Ghost Sniper (25 page)

62

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

17:30 HOURS

Vaught stood in the back lot of the police department looking at the blood-soaked interior of an armored police truck. The sniper's .50 caliber round had pierced the armored driver's door of the Ford pickup truck and killed both officers in the front seat as they'd sat at a red light. This meant the sniper had been firing on a flat trajectory from street level—a bolder approach than either Vaught or Crosswhite had anticipated.

He turned to Chief Diego and his lieutenant. “How are the men taking it?”

Diego shrugged. “They're angry—and scared.”

“More angry or more scared?”

“Angry.”

“Did they respond the way they were trained?”

“They tried to,” the lieutenant said. “There were no men riding in the bed of the truck, and the two in the backseat were unable to
hear the shot because of the armored windows. By the time another unit responded, the sniper had stopped firing, and there was no way to triangulate his position.”

“Right,” Vaught said. “All four men were riding inside the cab because they wanted to avoid being shot.” He shut the door and put his finger into the hole made by the gringo sniper's armor-piercing round. “This proves they're no safer inside than out. In fact, they're safer in the back because they have a chance to hear the shot, see what's going on, and return fire. Inside, they're sitting ducks.”

Diego turned to the lieutenant. “Make sure every man coming on shift sees the hole in the door before going on patrol. Give orders that only the drivers are to be inside. Impress upon them that they have a better chance to dismount and fight if they are riding in back.”

The lieutenant said,
“Sí, señor,”
and disappeared inside the station to begin roll call.

Vaught made sure they were alone and walked Diego around the far side of the truck. “I've heard from Crosswhite up in DF. There's a traitor among your men. Serrano has someone on the inside, and he's been feeding the Ruvalcaba's information about our training exercises.”

Diego nodded. “I've suspected this. The day Juan was killed, the sniper's position and timing were too perfect. Unfortunately, there's no way to know who it is. I cannot openly accuse any of my men without proof.”

Vaught bumped him on the shoulder. “Come with me.”

He led Diego inside the motor pool, where the men kept their equipment. The officers' body armor and ballistic helmets sat on shelves in open wooden lockers along the garage wall, much the way firemen keep their turnout gear ready in a fire station. Each locker had the officer's name stenciled above it in white lettering.

“How long has officer Robles been on the department?”

Diego glanced around, making sure they were still alone. “About six months. He's a good man. You've seen him in training.”

“Yeah, he catches on pretty fast,” Vaught agreed. “Didn't your
brother take over as chief about six months ago? Was Robles hired before that or after?”

“Juan hired him personally—a couple weeks after he became chief.”

“Did either of you know Robles before he applied?”

“No. He was recommended by a city councilman.”

“Well, that's a strike against him right there,” Vaught muttered, reaching for Robles's ballistic helmet and handing it to Diego. “See anything wrong with that?”

Diego examined the helmet, finding it sound. “No.”

“We all wear balaclavas over our faces when we're on the street, so we're impossible to distinguish from one another in uniform.” He pointed at the helmet. “Look again.”

Diego turned the helmet in his hands. There was a nondescript scuff of white paint on either side of it, one directly above the right ear, the other a little higher and closer to the back of the helmet.

Diego looked at Vaught. “These marks are no more than a few days old.”

“I've checked all the other helmets,” Vaught said. “Officer Robles seems to be the only one of your men who wants the sniper to know who he is.”

63

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

17:20 HOURS

The boys from Baja were cousins, Fito and Memo Soto, both age thirty, contracted by the old guard of the CIA the year before Pope was appointed director. They were contract killers who specialized in making a mess of things. No one would ever mistake their work for that of professionals, but sometimes it was a good idea for a hit to look like the work of a jealous girlfriend or a tweeker jacked up on methamphetamines.

They rang the door bell of Ortega's house.

Fito was the taller of the two, with dark hair and a beard. “I thought this cabrón was supposed to be waiting for us.”

Memo was bald, with blue catlike eyes. He shrugged and rang the bell again. “That's what Fields said.”

