Ghost Sniper (4 page)

6

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

21:20 HOURS

Later that evening, Vaught sat brooding on the floor in the corner of the living room, handcuffed to an eyebolt protruding from the concrete wall. Paolina sat on the leather sofa, reading a book to her young daughter, Valencia. Crosswhite had stepped out for more beer and limes.

Vaught cleared his throat, and Paolina looked up to see what he wanted. He tugged at the handcuff. “Can I have my can of tobacco?” he asked in Spanish.

“No,” she said. “I don't want you spitting in my house.”

“Can I have a cigarette?”

“We only smoke in the bedroom.” She caressed the dark-skinned child's curly black hair. “And never around my daughter.”

Vaught sat looking at her. She was heartbreakingly pretty, but there was a stark maturity about her that he had to admit was intimidating.

“What have you been through?” he asked.

“None of your business.” She returned her attention to the story­book.

“You know, you don't have to put up with me,” he said after awhile. “Give me the key, and I'll be gone in ten seconds.”

“I would love to. Now shut up and let me read to my daughter.”

Ten minutes later, Crosswhite arrived with more beer. “Did you make the salsa, baby?”

“It's in the refrigerator,” she answered. “There's guacamole also.”

“How's our guest?”

“Annoying.”

Crosswhite laughed from the kitchen. “Has he been giving you trouble?”

“He wants to spit in my house.”

“I wasn't going to spit in the house,” Vaught said in protest. “I'll swallow it, for God's sake.”

Crosswhite came into the living room and offered Vaught a bottle of beer with a wedge of lime in it. “I don't set the rules of the house,” he said in English. “I just live by them.”

“I'm getting that,” Vaught said gloomily.

Crosswhite took a pull from his beer. “It's been awhile since I've had another dogface to drink with. Too bad you're shackled—kinda feels like drinkin' with a fugitive.”

“Then let me loose.”

“Can't do it, not until I hear from Ortega.” Crosswhite went and sat beside Paolina, taking the little girl into his arms. She nestled against him, hugging a stuffed turtle and sucking her thumb.

“Is there a woman waiting for you back in the States?” Crosswhite asked.

“Would you give a fuck if there were?”

“Watch your language around this little girl,” Crosswhite warned. “And I'm not the reason you're here. You put yourself in this mess.” A phone rang in the other room, and he went to answer it. He came back a few minutes later and offered a satellite phone to Vaught. “Doctor Doom wants to talk to you.”

“Who?”

“Fields.”

Vaught took the phone. “This is Special Agent in Charge Chance Vaught. To whom am I speaking?”

There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. “That sounded rather official coming from a man chained to a wall.”

“Then who the fuck is this?” Vaught said, stealing a cautious glance at Crosswhite.

“Agent Vaught, I'm Clemson Fields, CIA. I'm your handler, and you're going to do exactly as you're told until this situation has been resolved to the president's satisfaction. Do you understand?”

“I'll tell you what I understand,” Vaught said. “I understand that I haven't seen any credentials
what-so-ever
from Crosswhite here, and
you
could be anybody. So until I see some kind of documentation verifying this CIA bullshit, you're just a voice on the goddamn phone. You copy that, asshole?”

Crosswhite whispered to Paolina, who picked up the child and took her into the bedroom, eyeing Vaught coldly as she passed.

“Very good,” Fields said. “The Mexico station chief will arrive tomorrow morning with the proper credentials, at which time you'll be made to understand exactly what is expected of you. I'll warn you in advance: you're not going to like it. You're going to be working with the PFM—more specifically, with the PFM agent who saved your life, since he's the only one we're reasonably sure you can trust.”

“Trust?” Vaught said. “Let me shove a stun gun up
your
ass, and we'll see how much fucking trust you feel.”

“Agent Vaught, if you believe nothing else, you'd better believe this: the president, your commander in chief, is highly pissed about your leaving the reservation after allowing Alice Downly to run out into the street and get herself blown in half.”

Vaught cringed. “That's not exactly how it happened.”

“I've seen the video,” Fields said. “So has the president—and that's exactly how it looks to him, I can assure you.”

“What video?” Vaught croaked.

“There's always an eye in the sky, Agent Vaught. You should know that by now.”

At that moment, Vaught realized Fields was talking about a surveillance drone with stealth technology, and most of the fight left him. “Well, video or not,” he said quietly, “nobody who wasn't on the ground can know how it went down. We were taking fifty-caliber sniper fire. You can ask Agent Uriah Heen how bad it was.”

