Ghost Sniper (31 page)

78

TOLUCA, MEXICO

20:45 HOURS

Hancock sat watching out the back window of the car. “Shit. They're not following!”

The driver pulled to a stop in front of an alley where ten narcos lay in ambush, three of them holding RPGs. “Should I go back?”

“No. Fuck it, they're onto us,” Hancock answered. “They'll pull back to the center of town now and circle the wagons. We're gonna have to dig them out of the square.”

The guy in the passenger seat, busy talking on the phone, looked back at Hancock. “Our people destroyed the other truck four blocks over. They have two cops pinned down, and it sounds like more are on the way. What do you want our people to do?”

“Let's go!” Hancock banged his fist urgently on the back of the seat. “If we can draw these assholes into a stand-up fight, we can wipe them out!”

The driver shouted for the men in the alley to load into their cars and follow.

Hancock ejected the magazine from the Barrett, topping it off with a single .50 caliber cartridge and slapping it back in. “Call our people on the east side and tell 'em to begin their attack.”

CROSSWHITE AND THE
wounded cop huddled behind the wheel hub of a shot-up SUV, using the engine compartment as cover. The enemy was not moving to take them out, but nor would it allow them to retreat.

“Why haven't they fired another rocket?” wondered the cop. “We should be dead by now.”

“Because they're using us as bait.” Crosswhite searched desperately up and down the street for an avenue of escape, but there just wasn't any cover. “They want to draw us into battle and smash us.”

“Can they do that?”

“If they have the numbers, they can. We don't even have a radio to warn our men away.”

As if to emphasize the point, a police truck rounded the corner and came roaring down the street, siren wailing. A rocket streaked out of the alley and blew off the tail end, throwing wounded cops into the street and sending the truck careening out of control into a building.

Crosswhite fired on the alley and ran out to recover the wounded policemen. Dragging them to cover behind the wrecked and burning truck, he shouted for the driver to warn the other units away—but the man didn't hear him because he was already on the radio calling for more help.

Vaught and Sergeant Cuevas arrived from the opposite direction with two more trucks right behind them.

“We gotta get the fuck outta here!” Crosswhite said. “A pitched battle is exactly what we don't want!”

“Roger that!” Vaught slung his weapon and reached to help a wounded man to his feet.

Another RPG, fired from a rooftop this time, hit the last police truck in line and set it ablaze, effectively blocking their southern avenue of escape.

Crosswhite took a shot at the rocketeer. “Who's selling these cocksuckers all the goddamn rockets? It's like fuckin' Fallujah out here!”

Sergeant Cuevas fired a 40 mm grenade at a caged storefront and blew open the door. “Put the wounded inside the shoe store! This is our command post.”

“It's more like the Alamo,” Crosswhite growled, heaving a wounded man over his shoulder. “But it'll have to do.”

They moved the wounded men inside, and Crosswhite helped the cop with the shattered forearm lash the wounded appendage to his harness, giving him his spare pistol ammo. “Remember your training,” he told him. “Hold the pistol in the crook of your leg to reload, and jack it against the heel of your boot to release the slide. Got it?”

The cop nodded.

“Good man!” Crosswhite bashed him on the shoulder and went to the door.

The police had positioned the remaining two trucks in front of the building to provide more cover, mounting a light machine gun to the roll bar.

“We've got more men on the way,” Cuevas said. “We'll be okay.”

“Until Hancock sets up at the north end of the street,” Crosswhite said. “These are your men, Sergeant, but I'd get that gunner down out of the truck. He's a prime target.”

Cuevas stepped over and ordered the gunner to set up beneath the truck with the bipod, covering the north end of the street. Then he reached into the cab for the radio to brief Chief Diego on their situation.

Having done what little he could for the wounded, Vaught came over, wiping his bloody hands on his trousers. “Whattaya think?”

Crosswhite swiped at his bleeding forehead, where a piece of spall from a ricochet had cut him open. “Hate to say it, but Diego
should pull the rest of his people back and let us die on the vine; stick to his plan and hold the center of town. But he won't do that. He'll send every man he's got to save our asses.”

“And so would you,” Vaught said.

