Ghost Sniper (22 page)

53

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

18:00 HOURS

The neighborhood around Agent Mike Ortega's house was mostly untouched by the earthquake, but the damage to the shopping plaza just a few blocks away had been considerable, and electrical power still hadn't been restored to the area. Even cellular service remained spotty at best.

“You gotta be smooth,” Crosswhite warned Vaught, the two of them sitting in a car just across the street. “This woman won't be a pushover. I'm sure Ortega's told her how to keep an eye out for kidnappers.”

“I'll be smooth enough.” Vaught got out of the car and shut the door, hating why he was there.

A few seconds later, he rang the bell to the Ortega house.

Nancy Ortega came out and stood inside the locked gate. She was tall, a Mexican American with short dark hair. “Can I help you?” she asked in Spanish.

Vaught offered his badge and identification to show he worked for the Diplomatic Security Service. “Mrs. Ortega,” he said in perfect English, “I'm agent Vaught with the DSS. I'm afraid there's been an emergency involving your husband, Mike.”

She stepped forward and took his identification, examining it carefully. “What kind of emergency?”

“He's been abducted. We're not sure by who yet, but I and another agent are here to bring you to a safe location.”

She handed his credentials back to him and took her phone from her back pocket.

“Mrs. Ortega, before you do that—”

She looked up, her gaze fearful.

“It's not likely you'll get through to Mike, but if you do, keep in mind we don't know who might answer his phone. The abduction hasn't been made public, so you
could
jeopardize our chances of getting him back. Please take that into consideration.”

Nancy Ortega was in a quandary, holding a wrist to her forehead as she tried to decide the best course of action. “We're not supposed to leave the house if there's an emergency. We have security measures built in.”

“I'm aware of that,” he said easily. “But so are the police—and they'll find a way in. Believe me.”

“The police?” She glanced around warily. “Are you saying he was taken by the police?”

“Nancy,” he said, deciding to make the conversation personal, “Mike was working with us to catch Alice Downly's killer. We've discovered that corrupt police officials were involved—and, yes, that's who we
think
took him, but we don't know for sure. That's why it's imperative we get you and your children out of here as soon as possible.”

“But . . .” She glanced at her phone. There was no signal. “But we're not supposed to leave if anything happens. We're supposed to lock down the house, and . . .”

“And what?” he asked patiently.

“Wait for help from—from the government,” she said lamely.

“Nancy”—he pointed across the street to Crosswhite and then back to himself—“that's who we are. I'm sorry we're not the US Marines, but that kind of rescue would probably cause an international incident.”

She stood biting the inside of her cheek. “I can trust you?”

“Of course,” he said, feeling like shit. He and Crosswhite were taking on a huge responsibility using Ortega's wife and children as pawns.

“Where will we go?”

“To a safe house in Toluca. It's nothing fancy, but it's out of the way. We're working
very
closely with the police there.”

“And you trust them?”

“Ninety-nine percent.”

She allowed a thin smile. “I didn't know any police in this country could be trusted to that degree of certainty.”

Vaught felt even more like shit. “We've been working with these men to fight the cartels. They're very brave and very dedicated.”

“I need some time to get my children ready.”

“Ten minutes,” he said. “No more than that—please.”

“Okay.” She went inside.

Vaught went back over to the car. “She's getting the kids ready.”

Crosswhite glanced at the rearview mirror. “So she bought it?”

“For now, but if she gets a signal on that phone, she's gonna call Ortega. I saw it in her eyes.”

“Even after you told her it might get him killed?”

Vaught nodded. “She's already breaking protocol by leaving with us, and she knows it.”

“Well, this way is better than going in there and taking them against their will.”

“Nothing happens to them,” Vaught said, pointing his finger. “You got that?
Nothing
!
”

“Relax,” Crosswhite said. “They can stay with Paolina and Valencia. I'll give Pao the same cover story you just gave Ortega's old lady,
and they'll get along like peas in a pod. The kids can eat pizza and chase around after the puppy.”

“Shit!” Vaught hissed, having second thoughts. “After this, I'm a goddamn kidnapper; for the rest of my life I'm a goddamn kid­napper.”

“Hey, champ! Do you wanna let Serrano get away with having Downly and your whole fuckin' team blown away? Get in the fuckin' car, and let's go.”

Vaught remembered seeing his men rocketed and shot apart before his eyes, and the anger of that day came back in a rush. True, the gringo sniper, the Ruvalcabas, and the crooked cops had all played their part—but the operation itself had been Serrano's call.

“We're gonna have to disable her phone,” he said quietly. “We've got cellular service in Toluca.”

