Ghost Sniper (3 page)

Mendoza took the stun gun from inside his jacket and set it on the table. “I don't want to use this again, but I will.”

“Again?”

Mendoza smiled his crooked smile once more.

“You made me piss myself!”

“I had to make sure you didn't do anything else stupid before I could figure out how to save your worthless life.”

“So what the fuck do we do now? I've got a bullet in my arm, and it's going to need attention soon.”

“Right now the PFM is asking the CIA for permission to use you.”

“I don't work for the C-I-
fucking
-A either!” Vaught flared in English.

Mendoza had a hatchet face, bushy eyebrows, and a protruding Adam's apple. “We'll soon see who you work for, my friend.”

“Fuck this!” Vaught said, again in English, getting up weakly
from the table. Mendoza took up the stun gun and zapped him in the thigh to send him toppling to the floor.

Vaught grabbed his leg. “Oh, you fuckin' cocksucker!”

Mendoza sat laughing in the chair. “You owe me a life, my friend. So now we're going to wait until my superiors talk to the CIA.”

“You motherfuckin' cocksucker,” Vaught muttered, digging the can of Copenhagen from his pocket and putting a dip into his lip. “You just wait!”

3

MALBUN SKI VILLAGE, LIECHTENSTEIN

16:10 HOURS

Wearing a camouflage snow parka, Gil Shannon lay well ensconced within a copse of tall pines halfway down one of the most challenging ski runs in the mountains above the village of Malbun, a .308 Remington modular sniper rifle pulled into his shoulder as he eyed his target: a man dressed in a yellow ski jacket and green pants. He and his blond fiancée were flanked by five security men, all of whom had pulled to the side of the run for a breather. A heavy snow had begun to fall over the past few minutes, and with the coming of late afternoon, Gil knew this would be the group's last run of the day. If he didn't take the shot now, it would mean spending a fourth night in the Malbun ski lodge.

Landlocked between Switzerland and Austria, the small country of Liechtenstein covered only sixty-two square miles and was the only nation located entirely in the Alps. Traveling on a Canadian passport, Gil had spent the last three days stalking Sabastian
Blickens­derfer, a forty-year-old Swiss banker on holiday with his wife-to-be.

CIA Director Robert Pope had targeted Blickensderfer for termination because of his financial ties to the Islamic terrorist organization Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP). Blickensderfer's money-laundering operations were well known to the CIA. However, the US and British governments considered him untouchable due to his close financial and familial ties within the Swiss government, which viewed Blickensderfer's illicit business affairs as inconsequential: if Blickensderfer didn't launder AQAP money, someone else would, and at least the millionaire businessman was able to provide useful intelligence on the movements of certain Islamic clerics. This was enough to keep Western intelligence agencies such as the CIA and MI6 from filing serious grievances.

There were more and more profiteers like Blickensderfer operating in and around Europe, and Pope understood the important role they played. He also understood that if they began turning up dead, others would take notice and be forced to think twice about doing business with Islamic fundamentalists. As the world stood at present, there was one rubric for the ruling elite and another for the bottom 99 percent. Pope regarded these hypocrisies and double standards as anathema, and his aim was to change the dangerous paradigm from within.

Gil's aim was to destroy whomever Pope put in front of him. At present, that person was Sabastian Blickensderfer. He'd read the corrupt banker's dossier and agreed the man was in need of removal. For Gil, the mathematics were simple enough: Blickensderfer was making it easier for AQAP to carry out terrorist operations. AQAP was responsible for the 2012 attack on the American mission in Benghazi, Libya. Former Navy SEALs had been killed in Benghazi. And if Sabastian Blickensderfer didn't mind helping to kill Navy SEALs, Gil Shannon sure as hell didn't mind killing Sebastian Blickensderfer.

Of course, Gil knew that Pope's future targets might not always
be quite so easily sorted out, but the Swiss banker was a good place to start. If Pope ever targeted anyone Gil didn't agree needed to be removed, he would simply take a pass.

As he eyed Blickensderfer through the scope at a hundred yards, he watched the man laughing and handing a flask to one of his security men whom Gil knew—from seeing around the lodge over the past few nights—to be carrying a Beretta pistol beneath his jacket.

At last, after three long days of stalking his prey on the snowy mountain, the moment came right. The air was still, and the snow fell straight down all across the slope. Gil placed the reticule on Blickensderfer's sternum over his heart and began to squeeze the trigger.