“I dunno . . . maybe.” Crosswhite was pissed at himself for letting things get so badly muddled so early in the battle. “Those RPGs change the entire ball game. I didn't expect they'd have so many. And once Hancock shows up with that fuckin' fifty of his, we'll be like ducks at a carnival.” He lit a cigarette, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs. “God
damn
him!”

“We'll get it sorted out,” Vaught said confidently.

Crosswhite counted two walking wounded and three critical. “We don't even have stretchers. They got rockets, and we don't even have fucking stretchers to evacuate these men.”

“Hey, let's focus on what we
do
have.”

“Which is what?” Crosswhite asked him. “What've we got, dude? We got ten men with rifles and two walking wounded! We're barricaded in a goddamn shoe store, and every truck that rolls in here to relieve us is gonna get blown up. I'm telling you, I've seen enough combat to know when you're fucked. And, buddy, we're
fucked
.”

“Unless we make a break for it right now and leave the wounded behind.”

Crosswhite took a drag. “Is that what you're suggesting?”

Vaught shook his head, knowing that wasn't an option.

“Exactly. So we're back to being fucked.”

Sergeant Cuevas came into the shop. “Bad news. I've explained the situation about the rockets to Diego, and he says Ruvalcaba's men have begun attacking from the east. He doesn't like it, but he's agreed to pull the rest our forces back to the center of town. There's no more help coming.”

Crosswhite exchanged grim glances with Vaught.

“Maybe we can hold out until daylight,” Vaught ventured. “The government can't ignore this battle indefinitely—not with Serrano being dead.”

Crosswhite exhaled smoke. “Don't kid yourself.” He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. “I didn't kill that asshole in time to make any difference here. Let's hope Mariana has better luck killing Ruvalcaba. At least that way things won't be a total loss.”

Mariana had called him earlier in the day, telling him that Fields was dead and that she had a plan to remove Hector Ruvalcaba—a plan she didn't dare share with him over the phone.

79

SAN CRISTOBAL, CHIAPAS STATE, MEXICO

22:00 HOURS

Gil knocked on the door to Mariana's expensive though rustic hotel room in the town of San Cristobal de las Casas, the same city where the Zapatista Revolt had taken place more than twenty years earlier. She answered the door and let him in. A fire burned in the fireplace to ward off the damp chill in the air.

“Build the fire yourself?” he asked, reminded of his hearth back home in Montana—a hearth he would never see again.

“The bellboy built it for me. I don't know anything about building fires.”

He tossed his rucksack onto the bed. “That's for you—in case things go bad.”

She opened the ruck and saw that it was stuffed with banded American cash. “Gil, this is an awful lot of money.”

“And you'll need it if Crosswhite and I get killed. There's a little black book in the side pouch there with the names and numbers of
people who can help you disappear. They already think I'm dead, but if you tell them you got their names from me, they'll help you. They're reliable men: retired Navy SEALS living outside the US—soldier of fortune types, but rock-solid people.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don't mention it. It's something Crosswhite should have done for you already, but he doesn't think ahead. It's just not how he is.”

“He's definitely an
in-the-moment
kind of guy,” she agreed. “What do you think of Poncho?” They hadn't yet had a chance to talk about the ex-GAFE operator that Castañeda had sent along to assist Gil.

He nodded. “My gut tells me he's reliable. We've talked, and there's nothing sloppy about him. I get the feeling he's not really a personal fan of Castañeda, but it's too soon to tell.”

“And if you guys are successful? Will I see you again?”

“Probably not, but I'll give you a call to let you know when Ruvalcaba's dead. After that, it's up to you to handle Pope.”

“I'm afraid of him.”

“You're smart to be afraid, but don't ever let him see it. When this is over, wait a week—maybe ten days—then call him and tell him to meet you down here in Mexico. Do
not
go to him. Buy him dinner in a ritzy restaurant and break the situation down for him in black and white. Don't
ask
him for a goddamn thing.
Tell
him how things are: that
you're
the new chief of station. He's smart, so he'll already be leaning in that direction. It'll be your job to erase any doubts he might have.”

She was less convinced. “How do you know that?”

Gil shrugged. “I know him. I know how his mind works . . . what he values. You'll be the one to give him a stable border, and that will make you valuable.”

