On Scope: A Sniper Novel

by Jack Coughlin

  Swanson keyed the ignition, switched on the lights and wipers, and dropped the Renault into low gear. No cars coming. He drove away, following the map he had memorized. No more than fifteen minutes of safe driving within the speed limits.

  “I saw something at the Reina Sofía Museum today that bothered me,” Coastie said.

  “What?” Kyle thought she might have spotted someone on their tail.

  “Guernica.”

  “The Picasso painting? This is no time to be thinking about abstract art from the Spanish Civil War, Beth. Get your mind in the game here, and keep it there.”

  “I couldn’t help it, Kyle. I studied that mural for fifteen minutes, and the longer I did, the more I saw, and the more it got to me.”

  He flicked his eyes over and caught her staring at him.

  “It’s about what happens to civilians in war, Kyle. Civilians. Like our targets. Are we really the bad guys in this?”

  “No. The Group of Six is the enemy. No question.” He lowered his voice and slowed the vehicle, pulling to the curb and stopping to glare at her. “Am I going to have to replace you? I won’t let you screw up my mission.”

  Beth waved both hands in front of her. “Of course not. I’m ready. I was just thinking about the painting, that’s all.”

  “Think instead about these targets as being the people who are responsible for the attack on our consulate in Barcelona. They are noncombatants only in the sense that they don’t wear uniforms. Those assholes don’t care who gets butchered in the process of their financial and political schemes. Personally, I’m thinking about six dead Marines and the others who were killed and injured.”

  “God, I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s get on with this.”

  “You picked a hell of a time to start getting philosophical,” he said. “Just remember that Picasso was depicting the slaughter caused by Nazi bombing raids. I intend to stop another Guernica before it starts. Are you my partner or not?”

  “You and me until the wheels fall off the wagon, bubba.” Beth Ledford returned his stare with a black frown of her own. “Drive.”

  They rode the rest of the way in stony silence, trying to regain that quiet place in the zone, although both of their minds still buzzed with the brief altercation. There was plenty of vacant parking, and Kyle nosed into an empty spot more than a block away. They still didn’t speak as they got out, rolled down the masks, fixed the rain hoods, and hauled out their bags. Kyle locked the SUV by pushing a button and led off, Beth tracking right behind him as hard rain blew horizontally.

  Getting into the building brought welcome relief from the downpour, and no one was at the construction site. Kyle headed straight for the stairs and up at a fast clip, not having to worry about creaking boards because the old stairway was made of heavy stone into which thousands of passing feet had carved grooves over the last century and a half. The walls seemed to shudder beneath the onslaught of the gale winds outside, and rain seeped through the many cracks. On the top floor, he motioned Coastie to come through and close the door.

  She walked to the window, and all doubt vanished. The little balcony of Juan de Lara was in plain sight across two streets, flanked by lights that sparkled in the falling water. Kyle is right. This puppet master is overdue for getting his ticket punched. Ledford stepped back, unslung the shoulder bag and gave Swanson a thumbs-up sign.

  * * *

  KYLE SWANSON had been here a thousand times. Lying on his belly behind a loaded, scoped rifle, ready to shoot. Most guys would prefer being on a couch watching football on television, but a sniper hide was Swanson’s real home, the place he felt most comfortable. His weapon tonight was a Heckler & Koch HK-416 variant of the trusty M-4 carbine, with a magazine of standard 5.56 mm rounds, the identical combination that he had used earlier to take down the target and bodyguard in Mallorca. It was almost like giving Spanish forensic investigators an autograph if they tested the bullets found in both places. The cops were sure to figure out the connection. The real message was intended for the remaining members of the Group of Six.

  The pair of snipers made quick work of piling construction material, stained tarps, and old furniture about seven feet from the rear wall. Kyle would take the shot from beneath a small table on which lay a haphazard collection of old books and trash. At his left, Beth lay with a small pair of Zeiss binos at her face, focused on the door of the de Lara penthouse. Throughout the night, one of them would always have that door under observation.

