In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  * * *

  KYLE SWANSON SAW SHADOWS that firmed into shapes as he awoke, bound to a chair. “What?” he croaked, his throat aching and parched.

  “Ah. Back from nappytime, are we?” The jovial voice of Luke Gibson registered. “You’re okay, Kyle. Just a little bump on the head. Here’s some more water.”

  A firm hand gripped his jaw and a plastic bottle bumped his lips. He drank, swallowed, drank again, stopped. “What happened? Grenade? I don’t remember anything after Marks went down.”

  “That’s because I knocked you out. You never saw it coming.”

  “What the fuck, Gibson? Why am I tied up?”

  Gibson put the bottle on a table and rocked back in a chair of his own. “You’re tied up because otherwise you would do something stupid, like try to kill me before I explain the situation. You’re a dangerous man, Kyle, so I can’t take that chance.”

  Swanson tested the bonds. Duct tape was strapped around his chest, his hips, and probably his legs, because he couldn’t move his feet. His hands were loose in front of him, but handcuffed, and his watch was gone. He reached for the bottle, looking at Gibson, who made no move to stop him. He drank. A packet of aspirin was on the table, so he opened it and took two tablets, chasing them with another sip. “You contact Checkerboard yet?”

  “Sure. Brought them up to date.”

  “I thought I heard somebody talking. Marks?”

  “Dead and gone.”

  Kyle looked around the room. No body. He saw lots of blood in the open bathroom door. “What … the … hell … is … going … on?”

  Gibson spread his hands as if to calm him. “Don’t sweat it about Marks. He was a rotten bastard anyway. As for you, I didn’t bring you here to hurt you, Kyle. To kill you, yes, eventually, but not for torture. In fact, I want you in top shape.”

  Swanson’s head still hurt, but he was thinking more clearly as he sat back in the chair, seeming to relax a bit while taking a physical inventory. He raised his hands to his head and his fingers found a square bandage compress that had been taped over a small cut that still oozed liquid. He clenched his hands, his toes, and did isometrics to be sure everything still worked. He was tied in a peculiar way, but otherwise it seemed he was fine. “I never trusted you, Gibson. Not from the start.”

  Gibson laughed as if he was truly amused and slapped the table a couple of times. “Yet here we are! I win!”

  “You win? Win what?” Swanson flicked his eyes to a young man sitting in a shadowed corner. Slight, with an expressionless face that carried only a fuzz of beard. Age no more than fifteen. A Kalashnikov was propped next to him.

  Gibson got to his feet and began to pace. He was in full flow, and Swanson didn’t interrupt. Let him talk and give away some nuggets of intelligence. Swanson kept his own mind busy on other things, looking for possible weapons, possible advantages. He stretched against the tautness of his bonds. There was little give to it, and he knew the fibers of duct tape were incredibly strong. He couldn’t bust his way free. A slow anger boiled inside, but he fought it back in order to remain calm. Somehow, someway, there had to be an exit.

  “I was telling you about my father, remember? Well, he was a CIA guy, too, as was his father before him. I come from a long, long line of spooks, Kyle, dating back to the days of the British Raj. I was actually bred and trained from childhood for this kind of work. Just like some dads spend their afternoon training their sons to be professional athletes, mine taught me tradecraft.”

  Swanson gave a small laugh. “Whoopie for you. Must have been a lot of fun.” Then he paused. “You’re crazy, Luke. You know that, right?”

  “That depends on your definitions. Crazy enough to dream big dreams and then go out and make them come true. Crazy enough to be the best at everything I do.”

  Swanson checked the kitchen. It was small, with a counter and some cabinets that seemed about to fall from the wall. He saw a small stove, which meant that the place was actually used for preparing meals. That meant a knife or two, perhaps some glasses or plates and other stuff. He inhaled and caught a whiff of stale food, and assumed it had been cooked, which meant that fire was available, probably with propane gas. He turned his attention back to the babbling Gibson. “What’s the plan here, Luke? Why didn’t you shoot me out there? You had plenty of chances?”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Listen up. I’ve always been the best at everything. The CIA, through my family connections, first recruited me back in high school. If they could take a kid—the right kid, of course, not just anybody—and mold him through his formative years, they could create a professional of exceptional talent and possibilities.”

  Swanson couldn’t let that curveball pass without a swing. “Kids lie about their age all the time to get into the service. Discovering a sixteen-year-old soldier isn’t a rare occurrence. They get trained fast, and a high-school dropout might become a combat medic or learn to speak Russian in six months. You aren’t so special.”

  Gibson didn’t take the taunt. “By the time the recruiters hit the college campuses for juniors and seniors, they may find some with unique skills, all of them very bright, but some ten valuable years of learning have been wasted. By the time I was a junior, I was already running missions and helping my dad.”

  Swanson nodded his chin toward the young fighter crouched in the corner, who apparently didn’t understand a word of English. He seemed bored. “You and I both have seen guns on boys in Africa who should have been in about the third grade. And how about your little punch boy over there, Luke? Doesn’t the fact that he’s probably illiterate kind of blow your élitist theory out of the water?”

  “Children can be useful tools, that it true. Even a mosquito can bite. I created a group of boys called the Lions of the Caliphate. They cannot think and plan or see beyond tomorrow, and then they die as cannon fodder. Anyway, I don’t have to prove myself to you, Swanson. I’ve already beaten you several times.”

