In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  Police officers and marines escorted the small procession past the colonial-era buildings and out to the cemetery, where an honor guard stood ready among the tombstones and crosses and stone statues of the Virgin and the sorrowful angels. Generations of San Luis de la Paz families had been laid to rest in that garden of marble headstones.

  From the black Mercedes that had stopped behind the hearse stepped Castillo’s mother, in midnight mourning from head to toe, a dark veil covering a swollen face tracked with tears. The marine who had opened the door took her gently by the arm and led her to the gravesite, where several rows of chairs had been arranged. She sat in the front row, staring across the open grave, still in shock.

  Then a man emerged from the car. He was wiry, with brownish fair hair, and wore an expensive black suit. Some mourners recognized him as the colonel’s close friend, an Anglo named Kyle Swanson, who was often at the ranch. He was always polite and deferential to the locals, never said much, and it was obvious that he and the colonel were in the same line of work. The man had the deep and restless eyes of a wolf, and those suspicious eyes swept around the limousine like a slash of radar. Then he leaned back in, offering his hand.

  Finally, out came the colonel’s lady, the señora, and the respectful crowd quieted even more. She also was an American, petite and beautiful and caring and funny. She threw great parties at the ranch and moved among the poor in the slums of San Luis with confidence, bringing help and understanding. Her blond hair glowed in the sun around the edges of a small black hat and veil. It was said that Elizabeth Castillo had once also been a soldier, but that was never confirmed, and the couple didn’t talk about it outside the family. What was discussed openly, by those who had seen her do it, was that the tiny woman was a mago—a magician—with firearms. She had won money from many men in impromptu shooting matches at the ranch, and they loved her for it. It was sad that she had not yet been blessed with children, the women said.

  “You okay, Coastie?” Kyle Swanson whispered as she rose and took his arm. “Hang on. Not much longer.”

  “I will kill the bastards who did this, Kyle,” she whispered. “I will personally send them to hell.”

  “Focus, girl,” he ordered. “Let’s put Mickey to rest.” He took her to the front row, where she sat beside her mother-in-law. The women held hands. Swanson went to a chair in the second row, directly behind them. Swanson wasn’t grieving for Mickey, and hadn’t shed a tear from the moment he received the awful news from Marty Atkins. By the time he ended that call, Swanson was already in a zone of resolve. A lifetime as a top U.S. Marine Corps sniper and his status as a CIA operator had prepared him well for such moments, and personal feelings only got in the way. His day job and cover story was being the executive vice president of a global company called Excalibur Enterprises. After the call from Marty Atkins, he had immediately arranged for the corporate jet to fly to Mexico. As everyone else mourned, he watched the crowd.

  The police had established an outer perimeter, and all roads into the cemetery area were blocked. Mexican marines in combat gear were in strategic positions. They all knew that an attack was unlikely, but with the drug thugs no one could be sure. Terrible things happened in modern Mexico, and it was best to bury Big Poison as soon as possible and retreat to the ranch.

  The polished coffin of handcrafted cherry wood was placed on the webbed straps of a lowering device that straddled the grave. The hole had been prepared the night before, and a small pyramid of dirt was covered by a mat of green artificial turf a hundred feet away, beside a yellow back-loader that would finish the burial after everyone had gone. The heavy vault that would hold the casket was in place below, ready to accept its eternal burden.

  A priest said some more words, and in the distance a somber mariachi group sang of loss and rebirth. The honor guard dipped its flags, and the marines saluted as Colonel Castillo was lowered into the waiting grave.

  A glint of gold in the bright sunlight drew Swanson’s attention, his subconscious tactical mind grinding at its own work even while his friend was leaving forever. The blink had come from some object worn by a man standing beside the little tractor at the dirt pile. An earring? He appeared tall for a Mexican, and was clean-shaven but for a sharp, pointed goatee, which indicated that he cared about his appearance. His jeans were clean, as was the long-sleeved Western-style checked shirt. Gravediggers normally didn’t look so clean or wear jewelry while on the job. A straw cowboy hat was tilted forward, shading his face.