“I'll take care of her phone,” Crosswhite said. “Just get 'em in the car, so we can get back. The last thing we need is to run into a
narcobloqueo
after sundown.” A
narcobloqueo
was a common type of roadblock set up by narcotics traffickers to create civil panic and disrupt emergency services.

54

TIJUANA, MEXICO

18:30 HOURS

Mariana decided to meet with Clemson Fields in a public gymnasium, where a girls' volleyball tournament was taking place on two separate courts. Lorena and Tanya, whom she had come to think of as “the twins,” were seated three rows behind her, wearing gaudy, sequin-studded LA ball caps pulled low over their eyes.

Fields came up the stairs to the second tier and took a seat beside her. “I didn't know you were a sports fan,” he said dryly.

“Really? I'm surprised you didn't see it in my file. I only played volleyball all through high school and college.”

Noting her self-assured tone, he took a casual glance around to see if they were being watched. There were a few other Americans in the crowd, but they were obviously caught up in the games being played simultaneously down on the floor.

He handed her a slip of paper. “Jessup has been staying at that
motel. He sleeps most of the day and goes out around nine. Those are the clubs and bars he likes to hit.”

She folded the paper away into her pocket without looking at it, waiting to hear what else he had to say.

Fields attempted briefly to wait her out but then realized she was intentionally keeping her counsel. “It will take a little time for him to open up to you, but—”

“Oh, do you think so?” she said, taking her eyes off the game. “You mean he won't just blurt out the sniper's name and location the second I let him buy me a drink?”

“Do you understand how important this is?” Fields asked, restraining the impulse to raise his voice.

Mariana was beyond tired of being spoken to in the peremptory tone that CIA men took with her. “What I understand is that you think I'm going to fuck this guy for information!”

He turned his head toward the game. “Lower your voice.”

“Or what?”

He looked at her, seeing the defiance. “Do I need to remind you I'm the only one looking out for your interests at the moment—as well as those of your friend Crosswhite?”

“No, you don't, but how many other operatives do you have lined up to take my place?”

She had him on that point. There was no one else in-country he could use for what he had in mind. If all he was looking for was a woman to fuck Jessup for information, Tijuana was full of hookers who were far better qualified than Mariana. “I'm not a man to trifle with, Mariana. I warn you.”

“I'll call you when I have something.” She got up to leave.

He took her by the wrist. “I want daily reports.”

She jerked free of his grasp. “I
said
, I'll call you when I have something!” With that, she walked to the end of the aisle and disappeared down the stairs.

Watching her leave, Fields pondered her smart mouth, realizing
that she must be in contact with Crosswhite, but he couldn't think of how that accounted for the sass he was getting. She'd been more intimidated by him back in Texas. Something had changed, and he needed to find out what before that something bit him in the ass.

Feeling uneasy, he got up and trudged down the stairs.

The twins followed after him at a safe distance.

They trailed him to a rented car. Catching a taxi, they told the driver to follow the blue sedan. They stopped at a motel a couple of miles from the gymnasium, watching from the backseat as Fields got out and knocked at the door to room 11. A handsome Mexican man answered, and the two stood talking.

“I WASN'T ABLE
to find out where she's staying,” Fields said. “I couldn't work it into the conversation.”

“I probably should have followed you and tailed her,” the Mexican replied in perfect American English. His name was Villalobos. He was a pipe hitter out of Phoenix, a former marine with three tours in Iraq. “Why couldn't you work it in?”

“She's different now.” Fields scanned around for anyone watching. The cab at the curb with two nattering young women in it didn't register as much more than a blip on his radar. “She's grown a spine somehow.”

“She'll be easy enough to reacquire,” Villalobos said. “I'll keep an eye on Jessup every night. Then tail her back to her hotel after she establishes first contact. Don't worry. This prissy bitch isn't gonna fuck him on the first run.”

“She isn't gonna fuck him at all.”

There was a hint of concern in Villalobos's eyes. “You're sure about that?”

Fields nodded. “Initially, I thought I could intimidate her into taking one for the team—Jessup's not a bad-looking guy—but like I said, she's different now.”

“This means I'll have to be creative when the time comes. And I might not have a chance to call you before I make my move.”

“I trust in your powers of improvisation,” Fields said. “That's why you're here and not those two clowns from Baja.”

THE TWINS WATCHED
as the men finished talking. The Mexican stepped back into his room, and Fields returned to his car. Twenty seconds later, he was pulling into the street.

“Do you want me to follow?” the cabby asked. A wolfish-looking fellow in his early thirties, he was staring at them in the rearview mirror.