Inexplicably, Blickensderfer's fianceé lunged forward into the sight picture just as the trigger was passing the point of no return. Gil twitched as the rifle went off, and the .308 Lapua magnum blasted almost silently from the end of the suppresser at more than 2,500 feet per second. His heart stopped as he watched, waiting for the woman's head to explode. It did not. He saw her blond hair kick up at the nape of her neck as the round passed through it, soundlessly impacting the white powder thirty feet beyond.

The woman brushed absentmindedly at the back of her neck and pulled her ski poles from the snow with a laugh. Apparently she had lost her balance and nearly toppled off her skis.

Gil rolled behind the trunk of a pine and pulled the white watch cap from his close-cropped head, breathing a deep sigh of relief. He had very nearly murdered an innocent woman.

He lay there with large snowflakes landing silently on his face in the quiet surroundings. He stroked his stubbled chin and tried to recall his estranged wife's face. Montana seemed very far away as he dug the cigarettes from his parka and lit one with a Zippo lighter. He knew that Pope could not have been watching via satellite due to the cloud cover, but that was a moot point. Gil was on his own for these off-the-books missions, which meant no overwatch.

Still, he told himself, you never knew what Pope was up to.

As the Blickensderfer party skied off down the mountain, Gil
finished the cigarette, knowing he'd see them around the lodge again that night. “Fare thee well,” he muttered, thinking of the pretty woman who had no idea that a hot .308 had passed within two inches of her spine at the base of her skull. “And enjoy yourself tonight, Sabastian. I won't make the same mistake tomorrow.”

Tucking the cigarette butt into his pocket, he disassembled the rifle and packed it away before taking off his reversible parka and turning the red side out. Then he stripped the white pack cover from his red rucksack and skied off down the slope dressed as a begoggled member of the Malbun Ski Patrol.

4

CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

13:00 HOURS

Cletus Webb, deputy director of the CIA, stepped out of the restroom in the CIA building in Langley to find Mark Gurich, director of foreign operations, standing against the wall waiting for him. Webb glanced at the red file folder in the man's hand. “I take it that's for me?” he said, put off to be ambushed outside the john.

“I couldn't find you,” Gurich said. “The proverbial shit just hit the fan down in Mexico. Alice Downly and Bill Louis were assassinated in what looks like a major cartel attack. Damn near her entire DSS team was wiped out. Our embassy's on full lockdown—marines, machine guns, all the frills—and Mike Ortega, Mexico chief of station, is asking me for an Operational Immediate I don't think I've got the authority to give him.”

A crease formed in Webb's brow. “You're telling me Downly's dead?”

“That's been confirmed by Mexico station.”

“What the hell happened?” Webb was tall, with a basketball player's build, thinning blond hair, and contemplative blue eyes.

“Mexico station says it looks like she was killed by a sniper, but that hasn't been confirmed.”

“You're the director of foreign operations.” Webb grabbed the file. “What do you mean you don't have the authority to give an Operational Immediate? What the hell is Ortega asking for, a drone strike?”

“Not exactly.” Gurich, a foot shorter than Webb, had darker features, brown eyes, and a prep school haircut.

Webb spent the next couple of minutes standing there in the hall outside the restroom, reading.

“As far as I know,” Gurich remarked, “nobody's done anything like this since the Cold War, and I didn't think I'd better give it the green light without first getting your approval.”

Webb did not look up from the file. “Have you spoken with DSS?”

“Not yet.”

“So Agent Vaught's people don't know whether he's alive or dead?”

“Correct.”

Webb finished reading the five-page affidavit and handed the folder back to Gurich. “Give it to Fields.”

Gurich's eyebrows went up. “Isn't this a little public for him?”

“Give it to Fields,” Webb repeated. “This Vaught character went off the reservation when he damn well knew better. He's lucky he's alive, especially since virtually everyone he was responsible for is dead. Give it to Fields. I'll clear it with Director Pope.”

“What do I tell Mexico station? The DSS?”

“You tell Ortega to remain poised to assist whatever assets Fields puts into play, and you tell DSS that Agent Vaught is now under the aegis of the CIA in accordance with recent amendments to the Foreign Service Act. I'll brief them personally after I've spoken with Pope. As long as we're keeping DSS in the loop, they're not going to
raise any hell over it. Vaught's little cowboy stunt in the face of his failure to protect Alice Downly isn't exactly going to endear him to the director general of the US Foreign Service.”