“But I haven't done anything.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You took a helluva risk acting on your own initiative to put Castañeda in charge.
You
did that. Pope respects boldness of action. Now, the key is to succeed and take credit for the operation. He'll know Crosswhite helped, but that won't matter.
He'll also know you had help from other assets here in Mexico, and that's what being chief of station is: managing assets. Hell, that's all Pope is, an asset manager, and he's damn good at it.”

She smiled. “Except he let his most valuable asset get away.”

Gil wondered if that was true. “Well, it's not a mistake he'll make again, so bear that in mind.”

“He won't be pissed about Fields?”

“What's to be pissed about? You've demonstrated Fields was the wrong man for the job. Pope has no ego. He's the most practical man alive—
too
practical, in fact. That's his weakness: he forgets how
im
practical everyone else is.”

“Will I have a way of getting in touch with you?”

“You can get a message to Midori if there's an emergency, but don't worry. You won't need me. You'll have Crosswhite—unless he finally figures out how to get himself killed. And be sure to keep Vaught on your ledger too. Don't let DSS have him back. He's a renegade, and that's a good card to have in your deck. His career in DSS is probably shot anyhow.”

She edged closer to the fire, feeling the warmth on the backs of her legs. “I should be writing this down. I can't believe you're going to abandon me after tonight.”

That made him chuckle. “Well, you've got Crosswhite.”

She looked concerned suddenly. “What am I gonna do about him, Gil? He's such a . . .”

“Such a what?”

“I don't know,” she said, her cheeks reddening, “but Pope won't want to let him go. He's too goddamn good at what he does.”

“I just told you:
you're
chief of station. Crosswhite's workin' for
you
.
I'm
workin' for you. You're cleaning up Pope's mess in Mexico—covering up the Downly assassination; doin' what Fields and that idiot Ortega
couldn't
do—and that's exactly what you remind Pope of when this is over. Can you do that?”

She crossed her arms, drawing a breath as she remembered the electrocution she'd received from Fields, being raped in Havana the
year before, and witnessing more than a half dozen killings, all while working for Pope. She had more than earned the position of station chief.

“Yeah,” she said, feeling pissed. “I can do it.
Fuckin'-
A
I can do it.”

He gave her a wink. “I gotta go.”

She offered her hand. “Thank you for saving my life. I owe you and Dan both now.”

He took her hand and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Don't ever put your life on the line for Crosswhite again. Understand? He's too goddamn reckless; he doesn't consider the consequences.”

“But—” The look in her eyes was almost mournful.

“If he gets in a jam, I'll be around, but for now, we gotta hope he and Vaught can take Hancock down on their own, because you'll need a clean sweep to impress Pope.” He picked up the rucksack, zipped it closed, and dropped it back on the bed. “Keep the cash in a safe place. If Dan or I fail, Pope might send assassins from the ATRU to clean house. If he does, don't worry about anyone but yourself. Get the hell out of Dodge—and remember the black book.”

80

TOLUCA, MEXICO

22:15 HOURS

Hancock had slithered into position behind a large tree, which had been growing out of the sidewalk for so many years that the concrete had been pushed up. He was a hundred yards from where the police had taken cover behind their protective barrier of armored trucks in front of the shoe store. Putting his eye to the scope, he placed the crosshairs on the face of the cop manning the machine gun beneath the truck.

Smiling, he squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed like thunder, and the machine gunner's head evaporated.

Hancock didn't roll behind the tree against the chance that someone had seen his muzzle flash. Instead, he kept his eye to the scope waiting to see if anyone would have the balls to return his fire. To his surprise, the police made no attempt to return fire; instead, they were rushing into the shop.

He shifted aim and fired into the clutch of men, hitting two cops
with one shot and splattering their bodies. He squeezed the trigger again, and blew off another man's shoulder. A fourth round took off an officer's leg, and after that there were no more live targets within view—save for the now one-legged officer writhing on the sidewalk four feet from the doorway.

“That's right,” Hancock whispered. “Call your buddies to come get you.”

Someone threw a length of rope out the door, and the wounded officer grabbed hold of it. Hancock blew off his arm at the elbow. A smoke grenade was tossed out onto the sidewalk, and he began to lose visual contact, so he squeezed the trigger again, hitting the wounded cop in the belly and blowing him apart.

