned at one another and went back to their grim work with renewed gusto. Ruvalcaba gunmen always carried wads of cash.
Vaught showed up a few minutes later, helping to drag the body of El Rabioso up to the back entrance, where Crosswhite stood smoking. “Turns out this clown was one of Ruvalcaba’s top dogs. He’s wanted in five states as a cop killer.”
Crosswhite nodded. “You and I need to disappear for a couple days, champ. The Federales are gonna be all over this shit looking for an after-action report.”
Vaught shook his head. “Not for more than a day. Normally this would be front-page news, but not right now. There’s too many people dead in the quake, and the Feds are stretched to the limit. You can go look after Paolina, and I’ll stick around here. I look the part.”
“Okay, but if the Feds start asking questions, be sure to disappear. Diego knows the drill.”
Vaught put a dip of tobacco into his lip and tucked away the can. “How long you think before the sniper shows?”
“Hard to say, but what we did here tonight is gonna piss Ruvalcaba off something terrible, so I don’t expect it’ll be too long.”
“How soon ’til Shannon shows?”
Crosswhite dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. “I got a bad feelin’ he might not show at all.”
37
CHONGQING, CHINA
13:30 HOURS
Not long after Gil and Lena cleared Chinese customs, Gil spotted a pair of Russians hanging around outside the airport, not exactly attempting to look inconspicuous. “That sure didn’t take long,” he said, pretending not to notice them as he hailed a taxi.
“What did you expect?” Lena asked. “We were spotted getting on the plane.”
A cab pulled to the curb, and Gil opened the backdoor for her to get in. “It couldn’t be helped.”
“I guess not,” she said irritably, climbing into the cab. “Not with you refusing to keep a low profile.”
He got in beside her as the driver loaded their bags into the trunk. “If I keep a low profile, they might not know where to find me.”
She gave him a look. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Relax,” he said, kissing her hand. “It would take more than a baseball hat and a pair of sunglasses to throw these guys off my scent.”
“You could at least try.” Their flight to Beijing had been marked with similar exchanges.
“Hey,” he said, squeezing her hand, “would it help at all if I told you I know what I’m doing?”
“In China,” she said dryly. “You know what you’re doing in China.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me!”
“I would,” he said with a smile, “but then I’d have to kill you.”
She pulled her hand away, but he grabbed her face and kissed her. She resisted for a brief second but then slid her hand behind his neck and pulled his lips tighter against hers.
Then she shoved him away. “You’re going to get us both killed.”
“You knew what you were signing on for. Are we reaching the limit of your courage?”
“Is this a test?”
“As matter of fact, it is.” The driver got behind the wheel and closed the door. “So say the word now, and I’ll put you back on a plane for neat and tidy Switzerland.”
“Now you’re just trying to make me angry.” She told the driver the name of their hotel, and he pulled from the curb. “It’s not the danger that pisses me off, Gil. It’s being kept in the dark.”
“It’s necessary,” he said, resting his hand her on knee.
Despite feeling worried, Lena believed that he was telling the truth; she squeezed his hand and looked out the car window. The Russians tailing them in a white sedan were no more careful about being spotted than the two men outside the airport had been. They even went so far as to pull up alongside them at a red light, both men grinning.
“Look how confident they are,” she said, feeling true fear for the first time. “They know it’s only a matter of time before they get you. We might as well be in Moscow.”
Gil chuckled, ignoring them. “I was in Moscow last spring. Had lunch with Putin, as a matter of fact.”
She looked at him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Once in their hotel room, they were careful to lock the door and push the minifridge up against it before hurriedly taking a shower and making love.
When they were finished, Lena lay in the crook of his arm, helping him smoke a cigarette.
“This trip has nothing to do jumping the Dragon Wall, does it?”
“We brought the wing suits, didn’t we?”
“That d
oesn’t answer my question, Gilbert.”
He sat up, flashing back to 1993 when the movie What’s Eating Gilbert Grape had first come out. He was still pissed at its star, Johnny Depp, for ruining his senior year in high school. “My name is not Gilbert—it’s Gil!”
She laughed, her eyes dancing. “Did I touch a nerve?”
“Gil,” he said, grinning. “Gil Shannon. That’s it—no middle name. Got it?”
She gave him a playful salute. “Got it.”
“Once we know each other a little better, you may call me Gilligan—but not Gilbert, ever.”
She laughed again. “Like the TV show?”
“Yes,” he said, lying back down beside her, “like the TV show.”
She tickled his ear until they fell asleep, awaking eventually to the sound of someone knocking at the door, ignoring the Do Not Disturb sign.
Gil stood to the side of the door in his underwear without looking through the peephole, saying something in a language Lena did not understand. The person in the hall answered, and he opened the door to a small Asian man in his forties.
They spoke briefly, and the man disappeared.
She sat up, holding the sheet over her breasts. “You speak Chinese?”
“Vietnamese,” he said. “That was Nahn. I worked with him the last time I was in China. He’s says the lobby’s crawling with Russians, so he’s gonna sneak us outta here. You’d better get dressed.”
She got out of bed, reaching for her pants. “How the hell do you speak Vietnamese?”
He pulled a clean shirt from his bag. “My dad was a Green Beret in the Vietnam War. He lived with the mountain tribes—the Montagnards—for six years, training them to fight the Vietcong. I grew up speaking English with my mother and lots of Vietnamese with my dad.”
“Wasn’t that a little strange?” she asked, buttoning her pants.
He chuckled, a sad look in his eyes. “It was a lot strange. But that was my dad.”
“Where is he now?”