  The colonel’s mother began to shake with another spasm of emotion. The widow wrapped an arm around the older woman, but kept her head up proudly, her attention fixed on the disappearing coffin. “I’m going to miss you so much, Mickey,” Beth Castillo whispered.

  In the row behind them, Kyle Swanson was suddenly alert. Nothing had happened, but after so many years in dangerous spots around the world he had a sixth sense that he obeyed without question. As the coffin of his pal kissed the cement of the vault, Swanson once again saw the distant blink. The man was on the move, walking away. Fast. Why would a gravedigger leave his machine only minutes before he had to do his job? Swanson grabbed the backs of the pair of folding chairs directly in front of him and gave a mighty pull as he shouted a warning: “Bomb!”

  Both Castillo women screamed as they spilled backward, and Swanson dived to cover them with his own body an instant before a device planted beneath the vault detonated with thunder and a dazzling flash of light. The explosion erupted from the hole with a roar and was followed by a fireball that seemed to rise from the depths of hell. People toppled like tin cans as the explosive beast ravaged the area. Swanson covered his head but felt the air being sucked from his lungs, and then debris began to rain down on his back.

  The rectangular shape of the grave had saved them, by channeling the main power of the blast straight up into the sky. Still, the strike was awful. People were down all around, stunned and shaken or wounded or dead. Swanson coughed for air and wiped his eyes, then rolled away, a sharp pain at his back.

  He knelt and checked the women. Mickey’s mother was unconscious. Elizabeth had scrabbled to her knees on the littered ground, and they stared at each other for a moment as the stunned silence gave way to a commotion.

  They concentrated on helping the older woman, checking her air passages and making sure there were no broken bones. Sirens were sounding. People were yelling. “Mama will be okay,” Beth declared. “How could they do this?” Looking at Kyle, her face filled with a mixture of sorrow, rage, and hate, she swore, “I will make whoever did it pay! I want back in!”

  2

  SWANSON REMAINED STILL AS chaos spread to allow things to settle enough to get past the buzzing ears and the instant headache and the showering dirt and debris. He had to assess the situation and get the hell out of this mess.

  People were fleeing toward perceived safety. Others stumbled about in shock. The desecration of the grave had been complete, and with no regard for the innocent. Castillo’s enemies had struck a horrendous blow that would stand as a warning of the fate awaiting anyone who opposed the cartels. Even death would not end the punishment.

  First things first. He was okay. Beth was okay. Mama Castillo didn’t look so good. Her skin was gray. A trail of blood that trickled from one eye was probably just a vitreous hemorrhage. No broken bones were apparent, but her pulse was weak. She would live, although Swanson didn’t think she would like the world into which she awoke.

  “She’s good enough to move back to the ranch,” he said. “Best we avoid the hospitals and bring in our own medical care. It will be safer out there.”

  “Yeah,” Beth agreed. She barked a string of instructions in fluent Spanish to a young Mexican marine, who took off at a run to organize an escape convoy.

  “Get one of the cops over here and translate for me,” Swanson said, and she waved to a policeman with a sweaty face and a missing cap. He recognized her and loped through the rubble.

  “Señora Castillo? Ar
e you hurt?” He was studying them, looking for injuries.

  She nodded and held up a finger to silence him. “Kyle, this is Sergeant Rey. What do you want him to do?”

  Swanson was on one knee. He pointed across the debris field to where the backhoe had been toppled to one side by the blast. “We need to secure that tractor. The man who was beside it may be involved in the bombing. Rey, you take charge of it—and don’t let anyone else even touch it until the machine can be checked for fingerprints and other evidence.”

  “Yes, sir,” the policeman said, not needing a translation. But he wanted to do more than just stand by a tractor. He wanted to shoot somebody. “Is there anything else?”

  Swanson spoke directly to him. “Tell your guys to locate the regular gravedigger. Likely he’s dead somewhere nearby and another man took his place. That would probably be the bomber.”