“We're getting out here.” Lorena locked eyes with him as she crushed $500 worth of pesos into his hand, easily a month's salary. “Don Antonio Castañeda is grateful for your service. He always remembers those who help him—and he
never
forgets those who
fuck
him!” She gave the drug lord's name a few moments to sink in before releasing his hand.

The cabby felt his urine turning to ice water as he attempted to push the money back into her hands. “Please, I don't need your money!”

“Keep it,” she told him, getting out after Tanya. “And remember: you've never seen us!”

55

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

21:15 HOURS

With a quarter of Mexico City's streets still blocked, it was tough to make good time, especially at night. The city was a huge, sprawling metropolis, and neither Crosswhite nor Vaught made the best navigators.

“Is it just me,” Crosswhite said, “or does every part of town look the same in the dark?”

“Are you lost?” Nancy asked from the backseat, with her children seated on either side of her: a boy of six and a girl of eight.

“More like disoriented,” Crosswhite answered.

“You can get off at the next exit,” she said. “Then cross through Colonia El Mirador.”

Vaught looked over the back of the seat, seeing that Nancy was keeping an eye on her phone, watching for a signal. “How well do you know the city?”

“Pretty well,” she said, thumbing the touch screen. “I take it you're both new in town?”

“Me more than him,” Vaught said. “He at least lives here.”

“Only a year,” Crosswhite said, exiting the freeway and driving down the avenue into a blacked-out section of the city. “Shit. No power here either.”

“Make a left up ahead,” she said. “Go south toward Colonia San Luis Tlatilco. I assume you're headed for Highway 134?”

“Yeah,” he said, following her instructions.

“Damn,” she muttered. “Only three percent battery.”

Vaught turned around to face the front, a smile coming to his face.

The daughter began to cry, and Nancy hugged her close. “It's okay, baby. The charger's in the trunk.”

His smile disappeared.

They turned another corner, and there was a city bus on fire in the middle of the street, blocking passage.

Crosswhite hit the brakes. “
Narcobloqueo
!
” He shifted into reverse.

Men with guns and masks appeared from the shadows, ordering everyone out of the car. Crosswhite shifted into park and dropped his phone onto the floor, where he hoped it wouldn't be seen.

Vaught stuffed his DSS badge deep into the seat. “Everyone keep calm,” he said to the kids. “It's gonna be okay.”

The doors were jerked open, and both men were pulled out. Nancy and the children were allowed to get out on their own, but one of the men took her phone and stuck it in his jacket pocket, telling her and the children to stand over by the building and keep quiet.

Crosswhite and Vaught were pushed against the car and searched.

“Why are you here, gringo?” one of the men asked.

“I'm a permanent resident,” Crosswhite said. “My identification is in my wallet.”

The man took his wallet and tossed it to another guy. Crosswhite turned around, his hands up. “You can have the money,” he said easily, “but can I keep my permanent resident card? Getting a new one from immigration is a pain in the ass.”

The guy with the wallet took out Crosswhite's ID, examined the green card with a flashlight and gave it back to him. “How many years do you have here?”

“Five,” Crosswhite lied. “I live with my wife and daughter in Toluca. That's where we're going now.”

They questioned Vaught, who told similar lies, saying he was originally from Monterrey, up near the border, to cover his accent. “These are my wife and children,” he said, gesturing at Nancy and the kids.

“Where is your wallet?” asked the man with the gun.

“In the trunk with our bags.”

Someone took the keys and opened the trunk, rifling through Nancy's suitcases. He tossed the phone charger to the man who'd taken her phone. “I don't see any wallet.”

“It's in the red gym bag.”

The man tossed the trunk a second time. “There is no red gym bag.”

Vaught looked at Nancy. “You didn't put my bag in the car? Everything I need is in that bag!”

“I didn't see it,” she said. “You told me all the bags were in the carport.”

Vaught swore foully, shaking his head. “Everything I need for work is in that goddamn bag! My computer . . . everything! Now we have to go all the way back!”

“It's not my fault!”

“Shut up,” the man told them. “Argue later.”

Another man searched the glove box and found nothing of value. “Do we want the car?”

“Let them go,” said the man who'd taken Crosswhite's wallet. “They have children, and the car is nothing special.”

A minute later, everyone was back in the car, and the burning bus was growing smaller in the rearview mirror.

Vaught looked at Nancy. “Your passports are in your pocket?”

“Of course,” she said, grateful to be alive.

“Smart thinking,” he said with a smile. “Thanks for going along with the program back there.”

“What choice did I have?”

“Well, you were quick on your feet. That was a big help.”