Like most agents with the Diplomatic Security Service, Agent Vaught was also a member of the Foreign Service, which in turn fell under the protective wing of the US State Department. This meant that Vaught was both a federal law enforcement agent and an arbiter of US Foreign Policy, and for an arbiter of US Foreign Policy to go chasing bad guys through the streets of a foreign capital—beyond the legal scope of his diplomatic duties—was a real good way to embarrass both the US Foreign Service and the US State Department.

“So I take it to Fields, and then what?”

“Tell him I said the ball's in his court. He'll handle it from there.”

THREE MINUTES LATER,
Gurich stepped into the office of Clemson Fields. There was no name or title on the door.

Nancy Proust, Fields's secretary, looked up from her desk. “Hello, Mr. Gurich. How can I help you?” She was a matronly woman in her forties. Her dark hair was cut in an angled bob. She never wore makeup, and Gurich had never seen her dressed in any color other than black.

“Is he in?”

She picked up the phone. “Mr. Fields, Mr. Gurich is here to see you.” She put the phone back down. “He said to go right in, Mr. Gurich.”

Gurich thanked her and crossed into Fields's inner sanctum to find the mysterious CIA analyst (his official job description) sitting at his desk, reading the
Washington Post
.

Clemson Fields was a medium-size man in his early sixties, dressed in chino slacks, a button-up short-sleeve shirt, and a subdued tie. He was balding from front to back and wore a pair of round wire-rimmed glasses. He folded away the paper and stood up to shake Gurich's hand. “I assume this has to do with Mexico City?”

“You've heard?”

“Just.” Fields put out his hand for the red file folder.

“Did the DDO already call you?”

Fields shook his head and smiled. “Red is the only color anyone ever brings me.”

Gurich gave him the folder. “Webb said to tell you the ball's in your court.”

“Of course.” Fields took it and sat down to read, saying, “Thank you, Mr. Gurich,” in what was obviously a dismissal.

Gurich eyed him for a moment and then left the office.

Two minutes later, Fields finished reading the affidavit and set it aside to reach for the phone. He dialed a number and waited for someone to answer.

“This is Clemson,” he said. “I assume you've heard the news by now?”

“About what?” asked the man at the other end.

“Alice Downly was assassinated right there in Mexico City—less than two hours ago.”

“Who the fuck is Alice Downly?”

5

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

14:25 HOURS

Daniel Crosswhite hung up the phone after talking to Fields and went back into the bedroom, where his twenty-one-year-old wife, Paolina, lay in bed. They had finished making love only a couple of minutes before the phone rang.

“Who was it?” she asked in Spanish. She spoke no English.

“The devil's little brother.” He rolled his eyes and took a soft pack of Camels from the edge of the dresser. “Don't look at me like that. We knew one of Pope's men would call sooner or later. Today's the day, that's all.”

Crosswhite was a former Delta Force operator and Medal of Honor winner. He had returned to the US after multiple tours in Afghanistan to take up a life of crime as a vigilante but had gotten himself caught. Only the intervention of Robert Pope of the CIA and Navy SEAL Gil Shannon had saved him from life in prison.

Paolina lay on her side in the midday heat and caressed her grow
ing belly, which was just beginning to show. She was a Cuban national, but CIA Director Pope had pulled some strings for her and Crosswhite, enabling them to move to Mexico City, along with Paolina's three-year-old daughter, who was taking a nap in the next room.

“Who is Pope sending you to kill?”

Crosswhite smiled. “Nobody.”

She rolled onto her back and propped herself up on a couple of pillows. Paolina was five feet tall, slender, with dark skin, soft brown eyes, and long black hair full of tight curls. “I don't trust him. He helped us move here only to use you as an assassin against the ­cartels.”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, running his fingers through her hair. “I made a deal,
corazón
.” He caressed her breast and got to his feet. “I have to get dressed and go. You remember everything we've talked about, right?”

“Yes. I want to know what's going on before you leave.”

“One of the cartels assassinated the US ambassador and some American woman a couple hours ago.” Crosswhite snatched a pair of jeans from the back of a chair. “I have to bring in a wounded DSS agent who can't be seen at the embassy. He's shot in the arm, so make a spot in the kitchen. It sounds like I'll have to remove the bullet and sew him up.”

“DSS?”

“Diplomatic Security Service.” He crushed out the smoke in the ashtray on the dresser. “Hand me my socks, baby. Have you seen my boots?”

“Under the bed.”