  He had dismissed Coastie’s earlier outburst, realizing that she was still coming to grips with the basic sniper dilemma of sorting through how to handle the bodies of those she killed. Swanson’s own mind had created the spectral Boatman to cart away the memories. Before that, he had endured the awful nickname of “Shaky” due to his postbattle habit of finding a quiet spot for a quick nervous breakdown. Since he’d met the Boatman, the big shakes had vanished. Ledford was dealing with it in her own fashion, still getting used to being the sharp end of the spear. Everybody in Task Force Trident knew the kid had talent, Kyle had seen her at work in Pakistan, and she had since been trained to be even sharper. He had no worries about Coastie.

  The tempest raged throughout the night, and they were constantly reading the instruments and calculating the effects on the coming shot. The distance, gravity, and the added weight of the raindrops meant the bullet would be forced downward during flight, even over such a short distance, and the stiff wind was going to push it to the right. A soggy flag atop the target’s building was snapping like a whip. As dawn approached, they decided to compensate for a 12-mile-per-hour gust of wind and a two-inch drop, and Kyle dialed in the final aim point. The snipers remained hidden, unseen and silent, watching de Lara’s door and listening to the brash rhythm of the deluge. At dawn, a mist hugged the low ground.

  * * *

  JUAN DE LARA had been unable to sleep, wrestling with the rumpled bedsheets throughout the dark hours and drawing complaints from Marta. He had never liked the unrelenting overnight storms, because they made him recall his childhood fears of monsters in the closet and death creatures lurking under the bed. He finally quit trying when daylight began washing the room clear of such dread, and at six thirty he rolled his bulk to the side and heaved upright. Marta made a small sound as the bed bounced when he lifted his great weight from it. He turned on the bathroom light, did his business in the toilet, and moved on to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator and found a cold bottle of juice. Maybe the weather isn’t so bad by now, he thought. Maybe just a noisy drizzle. I’ll take a look and decide about going to work.

  “Lights,” Beth whispered, pulling the binos tight to her eyes. “Somebody’s up.”

  Swanson had been resting on his back, wide awake, and he rolled over easily to the stock of the rifle and got on scope. The door was still closed, the wind and rain continuing at the same intensity. A light came on in the main room, and Kyle eased the slack out of the trigger. The door opened.

  De Lara wore a plush white bathrobe that hung untied over white pajamas, and his hair was mussed. He had a hand on each door and pulled them inward, thus framing himself in the portal, although he did not move onto the balcony. The rain was splashing hard on the tiles, and he did not want to get wet.

  Kyle fired at the middle of the meaty chest, accepted the recoil of the M-4, and fired again at the same spot. De Lara winced in surprise with the first hit and looked down at the crimson bullet hole and the blossom of blood on the whiteness of the robe. The Spaniard crumpled to his knees, still holding the doors, and then the second shot struck and he collapsed. Kyle changed the aiming point slightly and carefully put a third round in the target’s head, shattering the skull.

  11

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  YANIS REBIANE and his son, Djahid, could see the towering spire of the Washington Monument straight ahead as they strolled on the Mall. Much of the towering marble obelisk, some 555 feet tall, was cradled in a web of construction scaffolding and can
vas, under repair after being damaged by an earthquake. Yanis believed in his heart that it had been the hand of Allah, whose name be praised, that shook the earth’s crust and maimed one of the most cherished symbols in America, to remind these people and their unholy government that no person nor place nor thing was exempt from the wrath of the Almighty One.

  The National Cherry Blossom Festival had ended on Sunday, and most of the tourists had gone home, so the two Algerian men could now conduct their business and enjoy the astonishing beauty of the flowering pink and white trees without being swarmed by thousands of sightseers. This warm April day was perfect for the leisurely stroll, and they spoke without concern that anyone might be recording the conversation. The White House, the very heart of America, was within a mile of where they stood.