  The cop seemed a bit wobbly, dealing with the vestiges of his own shock. “Help is already on the way. Can I take you to your car, señora?”

  Beth shook her head. “Rey, listen closely. Start the search, then stand guard at the tractor. It is very important. Thank you for your concern, but we will be fine. Now go!”

  “You saw the bomber?” she asked Swanson.

  “Maybe. I saw somebody who didn’t belong,” he said. “No need to speculate until we see what the cops turn up. Now let’s get Mama out of here.”

  * * *

  THE RAGTAG CONVOY SLICED, bumped, and burrowed its way through the old streets of San Luis de la Paz with a police escort of SUVs mounted with machine guns, blaring sirens, and flashing warning lights. Swanson felt absolutely naked. He had flown out of Washington upon getting the news about the fatal shootout. To avoid airport and customs hassles and delays, he chose to leave his personal weapon at home, because he could always borrow one from the substantial armory of the Castillo ranch. Then he got caught up in the emotional funeral arrangements and decided to let the security detail do its job while he provided comfort and support to the widow and the mother of his friend. After all, what could go wrong at a funeral? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  Now everywhere he looked he saw potential kill zones, and all he had was a heavy six-shot .375 Magnum revolver that he’d borrowed from the driver of the Mercedes. The long-barreled weapon wasn’t even the real deal but a knockoff of the Smith & Wesson made famous in the Dirty Harry movies. Not even close to a modern Desert Eagle. While checking the load, Swanson discovered that the gun had been manufactured by a Chinese factory that was in the cheap mail-order gun business. He kept it pointed down beside the seat as a safety precaution. The heavy car rocketed across a curb.

  He was in the front seat and both Mrs. Castillos were in the back, with Mama still out cold and Beth cradling her in her arms. “Keep your Beretta handy,” he said over his shoulder. She always kept the small weapon in her purse.

  “I can get to it if we need it. Do your own job.” Her voice was tight. She resented being told something so basic.

  They weaved through a traffic roundabout and were well away from the cemetery, headed for open country. Swanson didn’t breathe easier until he saw the first cow in a field. There were few places for death to hide in open pasture. He glanced back and caught Beth staring at him, and he shrugged and went back to watching the livestock.

  Elizabeth Ledford Castillo was one of the most interesting people he had ever met, and they went back a long way. A corn-fed American blonde from the Midwest, she had been a remarkable sharpshooter from girlhood. Nobody could explain the uncanny gift, other than that she was like a child-savant pianist, only she was a prodigy with firearms. It was almost as if she didn’t even have to aim at a target to punch it out. Her protective family shunned publicity when the reporters came knocking after hearing tales about the new wunderkind Annie Oakley.

  She remained on the quiet farm throughout high school, but excitement beckoned, and to make her gift something more than an oddity she joined the U.S. Coast Guard, because at the time it was the only service branch that allowed women to really shoot. It didn’t take her long to qualify as a sniper who could take out live targets, stinging them from the open door of a helicopter, which meant that both she and the targets were moving when the trigger was pulled. Bandits, pirates, and drug smugglers all suffered beneath the cool, methodical aim of Beth Ledford.

  She was satisfied with her assignments until her brother, a physician, was killed by terrorists during a flood-relief mission of Médecins Sans Frontières, Doctors Without Borders. Beth was devastated, and would not let the situation rest. Instead of the cooperation she expected from her superiors, she ran into a buzz saw of official opposition and trouble from people with other agendas. That was when she appeared on the radar of Kyle Swanson’s old team, Task Force Trident, an élite black-ops unit. The small, pretty young woman, who was only about twenty-five at the time, started out almost as a mascot. They called her Coastie.