USING THE GPS
in his Jeep Rubicon's console, Crosswhite found the building that Fields had given him the address for about seven miles from his house. He and Paolina lived in a nice neighborhood where there were a lot of Canadians, so he didn't stick out, and all of their neighbors knew that Paolina was Cuban, so no one suspected he was CIA. Most everyone was under the assumption he was a retired American GI living on a government pension.

He took out his phone and called the number Fields had given him.

“Bueno?”
answered a Mexican voice.

“Soy Crosswhite. Estoy aqui.”
It's Crosswhite. I'm here.

A door opened, and Mendoza waved for him to come inside. Crosswhite did not generally move around armed because getting caught with a gun in Mexico meant many years in prison, so unless he was sure there was going to be big trouble, he chose to rely on his fists, much preferring death over incarceration.

He locked the Jeep and stole inside the building. The smell of death and burnt powder flashed him back to combat, and his internal systems came online. The hair raised up on the back of his neck. Mendoza smiled, turning to lead him down the hall to a room full of dead bodies and one very pissed off Chance Vaught, who sat in a chair, handcuffed to a steel doorknob.

“Why is he handcuffed?” Crosswhite asked in Spanish, glancing around at the dead cartel members. “Is this your work?”

Mendoza nodded.

“I'm handcuffed because he's a fuckin' bastard,” Vaught said in English.

Mendoza explained that he'd needed to take a dump and couldn't trust Vaught not to leave. Afterward, it had been easier to leave the increasingly mouthy American handcuffed to the door.

Crosswhite looked at him. “You ready to go, champ?”

“Go where?”

“I got you a room at the fuckin' Hilton. You ready or not?”

Vaught looked sullenly at the floor. “Yeah, I'm ready.”

NINETY MINUTES LATER,
Vaught sat in a chair in Crosswhite's kitchen, flexing his wounded arm, examining the suture work. “It's not exactly straight.”

“Well, this ain't exactly a triage unit.” Crosswhite snapped off a pair of rubber gloves. “And I'm not exactly a medic.”

Paolina sat staring at Vaught from across the table, her gaze flat
and reproving. She wanted him out of her house but knew they were stuck with him unless and until Pope's man Fields found someplace else for him to hide out.

Vaught smiled, asking Paolina her name in Spanish. “
Como se llama?
”

“Paolina,” she said, not overly friendly. She glanced at Crosswhite.

“Nice to meet you. I'm Chance. I appreciate you welcoming me into your home like this.”

“If it were up to me,” she said, getting up from the table, “you wouldn't be here.” She caressed Crosswhite's arm where he carried a scar identical to the one Vaught would now carry in almost exactly the same spot. “I'm going to buy food,” she told him. “I'll be back soon.”

“Careful,” Crosswhite said. “We're working now.”

She nodded, kissing him. “Valencia is playing in her room.” ­Paolina left the house.

Vaught stared after her, unable to deny his attraction. “She's Cuban, isn't she?”

Crosswhite went to the sink to wash his hands. “Yeah. If you touch her, I'll kill you.”

Vaught nodded, reaching for his can of Copenhagen. “Roger that. So what's next?”

Crosswhite dried his hands and shook a cigarette loose from its pack. “We wait to hear from Ortega at Mexico station.”

“Who's Ortega?”

Crosswhite lit the cigarette, tucking the lighter into his pocket. “CIA's chief of station here in DF.”

“So you work for Ortega?”

Crosswhite stood leaning against the ceramic-tiled counter. “Never met him.” He went to the fridge and took out a couple of Coronas, setting them down on the table. “Ortega has to wait on orders from Clemson Fields—who takes his orders directly from Bob Pope. It's my guess you'll be kept out of sight until the PFM needs you to testify against Serrano. So in effect you—”

“Building a case against Serrano could take months!”

Crosswhite popped the tops from the beers with a church key. “Welcome to the CIA, amigo.”

“I don't work for the CIA.” Vaught took a pull from his beer. “And I sure as hell don't work for the PFM. I'm a DSS agent. That means I—”

“You don't belong to DSS anymore. You belong to the CIA by executive order—at least, you will within the next few hours, or however long it takes to get the paperwork shuffled across the president's desk—and there isn't jack shit you can do about it.”

“So who the fuck is Clemson Fields?”

Crosswhite took a drink. “Shit,” he muttered to himself. “I hope she remembers limes. Fields is the last of the old guard—a right bastard.”

“I don't follow.”