  “The Spanish police say they have no leads in the murder of our partner Juan de Lara,” said Yasim. “Just as they had nothing after the death of Cristobál Bello on Mallorca. I do not know what is holding them back from officially declaring the rather obvious connection.”

  The sharp blue eyes of Djahid Rebiane swept over the people passing around them, heading both ways along the broad concrete sidewalks. “They were both sniper hits. Good work, too.”

  “Too good,” replied his father, nodding in agreement.

  “I looked at the shots, and they were extremely precise. Along with the planning required, and the stealth of getting into position and safely out without being detected—this was the work of professionals, Father.”

  “Yes. But who?”

  Djahid could only shrug. “The world is full to the brim with well-trained snipers these days. They are a needed specialty in urban combat. For the Americans, the training of snipers has moved to a higher level than most, and that field was expanded during the years of fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  “I believe the Americans are hitting back in retaliation for the attack in Barcelona. There has been very little indication that they are pursuing our actual strike team, so it seems that instead they are going quietly after individual civilians, the Six. That is most unlike Washington.”

  “I absolutely agree,” said Djahid, unwavering in his conclusion. He could not shake the uncomfortable feeling of an unknown presence out there, someone as cold-blooded as himself. “I would think the most likely suspects would be SEAL Team Six or Delta Force, but they are not the ones. Those people leave big after-action support footprints because they commonly employ helicopters, planes, and ships and a bright digital track. The de Lara and Bello shots were very smooth, conducted in secret, and no clues were left behind other than the Mallorca house being cleaned out. That part indicates the CIA could be responsible. They have great shooters, too, usually on loan from the military. Absolutely nothing is being said, not a word. Spain would see it as U.S. meddling in its affairs.”

  “The truth is that we don’t know who is behind this,” Yasim told his son.

  “No. Whoever it is, however, is going after the Group.” Djahid said, and they stopped. “First the fixer, now a banker. Since you are a member of the Group, Father, eventually you are likely to be targeted. I do not like the way you move around without protection.”

  Yasim never felt personal fear, for what was he, or anyone, but a pawn to be used as Allah had ordained? Dying was something that everyone would eventually do. “Yes. I am probably being hunted, but I am not helpless, am I?”

  “No, Father, you are not. You have me, and I will lay down my own life if I see that it is required to keep you alive. But I would like to have a good security screen around you.”

  They resumed walking, making a slow turn to head in the opposite direction, where the shining white dome of the Capitol loomed at the other end of the Mall. Yasim pointed at it. “A beautiful building, is it not? This is where we begin hunting the hunters.”

  Djahid’s face broke from its normal implacable setting of sharp planes and shadows and showed a trace of surprise. “We are going into Senator Monroe’s office? The Capitol Police will never even let us in the building.”

  His father laughed. “Why, the Americans call it the ‘People’s House,’ and we are people, are we not? I have documents that prove we own an import-export company that is expanding our international agricultural interests into Missouri, the senator’s home state. It’s just a front, of course, and operates out of a Kansas City mail-drop business. We have been regularly donating to his campaigns since political spies identified him about ten years ago as being willing to take a bribe. In the last election, we even set up an anonymous and secret political action committee that increased his treasury. His office has confirmed that he would be delighted to meet with us today.”

  “He just wants more money? What a sucking dog.”

  “The senator is corrupt but can be useful, for he sits on the Senate Armed Services Committee. He can find out who is responsible for what is going on behind the scenes with these shootings, if given the right motivation. Having you along will help remind him that he may have a motive even more important than a monetary donation. Fear works wonders, don’t you think?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. Just be yourself.”

  They stepped to the curb when the approaching black hulk of a Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows blinked its lights on and off twice and whispered to a purring halt beside them. The rear passenger door was pushed open, and Senator Monroe slid back across the leather seats to make room.

