Ghost Sniper (27 page)

68

TIJUANA, MEXICO

02:30 HOURS

Mariana arrived at her motel having drunk more than she'd planned.Paying the cab driver and keying into her room, she did not notice the blue sedan that followed her from the nightclub. She dropped her purse on the bed and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Just as she was stepping into the shower, there was a knock at the door.

Thinking it must be one of the twins checking up on her, Mariana wrapped herself in a towel and went to have a look through the peephole. It was Fields.

“Shit!” she whispered, realizing he must have tailed her.

She got dressed and answered the door. “What are you doing here? I told you I'd call when I had something.”

He stepped pugnaciously into the room, invading her space and forcing her to take a step back.

“What have you learned?” he asked, moving toward a chair.

“I'm making good progress . . . and I didn't say you could sit down.”

“I didn't ask your goddamn permission!” His eyes were flinty and cruel. “Now close the door and tell me what was said! In case you haven't noticed, I'm done putting up with your shit—and so is Pope!”

There was a cold, predatory nature about him tonight, and his right hand was hidden inside the deep pocket of his overcoat. From the bulk of the weapon, she thought it must be a silenced pistol. She closed the door and took a chair near the wall, now more paranoid than ever.

“Start talking,” he said, not kindly.

She told him about her evening with Jessup in detail, omitting his obsession with the twins, who were due back any time.

“You've got him on the ropes, for Christ sake. Why didn't you invite him back here? One smooth fuck, and you'd have had the whole enchilada tonight!”

“I already told you that's not going to happen!”

He glared at her. “If you can't get Jessup to give up Hancock, you're useless. Do you understand what
useless
means in our business?”

“
Hancock
? You already know his name?”

In his entire career, Fields had never let an asset's name slip. There was no better proof that this upstart little bitch was getting under his skin.

“I also know where to find Crosswhite's family.” He let that hang in the air a moment. “I know exactly how to hurt him. So if you don't give me the sniper's location by this time tomorrow night, I make a phone call—just one—and your
friend
will be sorry he was ever born. Have you forgotten he has a baby on the way? I haven't. You're a slick little cunt, but you are not as slick as you might think.” He got up from the chair and dumped her purse onto the table.

She jumped up from the chair. “Get your fucking hands off my things!”

He snatched her satellite and cellular phones, along with her passport, and jammed them into his pocket.

“You son of a bitch! Give those back!”

He gestured with the bulky weapon hidden in his pocket. “Step away.”

She did as he said, and Fields went to the door. “If I were you”—he pointed at her crotch—“I'd put that thing to good use and get this operation wrapped up.”

He stepped out and drew the door shut behind him.

Mariana stood staring at the door. What was she going to do now? There was no way Jessup would give up the gringo sniper over lunch the next day—not unless she seduced him—and she was sure that Fields would follow through on his threat to have Paolina and the baby murdered. Hell, now that he'd stolen her passport, she couldn't even return to the US without going to the American consulate and suffering through days of bureaucratic red tape.

FIELDS WAS ABOUT
to pull out of the parking lot when he saw the twins arrive in a cab, instantly recalling having seen them at the curb in front of Villalobos's motel two days before.

“You clever bitch,” he muttered, now wanting to strangle Mariana with his bare hands. Fields backed into the shadows and sat watching the girls pay the driver. By the way they walked to their motel room, just three doors over from Mariana's, it was easy to see they'd been drinking.

He got out of the car and walked across the parking lot to the twins' room, listening at the door. They talked for a couple of minutes, and the television came on. He went around back and listened at the bathroom window for the shower, then he walked back around to the front, drawing a ball-peen hammer from his coat pocket and standing off to the side as he knocked on the door.

“Quién es?”
Tanya asked. Who is it?

“La pizza.”

Tanya opened the door a crack, keeping the security chain in place. “We didn't order—”

Fields rammed the door open with his shoulder and bashed Tanya in the head with the ball of the hammer. She dropped to the
floor without a sound, and he kicked the door closed with his heel, stalking directly into the bathroom and ripping back the shower curtain. Lorena spun around, eyes wide, and he bashed in her skull. She fell to the bottom of the stall, and he beat her over the head a second time for good measure, wiping the hammer clean with a towel and dropping it into the toilet. Blood poured from Lorena's head, mixing with the shower water and running down the drain.

