Dead Shot (20 page)

Three yellow trucks at noon, day after day, year after year.

The trucks were familiar, the drivers known to the inspectors, and the company owned by Americans, so there were never serious delays when the vehicles came to the border, which had every conceivable security device. Big fences, new television cameras, dozens of computers, sniffer dogs, and experienced inspectors worked both sides of the line. The dogs, however, were useless when the small convoy of yellow trucks arrived, because their sensitive noses would twist in agony if they inhaled the scents of peppers and raw chiles. They whimpered, their eyes watered as if they were weeping, and they batted their paws against their muzzles, sneezing. As a courtesy, the lead driver would use his cell phone when the trucks were about a half mile from the border so the handlers could take the dogs for a nice walk away and protect them from the intolerable aromas. Day after day.

Today, one of the vehicles, number 14, had been especially engineered to contain several ranks of high-pressure storage cylinders that stood against the cab wall in the cargo area behind the boxes and containers of spices. Some of the tanks were plugged into small pipes that fed up to and out of the roof of the truck, and at the turn of a dashboard switch by the driver, the contents would flow out of two exhaust fans. Others were sealed for later use. All were filled with the toxic gas that had been perfected in the Iranian lab. From Paris, Juba had transmitted the final formula to a laboratory attached to the Diablo Gourmet factory, and a small production run was assembled.

At noon, all three yellow panel trucks with the dancing devil logos rolled through the checkpoint unmolested. Number 14 was the last truck in the line and was driven by Xavier Sandoval. Three miles from the border, when he passed the Mariposa exit on I-19, Sandoval placed a call to San Francisco and confirmed that he was on his way.

BALTIMORE

S
YBELLE
S
UMMERS CALLED
G
ENERAL
Middleton on a secure phone from the safe house and did a quick report to assure him the situation was under control and they would both be back at work tomorrow. Kyle needed rest tonight. Middleton accused him of just being lazy but authorized them to take the rest of the day off. It was already dark outside when one of the government types took them back to civilization, into the swarming normality of Baltimore and the comfort of a large hotel on the waterfront.

After taking showers, they met in the bar. A storm had moved in from the east, and a steady rain whipped by the wind provided entertainment beyond the big window, where pedestrians and traffic did erratic battle at intersections and, beyond that, small boats rode the incoming swells.

“What next?” Sybelle asked, tasting a tame scotch and water.

“Try to find Juba again,” Kyle responded. He had already drained a cold pale ale microbrew and was on his second. The water treatment had left him dehydrated.

“That’s not what I meant.” She looked hard into his eyes. “This whole thing has gotten its teeth into me, Kyle. Action, worry, violent ups and downs, and not knowing whether any of us will be alive tomorrow.”

“We’ll be alive. At least for tomorrow. Can’t guarantee after that.”

“How do you know?”

“If Juba had wanted to set off a demonstration gas attack in Paris, he
would have done so by now. Why wait? He’s hauling it somewhere else. Probably coming this way.”

“See, that’s just what I mean. Tomorrow is going to be just as bad as today until we stop this bastard. Thousands of people are at risk of dying, and you and I are racing to put ourselves right in the middle of the next ground zero in order to stop him.” She reached across the table and grabbed both of his hands in hers. “Right now I need to stop being a Force Recon Marine and just be a woman for a couple of hours. I want a man’s arms around me and some sweet nothings whispered in my ear.”

“I see your point, Sybelle, but I ain’t that guy.”

“Oh, I know that. I outrank you anyway, and sleeping with you would almost be like incest. But I don’t want you to be concerned if I’m gone for the next few hours. I am going to hit a club or two and look at the lights and dance and have a couple of drinks. Then some smooth-talking and beautiful man is going to pick me up and take me back to his apartment. I suggest you do the same.”

“Pick up some dude?”

“Don’t be weird. Call Rent-a-Blonde, or maybe buy a drink for that little brunette at the bar. Just don’t be alone tonight.” She squeezed his arm tightly, rose from the booth, and walked out, toward the music that she hoped was waiting for her somewhere uptown. She stood in the doorway to struggle into a raincoat and belt it tight. Kyle wondered what the pickup guy was going to think about the ankle holster and the Gerber knife.

The brunette watched Sybelle leave, then looked over at him. She wore a silk blouse with a subtle Chinese print and a matching brown skirt and shoes, with gold accessories. The triangular face was Midwest pretty, and her hair was shoulder length and layered. The brown eyes were questioning.