As the gray smoke billowed up around the trucks, Hancock put an armor-piercing round through the engine block of each one. Then he put a round through the transformer up on the telephone pole. Sparks exploded from the old steel box, and the street fell into darkness. Satisfied that the police inside the shoe store weren't going anywhere, he pulled back and trotted up to the corner, where his bodyguards stood waiting by the car. Twenty other men, some with RPGs, were fanning out to cover the street.

Fighting could now be heard on the east side of town: automatic weapons fire and the occasional
boom
of an explosion.

“How's the attack going?” Hancock asked the man with the phone.

“It goes well,” the man said. “The police have fallen back to the center of town. They have prepared positions . . . sandbags . . . machine gun emplacements. It will be hard to dig them out, but you can pick them off easily. We should go.”

“My work is here.” Hancock was loading rounds into the Barrett's magazine. “At least one of the gringos who can identify me is in that building down there—probably both. Tell our people in the east to take their RPGs to roof level and fire down into the machine gun nests. The police don't have the men or equipment to hold the center of town against rockets. If our people move aggressively, we'll own the city by midnight. Once we've proven ourselves, Serrano's friends
will support Ruvalcaba, but we have to demonstrate our strength right here, right now, so tell them to get on it!”

The man got back on the phone, and the driver stood looking at Hancock. “I've heard that Ruvalcaba is on the run,” he remarked.

“Sure he is,” Hancock said, smacking the magazine back into the rifle. “Wouldn't you be? With Serrano dead, Mexico City's not safe for him. He'll stay in Chiapas until he can negotiate with the government for a safe return. Look, it all hinges on what we do here tonight. By morning, there will be a new chief of police, half of your people will be cops, and it'll be like this never happened. That will give Ruvalcaba a lot of breathing room.”

The driver nodded. “Okay,” he said, “but it's good the rest of the men don't know he's running away.”

“The rest of the men are idiots.” Hancock slung the great weapon. “Shit, half of them can't even fucking read.”

The driver took offense. “My mother can't read. Is she an idiot?”

Hancock grinned. “Not unless she's lugging an AK-47 for Ruvalcaba.”

The driver was hard pressed to hide his irritation. “How much time are we going to waste here? Those cops down there aren't a threat.”

“Yes, they are,” Hancock insisted. “They've got two Green Berets with them, and Green Berets are too dangerous to let live in a battle like this—and they're dangerous to me personally. So we stay and kill them.”

SERGEANT CUEVAS'S BODY
lay on the sidewalk just outside the door to the shoe store, his left shoulder having been blown off and part of his lung hanging out the top of his exploded rib cage.

Much of the smoke from the grenade had blown back into the building, making it even tougher to see in the dark, and no one dared use a flashlight for fear of the sniper.

Purely on impulse, Vaught dashed out the door, grabbed Cuevas's FX-05 with the 40 mm grenade launcher, and leapt back inside without drawing any fire.

Crosswhite jumped to his feet. “That was a goddamn stupid thing to do!”

“Tell me about it.” Vaught slung the weapon. “I'm going after him.”

“The fuck are you talkin' about?”

Vaught pointed up. “Along the rooftops. He shot out the lights, and now it's dark as shit out there. He won't expect me to come after him—not any more than he did the first time.”

Crosswhite drew from a cigarette, the cherry glowing bright red. “And the first time worked out so well for ya.”

“If it hadn't been for crooked cops, I'd have bagged his fuckin' ass.”

Crosswhite wanted to go with Vaught, to carry the fight to the enemy, as had always been his nature. But tonight he had to admit the truth: he wanted to see Paolina again, he wanted to see his baby girl born, and his best chance of that was staying inside the shoe store and waiting for the fight to come to him. “Fuck you,” he muttered, flicking away the cigarette with a shower of tiny sparks.

“For what?” Vaught asked indignantly.

“For being like I
used
to be.”

Vaught put a hand on his shoulder. “You're just old and scared, dude. It's nothing to be ashamed of.”

Crosswhite smirked and knocked the arm away. “Kiss my ass.”

The conversation had been in English, so the other five combat-effective officers hadn't understood what was being said. When Vaught went to the back of the shop, mounting the stairs to the roof, they asked Crosswhite where he was going.

Crosswhite answered,
“Él va a cazar al francotirador gringo.”
He goes to hunt the gringo sniper.