Ghost Sniper (10 page)

19

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

19:50 HOURS

By seven o'clock that afternoon, Crosswhite was back on the ground in Mexico City. During the flight, he'd received a coded text message from Paolina letting him know that she was leaving for Toluca, but his phone had been turned off, so the message was already an hour old by the time he landed. He was able to exchange another coded message with her before leaving the airport, verifying that she was okay and that they would meet in Toluca.

He was sitting in his Jeep at a stoplight on the outskirts of Mexico City when the vehicle began to vibrate as though it had broken a motor mount. “What the hell is this now?” he wondered aloud.

A few seconds later, chunks of concrete began falling off the aging office building across the street, and the traffic light started bobbing up and down on its metal arm.

A man hawking bottled water in the street stood outside Crosswhite's open window.

“Terremoto!”
he said. Earthquake!

Crosswhite got out of the Jeep to feel the earth trembling underfoot. He'd been in Los Angeles during the quake of '94, and he could already tell this one was shaping up to be somewhere along those lines. He had to get on his knees, as there was no way to keep standing with the vibrations. He knew that Mexico City was built on an ancient lake bed of mostly sand, and that soil liquefaction would exacerbate the quake's effects to the extreme. The shaking became more intense, and all at once, the ten-story office building collapsed as if in a controlled demolition.

Cracks appeared in the asphalt, and the power to the streetlights failed. Crosswhite's first reaction was wanting to hide under the Jeep until the shocks passed, but he forced himself to get back in the vehicle and got the windows up just as a billowing gray cloud of dust engulfed everything.

Within two minutes, the earth grew still, but Crosswhite knew there would be aftershocks, believing the quake to have easily been a 6 or 7 magnitude. The city's last major quake, in 1985, had registered 8.1 on the Richter scale. That one had killed at least twenty thousand people. This one wasn't as strong, but Crosswhite knew that it had been plenty powerful enough to bring the city to a halt. It would be months before everything would be back to normal.

He took out his phone to call Paolina, but there was no signal. “Shit!” He threw the phone down on the seat beside him.

By the time the dust began to clear enough for him to see, sirens were wailing. A fire engine roared past with klaxons honking as the emergency services machine came to life.

Getting to Toluca in a hurry would now be easier said than done, but he had a four-wheel drive and a full tank of gas. Crosswhite shifted into drive and sped off down the road, knowing the police would be too busy to worry about enforcing traffic laws.

20

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

19:50 HOURS

Vaught and Paolina were in a taxi cab headed south for Toluca when the earthquake hit. The taxi was just entering a tunnel that ran beneath a circular intersection when a portion of the tunnel collapsed, blocking the exit with large chunks of concrete. The result was a thirty-car pileup at fifty miles an hour. The taxi was smashed, and Paolina's head hit the window, knocking her unconscious. Three-year-old Valencia was tossed into the front seat, where she bounced off the dashboard and bloodied her nose. Vaught slammed into the back of the driver's seat but took no damage. Meanwhile, the cabby was pinned behind the wheel with a pair of broken legs.

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
francotirado
r
 . . . 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.”