He ordered another beer and settled back, letting his mind roam.
We know who Juba is now, so the problem becomes finding him. What is he looking for? How can we put a net over him so I can kill him?
He closed his eyes and ran the mental loop again, everything he could re
call about Juba and the earlier Trident discussions about how to nail the enemy sniper back when he was just the scourge of Iraq.

“Do you mind if I join you?” The soft question made him open his eyes.

“Sure. No. I mean not at all,” said Kyle, snapping awake. “Please. Sit down. Nobody should be alone on a night like this.”

Sybelle dropped her wet coat, slid in beside him, and ordered a drink.

GUILFORD, CONNECTICUT

Christopher Lowry firmly believed that he could find anybody; it was impossible for any American to completely disappear. When the ten-thousand-dollar retainer came in with the request for a location trace, the private detective poured another cup of coffee, put aside the
Courier,
and got to work. He and his wife, their five children, and two dogs lived in an old house on one of the many crooked, twisting roads around Sachem Head Harbor, and he always had bills to pay.

United States Marine Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson. Trying the obvious first, he typed the name into several search engines, looked over the mass of hits, and decided that couldn’t be right. He refined the search and got the same result. Then he switched to a restricted military database and again received the same information, along with a personnel jacket that ended with the man’s burial at Arlington National Cemetery. The archives of several major newspapers, including the
Post
and the
Times,
contained stories covering the event and awarding the Marine the Medal of Honor. A friend in the state police entered the name into the NCIC database.

This Swanson guy was dead and planted. Lowry drank some more coffee and took the dogs for a walk. They tore around through the thick trees chasing squirrels and went splashing into the shallow water where fields of cattails grew tall, and Lowry let his thoughts go free as he limped along behind them. He had been on the New York Police Department for fifteen years and carried the shield of a detective before a
bullet from a crack addict took away much of his left knee and forced him into retirement. Chris Lowry doubted if his client was going to be satisfied with a newspaper report that the man they were thinking about hiring had been dead for some time, buried in Arlington.

Okay,
he thought,
so we start at the beginning.
The stories said the man was from South Boston. By noon, he was easing his blue Toyota sedan onto the Connecticut Turnpike, heading for Southie.

BALTIMORE

“Swanson! Where is that asshole and his poison gas?” The voice on the telephone brimmed with authority. Kyle blinked himself awake, shook Sybelle’s bare shoulder, and silently mouthed the word “Middleton.” She threw the bedcovers aside and sprinted, naked, to the open door between their rooms, as if the general could see between Washington and New York. She took nothing for granted, particularly where the Lizard might be involved. He had eyes and ears everywhere.

“General? Jesus, sir, what time is it?”

“Almost 0600. Gimme something that Wolf Blitzer doesn’t already know.”

“Can’t do it, sir. I’ve been asleep. Just spent a day getting tortured, you know?”

“Bullshit. You went through stuff worse than that in boot camp. We’ve got a session at 0900 with the alphabet agencies, and it would take too long for you to drive, so the Lizard has laid on a helicopter to bring you and Summers back here. Where is she, anyway? Tried her room and no answer.”

Kyle took time to yawn and sound sleepy. “I don’t know, General. Probably out for a run. I’m not her keeper.”

“Excellent. I ran three miles before breakfast myself and have been at my desk since five. Go get her and get on that bird.”

“Three miles before breakfast. You are one hell of a Marine, sir,” Kyle said.

“Hoo-ah,” said the general and hung up.

Sybelle leaned against the adjoining door, a white towel around her and her beeper in her hand. “I have a message to call him.”

“Forget it.” He was leaning on his elbows, looking at her. “He has a helicopter coming in to fetch us back to the Pentagon.”

“Damn, Kyle. This is what I meant last night when I told you the stress was getting to me. It never ends. Last night was great, but both of us know there is no future for any relationship. There is only room for work, and I almost feel like a traitor for having sex with you.”

“Yeah. It would only complicate things.” It was the first time he had had a serious sexual interlude since the death of Shari Towne. “But thanks for rescuing me yesterday, in more ways than one.”

She let the towel fall and dropped the beeper on top of it. “Hoo-ah.”

Precisely at 0845, a shining black government SUV was waiting at the Pentagon and all four members of Task Force Trident climbed aboard. “Sar’nt Johnson! Take us to the Old Exec and go in through the gate. It’s next to the White House. You know where that is, I assume.”

“Excuse the general’s abrupt manner, Sergeant,” said Kyle. “He ran three miles before breakfast and then drank too much coffee.”

The driver managed a smile. They were already out of the parking lot and into traffic. “Fast or medium fast, sir?”