“Okay, look.” Crosswhite sat down. “During the Cold War, the CIA wasn't restricted to using personnel from special mission units like Delta Force and SEAL Team Six the way they are today. We were fighting the big, bad Soviets, so they were allowed their own in-house contractors with no official ties. Fields was a recruiter and part-time assassin—an operational goon.”

Vaught took another drink. “So you work for Fields?”

“No. I work for Pope.
Technically
Fields isn't even CIA anymore. He's attached to the ATRU.”

“The ATRU? What the hell are you talking about?”

“The Anti-Terrorism Response Unit. Congratulations, champ. You're now privy to a newly formed SMU that the vice president of the United States doesn't even know about.”

Vaught didn't like the sound of that one bit. “Who gave you clearance to bring me into the loop?”

Crosswhite grinned. “You're finally starting to ask the right questions, champ.”

“The name's
Chance
.”

“Whatever. You've been put on ice because you're a political
embarrassment to both countries now. You went off the reservation when you chased that sniper, and you killed three Mexican cops.”

Vaught put down his beer. “I didn't kill any fucking cops!”

“The guys in the stairwell and the guy on the roof were all Federales.”

“They were wearing fucking ski masks and carrying AK-47s!”

“Well, they might've been
crooked
Federales, but they were still Federales, and that embarrasses—”

“We were taking sniper fire! My entire team was wiped out!”

“Hey, I get it,” Crosswhite said easily. “Everybody gets it. And the PFM probably gets a secret kick out of it. But it's political now, champ, and politics trumps everything. You've embarrassed the Mexican government, and you've made powerful people look bad on both sides of the border, which means nobody's in a hurry to see your face. They don't know how to spin this yet, so it's easier to let everyone think you're dead for the time being. Putting you with Fields is probably the best way of doing that. Pretty soon the PFM's going to release a statement saying the body of an American DSS agent was found with those of known cartel members. That will put Serrano at ease, and he'll drop his guard, thinking you're dead.”

“In the meantime, my family gets to think I'm dead, too? No way.”

“You come from a military family, champ.”

“
Chance
!
”

“They'll bear up well enough,” Crosswhite assured him, “and think how happy they'll be when they eventually find out you're still alive.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Dan Crosswhite.”

Vaught stared at him for a long moment. “
Earnest Endeavor
Dan Crosswhite?”

Operation Earnest Endeavor had been an unsanctioned rescue operation led by Navy SEAL sniper Gil Shannon to liberate female Night Stalker pilot Sandra Brux, who was being tortured by Islamic
extremists in the Panjshir Valley of Afghanistan. Crosswhite and Shannon had both received the Medal of Honor for their part in the operation, but both men were ultimately run out of the military by jealous and resentful superiors, costing Crosswhite the career he had loved.

Crosswhite frowned. “That's me.”

“Last I heard, you were dead. You were supposed be working down here undercover for the FBI or something.”

Crosswhite smirked. “Look at me, champ.”

“
Chance
, goddamn you!”

“Look at me, champ. How is a gringo gonna work undercover in Mexico? Grow a mustache and buy a fuckin' sombrero?”

“Well, I can tell you this,” Vaught said. “I'm not sitting around here waiting for the PFM to build a case against Serrano while my family gets the news I'm dead. And another thing: there's a GI sniper running around down here doing contract work for the cartels. Somebody has to put that guy down, and since I seem to have a lot of extra time on my hands at the moment—”

“You wouldn't even know where to begin looking.”

“Well, unlike you, I don't need a fuckin' sombrero. I already look the part, and I happen to know one or two people down here.”

“I've been briefed on your Mexican family. I don't think letting the cartels get wind of them is a good idea.”

Vaught got up from the chair. “You let me worry about that.”

“I don't think you'd better go fucking around out there,” Crosswhite said nonchalantly, setting down his beer on the counter. “You'll only make shit worse.”

“I know what I'm doing.” Vaught shouldered past. “Thanks for the beer and the shitty stitch job, hero.”

Crosswhite let him pass. Then he slipped the stun gun that Mendoza had given him from beneath his jacket and zapped Vaught in the ass. The agent dropped to his knees with a shout, and Crosswhite stepped forward to zap him again between the shoulder blades, sending him flopping forward onto his face.

Paolina came through the door a few seconds later with a plastic bag of groceries in each hand and stood in the threshold gaping. “Daniel, he's drooling on my kitchen floor.”

Vaught lay paralyzed with his cheek mashed against the ceramic tile watching a tiny piss ant making its way past his face as it carried out its little piss ant business. “You fuckin' cocksuckers,” he mumbled.