“Obviously, there's nobody here,” Fito remarked. “Call the man and see what he wants us to do.”

Memo made the call, and Fields answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

“Hey, your man isn't here,” Memo said. “What do you want us to do?”

“Are you inside the house?”

“No, we can't get inside. This place is built like a prison.”

“You need to get inside and verify that he isn't there.”

Memo rolled his eyes, handing the phone to Fito. “He says we have to get inside.”

Fito took the phone. “Listen, we can't get inside. Everything is barred up.”

“It's imperative you make confirmation,” Fields insisted. “The target has to be neutralized. I thought I made that clear.”

“What do you want us to do?” Fito asked. “Use our heat vision to cut the fucking door open?”

“I don't care if you have to ram the house with your car,” Fields said. “But get inside and make confirmation.”

“And suppose he's not here? Then what?”

There was a long pause at Fields's end. “I don't know. He should be there.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I don't care what you have to do,” Fields repeated. “Get inside and make confirmation. If he's not there, abort the mission and come to Tijuana. I have more work waiting for you.”

“What kind?”

“The same. Call me when you've got confirmation.”

Fito gave the phone back to Memo. “He says we have to get inside no matter what.”

“Fuck him, I'm hungry.” Memo was rubbing his ample belly. “Let's go get something to eat. After that, we'll call him back, say we got inside, and the dude wasn't here. How's he gonna know the difference?”

Fito smiled. “I like it. He wants us up in Tijuana right away. Somebody else to kill.”

“Same money?”

“He didn't say, but we didn't come all this way for free. He's paying us for this wasted trip.”

They crossed the street and were about to get into the car when Memo spotted a gringo walking up the sidewalk wearing blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a tan ball cap. He stopped in front of Ortega's house and rang the bell.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Let's find out.” Fito shut the car door, and the two of them went back across the street, stepping onto the sidewalk on either side of the gringo.

“You live here?” Fito asked in English.

The gringo looked at him, his chiseled visage set. “You a cop?”

“Maybe. What's your interest in this house?”

“Friend of mine lives here.”

“What's your friend's name?” Memo asked.

The gringo ignored him, staying focused on Fito.

“He asked you a question,” Fito said.

“I heard 'im.”

Fito became uncomfortable beneath the gringo's gaze. “What are you doing here?”

“Right now I'm waitin' for you to do somethin' stupid.”

Fito sniggered. “We have a tough guy here, Memo.”

“That's good,” Memo said. “I like tough guys.”

The gringo whipped around like a blur, delivering a vicious overhand right to Memo's chin. Memo went down like he'd been hit by a sniper, and the gringo spun back around, bashing the lunging Fito in the face with his left elbow.

Fito saw stars, crashing to his knees with one of his front teeth broken off at the gum line.

The gringo grabbed him by the hair and bashed him again with his fist, busting his nose and shoving him over against the gate to the carport. A quick search, and he found Fito's silenced .22 Ruger pistol.

He stuck the muzzle down the front of Fito's pants and squeezed the trigger. The pistol went off with a hiss, and Fito felt the hot .22 caliber round ricochet off the sidewalk into his buttock.

He shouted in pain, grabbing his ass.

“Looks like I missed!” the gringo sneered, adjusting the muzzle.

“Don't!” Fito gasped, grabbing the gringo's wrist in fear for his testicles.

“What the fuck are you doin' here?” the gringo growled.

Fito began to blab, telling all that he knew.

“Where's Fields now?”

“Tijuana.”

“Who does he want you to kill in Tijuana?”

“I don't know. He hasn't told us yet.”

Knowing it would be dangerous to leave a pair of dead men on the sidewalk, the gringo stood up, delivering Fito a brutal knee to the face. Fito slouched over, unconscious. The gringo wiped his fingerprints from the pistol with the tail of his shirt, tossed the weapon over the carport wall, and disappeared down the street.