  But she soon proved to be a valuable tool for the team, because she really could shoot as good as, or better than, any of them. Well, Swanson thought, she wasn’t better than him, although that was never tested, because he might not like the answer. Beyond the absurd marksmanship, Coastie carried a touch of murder in her soul and the uncompromising determination of a backwoods preacher. Beth Ledford developed into a stone-cold killer and a smooth Trident operator, someone Swanson was always happy to have as a partner. In fact, she had even saved his life. There had been romantic opportunities that never bloomed because of Kyle’s emotional isolation. Then she fell in love with Mickey Castillo instead and retired from the game so that they could get married. Swanson knew he could have had Beth himself had he just been able to say, “I love you,” but he couldn’t. He had said that before to other women, and those words packed too much hurt, so he settled for being best man at their wedding and a good friend to both.

  Swanson adjusted his sunglasses and again made sure the safety was secure on the hand cannon at his side. The driver was doing a good job on the road. He was built like a fire hydrant, with the jowly face of a bulldog, and drove as if this were a NASCAR tryout.

  Swanson used the moment to reflect on what Coastie had blurted out at the cemetery: she wanted to come back into the secret world. But three years had passed since she had retired to the easy life of a wealthy family in Mexico’s upper middle class. It was too soon for her to make this kind of decision, or any major decision. Nobody should make a life choice during such emotional moments, but Coastie wasn’t like everyone else. If it was revenge she wanted, Swanson knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop her. She hadn’t been asking permission. He shifted in the seat. The tension was miles behind them now, and the ranch was five miles of smooth road straight ahead.

  * * *

  BY THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Swanson was no longer at the ranch. Word had come down directly from Marty Atkins, the only man in the CIA to whom Swanson answered directly, and the word was to get up to Mexico City immediately. He wasn’t sad to go, because he could postpone dealing with Coastie for at least a little while. He knew that she wasn’t going to give up.

  It took most of the day to make the trip to the capital, but the sun was still high and hot in a cloudless sky as he boarded a helicopter to take him above the horrendous traffic of the city and the dirty smog that hugged the tops of the tall buildings. More than eight million people lived in Mexico City, and it seemed that most of them were on wheels of some sort, clogging every avenue.

  The chopper set down lightly on the helipad atop an inconspicuous office building, and a guide showed him to an elevator. A reception desk was directly in front of the elevator door when it opened, and Swanson understood that the young man seated there was also a guard, despite the blue sports coat and the tie and the bright manner. Swanson handed over his cred pack, and the man nodded up at a camera. “Just a moment, sir. Mrs. Johnson is coming out to escort you.”

  Swanson was looking for the pinhole cameras that surely covered the area when a knobless door buzzed
open. “Mr. Swanson. I’m Irma Johnson, the executive assistant to Mr. Wright. He’s expecting you.” Her voice was calm and smooth, because she was used to the crisis mode that always existed in these offices. This was just another day in the heart of the CIA in Mexico.

  Everything about her was neat, from the graying hair to the polished nails. She was the unflinching gatekeeper of the dark world, and professional to the core.

  “We have to walk a bit because he’s in the secure communications suite.” The hallway was narrow and built to provide niches in which staff members could take cover in case of an attack. The zigzag route made it impossible for a gunman at one end to shoot all the way to the other.

  Neither remarked on the unusual architecture, which was pretty standard for important outposts around the world. Outwardly, it had the bland look of an insurance company, including potted plants and tasteful wallpaper that seamlessly hid the firing ports.

  At a dark-mahogany door, Mrs. Johnson activated a touch panel and the portal opened. She stood aside and Swanson moved into the communications center of the CIA’s home away from home in Mexico. Glitzy new computers and old file cabinets intermingled in what seemed to be a continuation of the haphazard layout. In reality, it was an efficient way to do business, to loop tomorrow back to yesterday. In the information age in which teenage hackers could attack a government computer system just for the hell of it, paper copies had come back in style.

  Timothy Wright, the station chief, gave Swanson a brief handshake and had him sit down. There was a thick black notebook peeled open on the desk, and he said, “Let’s get straight to it, shall we?”

  “Sure. What’s going on? I shouldn’t be here.” Swanson took a straight-backed chair. “Such a direct link with the company could destroy my cover.”