Before leaving, Fields ripped Tanya's clothes from her body to give the appearance of sexual assault and dumped both purses onto the bed, stuffing their money into his pocket. He found Villalobos's suppressed pistol and jammed it into his coat. Tanya was still breathing when he left.

As he walked to his car, it occurred to Fields that he hadn't killed anyone in more than twenty years. He'd almost forgotten how invigorating it could be.

69

TOLUCA, MEXICO

08:22 HOURS

After losing the gringo sniper the night before, Vaught had gone back to Crosswhite's place to check on Paolina and Ortega's family. He caught a few hours' sleep and then returned to the police station shortly after sunrise to find it bustling with seventy-five agitated policemen. He found Sergeant Cuevas in the motor pool talking with four trusted men.

Cuevas and the other four officers were each armed with the Mexican FX-05 Xiuhcoatl “Fire Snake” assault rifle. The FX-05, an indigenous weapon manufactured by the Dirección General de Industria Militar del Ejército (General Directorate of Military Industry of the Army), was reserved for the Grupo Aeromóvil de Fuerzas Especiales (GAFE) Special Forces Airmobile Group. The rifle fired the NATO 5.56 mm round, and instead of the barrel being rifled with traditional lands and grooves, it was rifled with polygonal grooves like the Glock pistol. A sleek, deadly looking weapon, it
boasted a higher rate of fire than the American M4, with a slightly lower muzzle velocity.

Sergeant Cuevas's rifle sported a Heckler & Koch AG36 40 mm grenade launcher. Vaught had seen photographs of the still top secret rifle, which had first entered GAFE service in 2008, but this was the first time he was seeing one in real life.

“Where the hell did you find those?”

Sergeant Cuevas grinned.
“Clasificada,
amigo
.”
He cleared the weapon and handed it over.

Vaught examined the rifle. “I hate to admit it, but I'm jealous.”

One of the men immediately unshouldered his rifle, offering to trade Vaught for his M4, but the American smiled and shook his head. “Thanks, but I haven't trained with it.” He gave Cuevas's weapon back to him. “You guys have been training in secret?”

Sergeant Cuevas gave him a wink.

Vaught thumbed toward the building. “I know we lost a man last night, but what's the entire force doing here at eight o'clock in the morning?”

“Ruvalcaba's men have been spotted entering town from the south,” Sergeant Cuevas said. “An hour ago they hit one of our patrols and wiped it out. Chief Diego called the state police for reinforcements, but the pig Serrano is influencing the state police commander. They're using the earthquake in the capital as an excuse to not send help.”

“Cocksuckers!” Vaught muttered in English. “How many are we going up against?”

Sergeant Cuevas shrugged. “We don't have much of an idea, but you can believe it's more than seventy-five.”

“Are the men going to defend the city?”

“Yes. They know we wounded the sniper last night, and they're eager for a fight.”

Vaught was glad the sniper had left a blood trail; otherwise the men might not have been quite so high spirited. “You know that son of a bitch is still combat effective, right?”

Another wink from Sergeant Cuevas.

“How's Diego holding up?”

“He's scared, but the men respect him for hiding his fear. They're ready to follow his orders.”

“Good,” Vaught said. “I wish Crosswhite was here. We could use him.”

“Have you talked to him? Will he be able to stop Serrano?”

Vaught had his doubts. “I honestly don't know. He's done a reconnaissance of Serrano's estate, and he has another meeting with the fat bastard today. But even if he's successful, it won't be in time to help us—not if Ruvalcaba's men are already here.”

Sergeant Cuevas was concerned for Crosswhite's safety. “How can he kill Serrano on his own property and hope to escape alive?”

“I asked him the same thing.”

“And?”

“He said he'll have to see how the situation develops.”

Cuevas shook his head. “Crazy gringo.”

“Well, you know how they are.”