  Senator Jordan Monroe was halfway through his second term in the U.S. Senate after having served five terms of two years each in the House of Representatives, and he had learned the truism that staying in office was expensive. His most recent election, which he won by less than 1 percent of the statewide vote, had cost almost $20 million. That wouldn’t be enough in the next cycle, which meant the most important part of his job was raising funds, and this Rebiane fellow seemed made of ready money. The senator always made time for major cash cows, even ones who brought along muscle like this silent and menacing bodyguard. Well-invested donations to Monroe could translate to influence in the centers of power.

  * * *

  THE MAN they sought—the hunter—was much closer than they could have imagined. Marine Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson at that moment was relaxing in a small conference room with the rest of Task Force Trident, just over the bridge at the Pentagon, and planning another attack on the Group of Six, which had shrunk to the Group of Four. The sniper hits had served several purposes, including forcing the remaining financiers bankrolling the Spanish overthrow attempt to hire more guards, while also making those guards spread out to cover a wider area, hunting for potential shooting lairs.

  “I want to change tactics for this one,” Swanson said. “No use making it easy for them to defend these people.” He remembered the stricken widow of Mike Dodge crying in his arms, and he wanted to get just as up close and personal. Six dead Marines on a plane, taking them home in coffins for six grieving families.

  The next target identified in Commander Freedman’s folder was Mercedes Sarra Bourihane, the only woman on the list. Her picture was a head-and-shoulders photo of a woman perhaps in her fifties with a pleasant smile, dressed in a red designer jacket and discreet, but expensive, jewelry. The sandy hair had been styled by a professional, and the white teeth were the work of an artist, not some common dentist.

  “Don’t be fooled by that sweet ‘I’m just your average grandma who shops at consignment stores’ look. This woman is a hardboiled player.” The Lizard ran through her French-Algerian background, her pampered childhood, her graduation from college with honors in economics, and her entry into the international banking arena, where she had made her name. Other photos showed Bourihane wearing a scarf over her head, for she was devout in her worship of Islam. It was virtually impossible for any woman to be recognized and excel in either banking or religion in Algeria, but she had shredded those odds by becoming a person with whom the men of central banks around the world l
iked to deal. She was not seen as a threat in those circles, and she considered the men to be the usual run of sexist fools.

  “Bourihane is the person guaranteeing that the Islamist banks across the region will allow Spain to retain its political independence without the economic restructuring demanded by the EU and the United States. She can back her play with billions of dollars in assets, and Spain knows it.”

  General Middleton, the Trident commander, asked, “And you’re certain she is one of the Six? No doubt on that?”

  “Not a shred of doubt, sir. In fact, she is their poster girl. Watch.” He tapped his keyboard a few times, and a video came on the big flat-screen embedded in a wall. A confident Mercedes Bourihane was addressing the European Banking Risk and Regulation Congress the previous year, doing the initial introductory roll-out of the Islamist banking effort. She said, “I am honored to be one of the ‘Group of Six,’ as we call ourselves, because being very smart people, we could not come up with anything better.” A smile, a round of laughter. “This is a serious and open offer to help rescue Spain, my friends, and details will be made available…” The Lizard turned it off. “She confirms being one of them.”

  Master Gunny Double-Oh Dawkins grumped, “Hard to believe.”

  “Why? Because she’s a woman?” Coastie almost barked in his face.

  “No. Calm yourself, my child. I think it is hard to believe because she put this group out in the open way back then and nobody picked up on it as being anything more than an elaborate money scheme. After Barcelona, she is fair game.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Sybelle Summers rapped on the table. “Coastie has a good point, however. No matter how important Bourihane may be, she’s not one of the boys over there. I think we might use that to get at her.” She paused and looked around the table. “Let Coastie and me take a run on this one, since we can likely get closer. Kyle can do another one at about the same time. That will shock the hell out of any borderline supporters, change the attack pattern, and increase both the pace and the pressure on the opposition.”