“From what I understand, Agent Heen has been recalled to the US. I guess we'll see soon enough what he has to say. In the meantime, is it safe for Crosswhite to set you free, or should he leave you there in your little corner until Agent Ortega arrives in the morning to swear you in?”

Vaught drew a breath and let it back out with sigh. “I won't go anywhere.”

“I understand you're interested in pursuing the sniper who killed Alice Downly,” Fields went on. “We might be able to work with you on that, but not until you've shown yourself to be a team player. Understood?”

“I don't want my family thinking I'm dead,” Vaught said. “You assure me they won't be told that, and I'll do my part down here. Can you agree to that much?”

“I don't see why not,” Fields said. “You're from a military family. I'm sure your brothers and parents can be made to understand the importance of secrecy—especially since your life might depend on it. You can give me back to Crosswhite now.”

Vaught offered up the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

Crosswhite took the phone. “I'm here.”

“I think it's probably safe to set him loose,” Fields said. “He sounds sufficiently cowed to me. Have you mentioned the ATRU?”

“It's come up.”

“You'd better fill him in all the way. Pope's looked over his service record, and he wants him. The president's already given his approval.”

“I'll fill him in.”

“All right,” Fields said. “I'll be in touch—and I heard the Doctor Doom remark.”

“I don't expect to lose much sleep over that.” Crosswhite pressed the disconnect button and tossed the phone onto the sofa.

He took the handcuff key from his pocket. “I won't try to stop you from leaving. I've done everything required of me, so if you take off now, it's between you and Bob Pope. He's a vindictive bastard who carries a grudge, and I have no doubt he'd find a way to convince the president to string you up by the balls.” He tossed the key to Vaught and went back into the kitchen to start preparing dinner.

Vaught freed himself and stood up, looking at the stun gun on the sofa.

Paolina came back into the room with her daughter, eyeing him suspiciously as she sat back down.

Vaught looked at her, at her unbridled nipples pressing through her T-shirt, wishing he could see her naked just once. “How do you like Mexico compared with Cuba?”

She shrugged. “Probably less than you like looking at my nipples.”

His face reddening, he averted his eyes and stood near the corner feeling stupid.

Crosswhite came back into the room chuckling. “Sit wherever you want, Chance.” He kissed Paolina on the lips and whispered something in her ear. She looked up at him, and he kissed her again, whispering something else to her.

Paolina was less cold during dinner—not much, but a little.

After dinner, she bathed Valencia and put her down to sleep. Then she joined Crosswhite on the couch in the living room, where Vaught was protesting his circumstances.

“. . . but I work for DSS. I'm not CIA, and I sure as hell don't work for the ATRU. I don't care what Pope says.”

Crosswhite leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You don't get it. You've been disowned. You're an embarrassment. DSS
doesn't want you anymore. Your career with them is over. Even if they keep you on, you'll never be in charge of another security detail. Hell, an incident like this can even follow you into the private sector. Your entire team was wiped out, man. Whether you want to accept it or not, Pope is doing you a favor.”

“Oh, bullshit!”

Crosswhite chuckled. “I didn't say he was doing you a favor out of the kindness of his heart—he doesn't do those kinds of favors. He only does favors for people who are useful to him.”

“If I'm such a fuckup, how am I useful?”

“Well, there's different kinds of fuckups,” Crosswhite replied. “Some can be rehabilitated. Some can't. Pope's looked you over, and he's seen something he likes. He's asked the president to let him bring you aboard, and the old man's given his consent.”

Vaught sat up straight. “Fields told you that?”

Crosswhite nodded. “So you can either get with the program or tell the government to stick it. If you do the latter, you'll never work security for anything more important than a football game. Pope will see to it.”

Vaught smirked, seeing the picture. “He sounds like a real prick.”

Crosswhite sat back and slid his arm around Paolina, pulling her close and kissing her hair. “I think of him more as a god—kinda like Zeus: indifferent if he has no real use for you, but generous if you excel at his favorite pastime.”

“Which is?”

Crosswhite smiled. “War.”

7

MALBUN SKI LODGE, LIECHTENSTEIN

02:30 HOURS

Gil was in the lodge lounge, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette, when Blickensderfer's fiancée came striding into the room. She wore a black dinner dress, with her blond hair flowing to the small of her back and a pair of diamond pendant earrings. Her blue eyes piercing, she was tall and stunning and seemed to possess the room the moment she entered. Gil watched her as she crossed to the bar, noting her black heels and the slit of her dress that extended halfway up her thigh.