“Where's your wallet?” Crosswhite asked.

Vaught pulled it from the seat. “Stashed it first thing. If they'd seen my badge, we'd be screwed.”

“We're gonna need money for the tolls on the highway,” Crosswhite said. He looked at Nancy in the mirror. “Do you have any money?”

“A few hundred,” she lied, wearing five thousand dollars in US fifties around her waist in a money belt. “You can have if you need it.”

“We should be fine,” Vaught said, “but thank you.”

“Where was
your
badge?” she asked Crosswhite.

“I'm not DSS. I'm CIA like—like your husband.”

“Do you know him?”

“We've met only once, actually.”

“So you're not attached to Mexico station?”

“Not directly.”

“Then you're an operator. That's why Washington sent you for me?”

She's sharp
, Crosswhite thought.
We'll definitely have to be careful with her.
“Yes, ma'am.”

“You're both ex-military?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“That makes me a little feel better.” Before the
narcobloqueo
, she'd been worried to death about her husband. Now she couldn't help being terrified for her children as well. “I thought we were in real trouble back there.”

“The narcos don't usually make war on civilians,” Crosswhite said. “It happens, but it's not their policy. If you give them what they want, they usually let you go.
Usually
.”

“But the Ruvalcabas have been worse recently.”

“That's true,” he admitted. “Which is why I say
usually
. But we're working to put a stop to Hector Ruvalcaba.”

“You do know that Ruvalcaba is supported by the politician Lazaro Serrano.”

Crosswhite stole glances with Vaught. “Yes, ma'am. And we're working to stop him, too.”

“Mike mentioned something about the government here building a case against him.”

“Well, the earthquake has changed all that. Now the plan is to remove him altogether.”

“Which is why they've brought you in?”

Definitely fast on her feet
, he thought. “Yes, ma'am. That's why they brought me in.”

“So why a DSS agent?” she asked Vaught. “Are you the one who was assigned to my husband after chasing the sniper that killed Alice Downly?”

Vaught glanced over the seat. “That's me.”

Nancy turned back to Crosswhite. “Is your wife Cuban, by any chance?”

Again, Crosswhite glanced at her in the mirror, a thin smile pursing his lips. “Yes, ma'am. My wife is Cuban. Mike seems to share a lot with you—more than he should, it sounds like.”

“You're the one who punched him, aren't you? The cabrón who sent him home with that goose egg on his head.”

He couldn't help chuckling. “Yes, ma'am, I'm the cabrón.”

“You hit my daddy!” accused the little boy.

“I did,” Crosswhite confessed. “And I apologize.”

The little boy lurched forward and hit Crosswhite on the back of the head before Nancy could grab his arm. “I hate you!”

“You don't hit people, Alejandro!”

Crosswhite chuckled again. “It's okay. He's entirely justified in this instance. I'm sorry for hitting your dad, Alejandro. You're a good man to defend him. I respect that.”

The rest of the ride to Toluca was uneventful. They pulled around behind Crosswhite's apartment, and Paolina came out the back door. He got out fast and hugged her, whispering something into her
ear before asking her aloud to show the kids to their room. Vaught helped Nancy repack their rifled bags in the trunk.

After a few seconds, Crosswhite's phone rang beneath his seat in the car, and he ran to get it.

“Crosswhite,” he answered. “Yeah, we're just arriving at the safe house.” He pretended to listen for almost a minute. “And all that's confirmed? Roger that. We'll stand by here.”

He stuck the phone into his pocket and turned to Nancy. “We've confirmed Mike was taken by some corrupt cops working for Serrano. For the moment, it doesn't look like they plan to hurt him. More likely, they plan to hold onto him until after the election. Once Serrano is president, he knows he'll be untouchable. I'm guessing he probably intends to free Mike as a gesture of good faith to the CIA.”

“But the election is three months away!”

“Don't worry,” Crosswhite said gently. “We know where he's being held. It's not far from here, so Agent Vaught and I will put together a plan to get him back. In the meantime, you need to stay here and out of sight with Paolina, because it's also been confirmed that Mexico City PD is looking for you and the kids. They raided your house about an hour after we got you out.” He looked at Vaught. “We weren't cutting it quite as close as I thought, but it was close enough.”

Vaught grunted.

Nancy gave Crosswhite a brief hug. “Thank you.”

“It's okay,” he said. “Better get inside now. We'll bring the bags in.”

When she was gone, Vaught looked at Crosswhite and shook his head. “You believed every word of bullshit you just told her.”

Crosswhite shrugged. “If I don't believe it, how the hell can I expect her to?”