64

TOLUCA, MEXICO

18:00 HOURS

Officer Robles appeared in the doorway to Chief Diego's office. He was in his late twenties, a clean-cut-looking kid. “Sergeant Cuevas said you wanted to see me, Chief?”

“Go see Agent Vaught out back,” Diego said, seemingly preoccupied with paperwork. “He requested you ride with him tonight.”

“Sí, señor.”

A few minutes later, Robles found Vaught waiting for him in the back of an armored black-and-white pickup truck. The truck bed was enclosed with a roll cage, which allowed officers to stand up during patrol and to rail-mount a light machine gun. He climbed up into the back dressed in his SWAT gear and shook Vaught's hand. “Thank you for requesting me.”

“Sure,” Vaught said, pulling the black balaclava up over his face. “We're expecting trouble tonight, and I want a good man with me.”
He reached out and took the helmet from Robles's head. “Better let me trade with you. Your helmet's marked up.”

“No, it's okay,” Robles said, reaching for his helmet back. “It fits my head.”

“It's cool,” Vaught said, strapping the helmet on. “We wear the same size.”

Sergeant Cuevas climbed into the back of the truck, donned his helmet, and pulled up his balaclava. “Better put that helmet on,” he said to Robles. “We're patrolling the north side.”

The north side of town was the worst, the area where they suspected the gringo sniper to be hiding among Ruvalcaba's people.

“We're going to draw the sniper's fire,” Vaught said with a grin. “Try to flush him out.”

“I'd like to have my helmet back,” Robles said, his good humor beginning to fade. “I don't like wearing other people's helmets.”

Vaught laughed. “Don't worry about it. I don't have lice.”

“I'm serious,” Robles said, putting his hand out. “Give me my helmet.”

The driver of the truck got out of the cab and stood watching.

“Sorry,” Vaught said. “I'm keeping the helmet.”

Robles looked at Sergeant Cuevas. “Tell him to give me my helmet.”

“Why?” Cuevas asked. “What's so special about it?”

“It's mine. I have the right to wear my own equipment.”

“It belongs to the department,” Cuevas said. “I've reassigned it to Agent Vaught.” He took the other helmet from Vaught's hand and thrust it toward Robles. “I've reassigned this one to you. Now put it on. We're patrolling the north side.”

Robles stood looking between the two men, realizing he'd been discovered. “I quit.” He turned to dismount the truck, but Sergeant Cuevas whacked him over the head with the Kevlar helmet, and he went down.

The driver jumped into the back, and the three men wrestled
Robles into a pair of handcuffs. Then Sergeant Cuevas produced a roll of duct tape and taped Robles's mouth shut. They pulled the balaclava over his face and stood him up, shackling his hands to the roll bar behind the machine gun, making him look like the gunner—the first man the sniper would likely shoot. Vaught put the helmet on Robles's head and pulled the chin strap good and tight.

“It's you and me tonight, baby!” He turned to Sergeant Cuevas, switching back to Spanish. “You'd better dismount, Sergeant. There's no sense giving the sniper more than one target to choose from. We'll let our man Robles here take all the risks.”

Robles shook his head furiously, protesting as best he could with his mouth taped shut.

Vaught drew a razor-sharp folding knife from his harness and pressed the point to Robles's throat. “You'd better stand up and face this like a man.”

Robles began to cry, shaking his hands, begging to be set free.

Revolted by the traitor's cowardice, Sergeant Cuevas stepped into him, kneeing him in the groin. Robles sagged against the back of the cab with a groan and threw up in his mouth. They had to peel the tape off fast to prevent him from aspirating: sucking vomit into his lungs.

He retched once more, and they allowed him to cough himself out before applying a new strip of tape. This time Robles made no attempt to protest his fate.

“You earned this,” Vaught said, pulling the balaclava up to hide the younger man's face. “So accept what you have coming. If you fuck this up, I will stab you, I swear to God.”

Sergeant Cuevas got into a black-and-white Dodge Charger with three other officers, and both vehicles rolled out, with the pickup in the lead.