“Yes, I do,” Cuevas said, “and you're
half
gringo, so how crazy are you?”

Vaught grinned. “I'm not crazy, Sergeant. I'm just too stupid to know when to run the other way.”

70

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

11:00 HOURS

Upon arriving at Serrano's estate, Crosswhite and Mike Ortega were searched by two of Serrano's security men before entering the house. Oscar Martinez then showed them to a small sitting room and asked them to make themselves comfortable. “Señor Serrano and Captain Espinosa are discussing some business matters. I'm sure they won't be long.”

“Thank you,” Crosswhite said, sensing that Oscar was paying him closer attention than most men normally did and wondering idly if Serrano knew that his personal assistant was gay.

He'd spoken with Vaught the night before, directly after the failed attempt to bag the sniper, but he did not have his satellite phone with him this morning, so he was completely unaware of the situation developing in Toluca. Mariana had not called to check in the night before, nor had she answered her phone, and this con
cerned him, but there was nothing he could do about it at the moment.

Ortega, meanwhile, was a nervous wreck. He'd spent a mostly sleepless night handcuffed to Crosswhite's left wrist on a cheap mattress in a crappy motel, and he had no clue what the crazy ex–Green Beret had planned.

“You have to tell me
something
,” he whispered. “How am I supposed to play along if I don't know why we're here?”

“No one's expecting you to know anything,” Crosswhite said in English. “You're a dumb-ass, and they know it, so just be yourself, and you'll do fine.”

Ortega scowled. “You'd better know what you're doing.”

“Or?”

“Or we'll never get out of here alive.”

Crosswhite patted him on the back. “We'd be lucky if all they did was kill us, Mikey.”

“That doesn't make me feel any better.”

“It's not supposed to.”

Oscar returned a short time later and showed them outside. Today Serrano's mistress lay beneath a sunshade reading a magazine. She wore a green robe made of silk, and her Chihuahua sat beside her, chewing on a piece of rawhide.

She glanced at Crosswhite, who smiled at her, and went back to reading her magazine.

Lazaro Serrano and Captain Espinosa of the Federal Police were seated at the stone table beneath a tree. Captain Espinosa wore a formal-type uniform but was not armed.

Two bodyguards stood off to the side near the garden wall, much the same as they had the day before, pistols bulging beneath their jackets in shoulder holsters.

“Agent Pendleton,” Serrano said happily, almost arrogantly, getting up from the table to offer his hand to Crosswhite while ignoring Ortega altogether. “It's good to see you again. I apologize for the
wait, but I haven't had time to speak in much detail with Captain Espinosa before this morning. I was just telling him I believe you're the kind of man we can work with in the coming months—should Director Pope wish to continue our relationship.”

“That will be entirely up to the director,” Crosswhite said, offering his hand to the black-eyed, mustachioed Captain Espinosa. “Dave Pendleton, Captain. Good to meet you.”

Espinosa's grip was firm and confident, unlike Serrano's, which was limp and clammy. “Good to meet you,” he echoed.

“So,” Serrano said as they settled around the table, “what are your plans concerning Clemson Fields? Have you spoken to your embassy?”

“I have,” Crosswhite said, aware that Espinosa was scrutinizing him. “We think he's in Tijuana right now. If that's the case, it might be necessary for me to acquire him there.” He looked at Captain Espinosa. “That might be something you can assist us with, Captain.”

Espinosa stared coldly. “Are you under the impression that I work for the CIA?”

“Not at all, sir,” Crosswhite replied coolly. “As I mentioned to Senator Serrano yesterday, our primary goal is to remove the immediate threat to his safety. After that, we hope to see him elected to the office of the president, and from there to assist him in the removal of Antonio Castañeda in the North.”

Espinosa brushed a fly from his nose. “The CIA wants to be very deeply involved in Mexican affairs these days.”

Crosswhite glanced at Serrano and then back to Espinosa, deciding that the pleasantries were over. “Well, if I may speak openly, Captain, Alice Downly was an American diplomat killed on Mexican soil with your assistance. Am I correct?”