“Fast,” replied the general, and the sergeant clicked on the siren and lights and swerved into a hole between two yellow cabs, setting off a round of horn honking.

In the rear, the Lizard looked at Sybelle with a strange smirk.

“What?” she said.
The little fucker knows!

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking.” He blushed and looked away.

A private and secure conference room had been set aside for them on the second floor of the Old Executive Office Building, and it was empty when Middleton led his team down the checkerboard-tile hallway to an office that was guarded by a uniformed member of the U.S. Secret Service. From the outside, the location seemed no different
than any other in the busy office building, but the old wooden door opened into an airlock, and just inside, a step put a visitor above a false floor and into a slightly smaller room that also had a false ceiling and soundproof glass. Sound was imprisoned within the room.

“Send them in, please,” said General Middleton as they entered, and the Trident group went ahead and took chairs around a table. The Secret Service agent opened the door again, and two more people entered.

Agent Carolyn Walker looked refreshed, in a starched white blouse with a crisp collar and tailored gray pin-striped trousers. The night at home had helped her. Dave Hunt of the FBI still appeared disgruntled but was in a different suit. Their eyes took in the four people waiting for them, and puzzlement was written on their faces because they had put one of them through the wringer the previous day and another one had threatened to kill both of them.

“Please, have a seat,” said Middleton, sweeping his hand toward vacant chairs. He smiled. “Thank you both for coming over on such short notice.”

“General, what is this about?” asked Walker. The urgent summons to attend this meeting had left her in a foul mood. The Old Exec was neutral ground, neither Pentagon military nor government granite. It guaranteed no home field advantage for bickering agencies.

“Simply put, you two are back in the game.” Middleton leveled his gaze at them but did not raise his voice.

“And what game is that, exactly?” asked Hunt.

“Probably the biggest of your careers.” The general opened his file and slid out the picture of Juba. “You took this in Paris, right? The subject’s code name is Juba, and he is a motivated and extremely skillful terrorist operative. We believe he is about to hit the United States with a poison gas weapon much larger than the one that went off in London. We have to stop him.”

Walker nodded but put the picture aside. “We want to help, believe me, but I don’t take orders from you, General.”

“Me either,” said Hunt, his voice not much more than a growl. “I’m
FBI, and she is Department of Homeland Security. We have our own chain of command. I know the letter that woman waved at us yesterday outranked us for the time being, but that was then. Big difference.”

Middleton was unperturbed. “Earlier this morning, the directors of both of your agencies signed authorizations of temporary duty assignments for you. Now you’re mine.” He slid a document to each of them to verify his statement. “You are veteran and experienced agents, cleared for Top Secret material and beyond, so here it is. Everything I am going to tell you is above top secret.”

“Way above,” agreed the Lizard, pointing a finger toward the ceiling. He had opened his laptop. “Big way.”

The general glanced over. “That is Lieutenant Commander Benton Freedman, our do-it-all electronics and communications officer. Next to him is Marine Captain Sybelle Summers, whom you met yesterday. And finally, the man you captured, Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson, also USMC. The four of us make up Task Force Trident, and that is what you are now attached to.”

“So it’s a military black op outfit?”

“Is Swanson an assassin? We saw him shoot Saladin.”

“Let’s just say he is a specialist,” Middleton replied smoothly. “And, no, we are not really a military unit at all. We just carry the baggage for Swanson. Now, the reason you could not identify him yesterday is that he is officially dead, with a headstone at Arlington to prove it. Every record was scrubbed clean a couple of years ago. Swanson was the best scout-sniper in the Marine Corps and specialized in black ops. His death was staged to create a unique place in which he could still operate under the deepest of covers. He simply ceased to exist. The Invisible Man.”

“Excuse me, General,” said the Lizard in a quiet voice.

Middleton ignored him, concentrating on the sales pitch. “Trident was set up to support Swanson. We work for him, because he needs specialized backup, and putting him under the Department of Agriculture didn’t seem appropriate. Don’t worry, this is totally legitimate, just way off the books.”

Walker rubbed her eyes. “This is confusing. Why do you want us involved when you have all of the Pentagon resources under your thumb?”

Kyle finally spoke. “Because you both impressed me. You not only snatched me off the street in France and got away with it, but you also were willing to bend the rules to get the answers you needed. I want that kind of help for this job.”

“General Middleton.” The Lizard again tried and was ignored.

Kyle continued, “You continue to run your normal operations and use every trick in your books, but cut us in on everything and help push things along with any special needs we might have. Nobody knows about Trident, but everyone jumps when the FBI or DHS shows up on their doorstep. You two bring a lot to the table for this job.”