He knew from the mission dossier that her name was Lena Deiss, a Swiss national, age thirty, and that she came from a wealthy family. A member of the jet set, she valued a man who could accommodate her lavish lifestyle and keep her entertained. In addition to alpine skiing, she enjoyed other adrenaline sports such as skydiving and car racing.

The harshness of her gaze this evening was a change from what Gil had seen over the past few nights around the lodge. She was not
her usual happy self. She looked pissed, and Gil guessed that she and Blickensderfer had argued. He didn't care. Blickensderfer wasn't going to be a problem for anyone a whole lot longer.

Lena accepted her cocktail and turned from the bar, making steam straight for his table. He glanced involuntarily over his shoulder, hoping he'd misjudged her heading, but there wasn't anyone seated behind him.

“Shit,” he muttered, exhaling as he adjusted his posture to crush out the cigarette in an ashtray on the table.

Lena's look lost its severity as she approached the table and smiled. “I haven't seen you on the slopes all week,” she said in perfect English. She sipped from the martini, the color of her crimson lipstick unmistakable at his range. “Yet I've seen you here in the lodge every night.”

Clearing his throat, Gil recalled the .308 that had nearly severed her spinal column only hours before. “I keep to the easier runs. I'm more of a novice.”

“May I sit down?”

“Sure,” he said, feeling himself quicken. He'd been separated from his wife, Marie, for more than a year now and hadn't been with anyone else in all that time.

She reached for his pack of cigarettes, her eyes questioning.

He nodded and picked up the lighter as she poked a cigarette between her lips. He lit it for her with the Zippo, and she sat back, exhaling through tightly pursed lips.

“You're married,” she said, a little sad suddenly. “I can tell.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “Separated, actually.”

“American?”

“Canadian,” he said quickly.

She took a drag from the cigarette. “I don't blame you for lying. I imagine you're better received as a Canadian when you travel.”

He chuckled. “What makes you think I'm lying?”

A hint of her sternness returned. “I spent a year with a man who served with the British SAS. You have his same restless look, so if
you're really Canadian, you must be a soldier—and not just an ordinary one.”

Gil realized that Marie would have this same kind of intuition about any Special Forces operative that she would meet, so he decided to meet Lena halfway, taking his Canadian passport from his back pocket and setting it on the table. “I'm retired from the CSOR.”

She reached for the passport. “Which is?”

“Canadian Special Operations Regiment.”

She opened the passport to read his name. “So I guess that's a point for me then, isn't it, Conner MacLoughlin?”

He took a moment to light a cigarette for himself, tossing the lighter onto the table. “Are we keeping score?”

She was looking him in the eyes. “Would you like to keep score?”

Fuck it
, he thought to himself. “Yes, I would. What's your name?”

“I'm Lena.” She offered her hand.

The spark of chemistry was instantaneous, and Gil knew he was in trouble. “Where are the men I've seen you with?”

“They're upstairs with their cigars, playing cards.” Her annoyance was palpable. “One of them is my fiancé. Does that bother you?”

He took a drag. “Should it?”

She shrugged, tipping an ash into the ashtray. “He's a rich and powerful man—or so many people believe.”

“Do you?”

She shrugged again. “Money is power—and he has more than most people can imagine.”

Gil took a drink. “You're pissed he left you alone tonight.”

She smiled wryly. “But I'm not alone.”

“His men carry guns. I'm not lookin' to get shot.”

Lena laughed. “Is that something you worry about?”

“Always,” he said, shaping the ash against the rim of the ashtray.

Twenty minutes later, they stood naked before one another at the foot of Gil's bed, and Lena was touching the battle scars that covered his muscular torso. “My,” she whispered, feeling a warmth between her legs. “The things you must have seen and done.”

“You don't wanna know the things I've seen and done.” He slid his left hand behind her neck, taking one of her full breasts in his right to give it a firm squeeze, softly thumbing the nipple. She sighed and put her head back as he laid her down on the bed, kissing her lustfully and allowing the animal within him to run free.

As he prepared to mount her, she placed her hands on his chest. “Stop.”

He stopped. “Something wrong?”

“I should warn you.” She swallowed, her ardor burning. “I should tell you that—that I think you're about to make a very dangerous enemy.”

“How so?”

“What I mean is that I think you're about to give me reason to cancel a very expensive wedding.”

He laughed and pushed gently inside of her, burying his face in the golden storm of her hair. She gasped and dug her heels into the small of his back, clawing the flesh of his ass.

“What a fool,” she moaned softly.

“Who?” he whispered.

“The one down the hall.” She sank her fingers into his hair, nipping at his ear. “The one losing to me in a fucking card game.”