Espinosa stiffened in the chair, glancing askance at Serrano. “I have no idea where you get your information.”

“For the sake of argument,” Crosswhite said, “I'll accept that as a yes. Now, please understand that my superiors in the CIA aren't losing any sleep over Downly's death. Quite to the contrary, Director
Pope is relieved to have her out of the way.
However
, the US State Department is an entirely different matter. They've been holding off because Mexico City has suffered such a terrible disaster this week, but trust me: the US Secretary of State is gearing up to make real trouble over this Downly business. The best way for us to avoid any danger to both you and Senator Serrano is to see the senator elected president. That will put him in control of the political arena here and mitigate any threat to you. It's
my
job to help make that happen, and that's the service I'm here to offer. Now, if that's not agreeable to the senator, he just has to say the word, and I'll get on a plane today—leaving you gentlemen to deal with Fields and his band of assassins on your own.”

Crosswhite sat back, noting that Serrano's cocky air had suddenly dissipated.
Something just changed
, he told himself.
What is it?

Ortega cleared his throat, as if he were about to speak. Crosswhite gave him a look. “I remind you, Mike, that you're here as a courtesy to your station and nothing more.”

Ortega was instantly cowed, and this caused Serrano to appear even more confused. “Will you clarify something for me?”

“If I can, Senator.”

“Are you here as Director Pope's direct representative? Or some other faction of the CIA?”

“As I told you yesterday, I am here at Director Pope's personal direction. Why do you ask?”

Serrano nodded, glancing at Captain Espinosa. “Because it might interest you to know,
Agent Pendleton,
that Clemson Fields called me shortly after you left yesterday. We had quite a long conversation about you.”

Crosswhite showed no change in his expression. “I assume he had many glowing things to say?”

Serrano shook his head. “None at all. In fact, he says you are a liar. I described you to him, and he said that your real name is Daniel Crosswhite—that you and Agent Vaught are working with the PFM to have me thrown into prison.”

“And?” Crosswhite said.

“And?” Serrano glanced again at Captain Espinosa. “And
what
?”

“I don't know, Senator. You spoke with Fields, not me. What else did he say? Whatever it was, you seem to be very impressed by it.” He locked eyes with Captain Espinosa. “Or is this the moment where you order us both shot?”

Ortega felt his anus pucker up tighter than an Italian tenor's trousers.

Serrano and Espinosa had both expected Crosswhite to be shitting himself at this point, but he obviously wasn't remotely concerned, and this left them both in a genuine quandary.

“Do you have some identification?” Espinosa asked.

Crosswhite took a blue passport from his back pocket and tossed it onto the table.

Espinosa checked it over. “This says you are Canadian.”

“I
am
Canadian.”

“Then what are you doing working for the CIA?” Serrano blurted.

“At the moment, I'm trying to help save your life. Did you really expect Fields to admit to what he was up to?” Crosswhite returned his focus to Captain Espinosa, recognizing the glowering lawman as the most immediate threat. “You should have advised the senator much better than that, Captain.”

If Espinosa had sat up any straighter in that moment, his spine would have snapped.

“What are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about? Why would you allow the senator to speak with Fields at all? What were you thinking? I thought you were supposed to be looking out for this man. Now Fields knows I'm in Mexico. He knows everything that
you
two know. He even knows that I've taken Agent Ortega and his family under my protection.”

He saw Serrano and Espinosa exchange more dazed glances. Realizing he'd guessed correctly, he dug in his heels. “That's right. Fields told you that Ortega and his family have disappeared. Did he ask
where they were? Did he happen to mention he wants them dead? I'll bet he left that part out.” Crosswhite took a pack of cigarettes from inside his sport jacket and lit one.

“I don't mean to be rude, gentlemen. I understand this is Mexico, and I respect your sovereignty—I do—but we're playing on the
world
stage here. That's why it doesn't matter if I'm from Canada or Ireland or fucking Norway.” He pointed at Serrano with the cigarette between his fingers. “What matters is keeping you alive, Senator. And without me—without Pope's blessing—your road to the presidency will be
long
and
narrow
. Now, do you want my help or not? Because my services happen to be in great demand.”

For a fleeting second, even Ortega thought Crosswhite was telling the truth.

“I do,” Serrano said quietly. “You must understand that—”

“What I understand is that you need to tell me what else Fields had to say and what else you said to him. That way I can assess the damage that's been done and come up with a way to fix it.” Crosswhite crushed out the cigarette on the table top, glancing at Ortega. “What are
you
looking at?” he said in English. “Did you think I was making all this shit up?”

Ortega shrugged and shook his head, obviously more confused than anyone else at the table. “I—I don't—”

“Shut up.” Crosswhite turned back to Captain Espinosa, keeping the initiative. “Was I incorrect? Are you not the senator's advisor?”

Espinosa glanced at Serrano.

“He's a trusted advisor, yes,” Serrano said. “But he didn't—I didn't speak with him before I spoke with Fields. It was my decision to speak with Fields. My error.”

Crosswhite feigned incredulousness. “I'm sorry, Senator, but am I to understand that you
have
no political advisor?”

Serrano stiffened, his embarrassment beginning to show as he realized that Crosswhite was accustomed to dealing with much more sophisticated power brokers.

Crosswhite let him off the hook, turning back to Espinosa. “My
apologies, Captain. I was under the impression you were an actual advisor.”

Now Espinosa was also embarrassed—not to mention annoyed with Serrano—exactly as Crosswhite had planned. Crosswhite saw, too, that even the bodyguards were off balance, which meant they'd been briefed to expect an entirely different kind of meeting with an entirely different outcome.

Now that everyone was sufficiently agitated, he said, “Excuse me, but can one of these two gentlemen show me to the restroom?”

“Um, yes,” Serrano said. “Of course.” Grateful for an opportunity to gather his thoughts, he gestured for one of the bodyguards to show him the way.

Crosswhite stood up and moved toward the house, pausing for the bodyguard to catch up.

Captain Espinosa glanced at Serrano, his face an open display of displeasure at having been made to look foolish in front of the CIA.

As the bodyguard approached, Crosswhite spun into him, striking the vagus nerve in the side of the man's neck with the inside ridge of his hand. The bodyguard's entire body went ramrod stiff, and he toppled over backward, landing on the ground without making any attempt to break his fall. Crosswhite launched himself at the second bodyguard, pouncing like a mountain lion to jam his thumb deep into the man's eye socket and stealing the Glock pistol from beneath his jacket.

He turned and shot Espinosa in the throat as he was rising from his chair. The police captain pitched over into Serrano's lap, and Serrano stared in wide-eyed disbelief as Crosswhite shot him in the forehead. The fat man fell over against the table and flopped to the ground. Two more headshots finished the bodyguards, and Crosswhite stalked over to where Serrano's girlfriend sat, too petrified to move or make a sound.

The Chihuahua barked at him twice as he pointed the pistol into her face, speaking calmly in Spanish. “I'm with the CIA. Do you know what that is?”

She nodded, the magazine still in her hands.

“If you give anyone an accurate physical description of me, I will find you, and I will kill you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she croaked in English.

“You got a helluva set of tits, honey.” With that, he turned and walked back to the table, where Ortega sat in his own piss, trembling like a dog shitting a peach pit, blood from both men spattered on his face.

“I told you all you had to do was be yourself,” Crosswhite said.

Expecting to see Crosswhite and Ortega lying dead on the ground, Oscar Martinez came out the back door carrying a pair of black rubber body bags and stopped dead in his tracks.

Crosswhite aimed the pistol at him. “Those other two assholes still out front?” he asked in English.

Oscar nodded.

“What was supposed to happen?”

“I was to . . . I was to . . .” Oscar's jaw began to tremble.

“It's okay,” Crosswhite said. “You can tell me.”

“I was to put your bodies into these bags and to . . . to call Ruvalcaba's people to come take you away.”

“Go out front and call those other two assholes back here. Double-cross me, and I'll feed you to that goddamn Chihuahua.”

Oscar ducked back inside, and Crosswhite followed a few steps behind.