  Water? The word made him look at the bottle on the table. This place had water and food supplies. A scan of the walls showed old nails and random screws sticking out. Propane plus nails equal bomb? Possible. A couple of lightbulbs showed that there was electricity. A broom and who knows what other housekeeping supplies would be around. In the right hands, this place had a lot of possibilities. Although he was bound like a chicken, he was beginning to feel better.

  “You said you came here, to this house, as a boy, Gibson. Why did dear old dad haul you to such a dump? Some parents take their kids to Paris or London or New York, but you end up in the ass-end of nowhere?”

  Gibson moved to the kitchen and came back with a fresh water bottle. He opened it and drank. “One of the family assignments was to establish safe houses for the agency in interesting places when the Middle East started to heat up. Along the way, we created some rabbit holes where we could also hide.”

  Swanson grunted, as if in admiration. A safe house meant weapons, money, comm gear, identity papers. Probably under the rugs. Also, his Excalibur sniper rifle had been laid on a nearby table, along with his other gear and ammo.

  Gibson turned a chair around and straddled it to face Kyle. “I know what you’re doing, Mr. Secret Agent Man. You’re noting things you might be able to use in an escape. We went to the same schools on that shit, remember?”

  “I’m tired of your bragging about your weird family business,” Swanson snapped. “What’s the point? You get me here, then you kill Marks…” He stopped in midsentence. The words of the Boatman came back, and things started to snap into place.

  “This cannot be done alone.” All the while, Swanson had believed the subconscious voice was urging him to take Gibson on as the partner he needed for a complicated mission. No, it had been about the partner and the target working together in a complex ballet of death to lure him into a kill zone. “You and Marks were a team!”

  “Almost. I need specialized help now and then. He was handy when I decided to reel you in and teach the CIA a lesson.”
Gibson opened a tall armoire and tossed a couple of bundles of clothing on the table, then undressed while continuing to talk. “It was the damned agency, you see that? I worked for them all my life, as my family had for generations, then they betrayed me. I was the one who did the high-value targets, I was the one with the best assignments and rewards, I was the loyal soldier who could go anywhere and do anything. Anything! So what did they do to piss me off so much? You, Kyle Swanson, Marine Corps legend and top shooter for Task Force Trident, became available—out of the corps and still in your prime, plus your connections to Excalibur. That’s a helluva weapon, I gotta say. But, presto, you were number one from the day you walked in the door.” The belts and boots and jumpsuit were thrown into a pile, and he donned loose pants, a tunic, and sandals like those worn by the kid in the corner. Changing into local garb; getting ready to fade away.

  “No such thing, Luke. I’m pretty much full time with Excalibur and only do occasional contract work for the agency. There is no rating system of who’s who in the sniper world. The number of kills is a media fantasy. You know that.”

  Gibson pointed a finger at him, the smile gone. “And YOU know that they always turn to you first in a clutch. That fucking Marty Atkins thinks you’re a god of war. Atkins is the one who promoted you over me.”

  “So you’re going to ruin Marty? That’s silly. He’s a bureaucrat, and someone just like him will take his place. It isn’t a personal judgment, Luke—just who he has available and where at the right time. I hardly know the man.”

  Gibson was growing agitated as he adjusted his new clothing for comfort. “So I decided to set things straight, once and for all. Top of my list is that you have to go. I’ve already ruined your reputation. Understand? Next, Marty has to go. Then I’ll send the whole fucking CIA right down the sewer.”

  Swanson cocked his head and said, “Gee, Luke, you seem upset.”

  Gibson slapped him hard across the face and the chair tumbled to the floor, with Swanson bouncing along with it.

  22

  KAISERSLAUTEN, GERMANY

  11:45 AM LOCAL

  1630 ZULU

  THERE WERE MOMENTS IN her job when Marguerite del Coda knew it was best to act on her own. That not only got things moving faster but also shielded her superiors in the event something went wrong. This was one of those moments.

  The situation in Afghanistan had deteriorated from a somewhat unusual but still routine job to a potential catastrophe faster than a flash flood fills a Texas ditch. The news had caught her in the middle of her first glass of wine, and she pushed it away as Ryan Winters filled her in.

  A weird radio message had been picked up from Luke Gibson, deep in Afghanistan, and it made no sense whatsoever. Two veteran operators were trying to kill each other, and a third one had been tortured? No way.

  “We put a drone overhead, didn’t we, Ryan?”

  “Yes, boss. It was for attack purposes, however, with only tactical vision. We don’t have an eye in the sky.”

  “Let’s change that, then. Get a camera overhead.” She knew Langley would have no problem with that, since flying drones was a big part of her job. The next part was more of a roll of the dice.

  “Do we have anybody else in the general area?” she asked.

  Winters played his keyboard for about thirty seconds. “The closest option would be that other sniper team, Brandt and Thompson. They’re just coming off that successful assignment in Pakistan.”

  “Let’s get them saddled up as soon as possible to get to that location, find out what the hell is going on.”

  Winters hesitated and gave a little wince. “Are you sure you want to do that, Marguerite? Langley may not like it.”

  “My call, Ryan. Easier to ask forgiveness than to seek permission, and we need to sort out some details. Crank it up. I’m on my way back to the office. This may end up as a full-blown search and rescue in a hot zone, but we’re not abandoning our people on the ground.”

  CLARKE, VERMONT

  NOON LOCAL

  1700 ZULU

  COASTIE SULKED HER WAY through a long talk with herself, then called Mexico, and she and Mama Castillo shared a long cry across the miles. “I don’t know what to do, Mama,” she confided between sobs. “I can’t get over what happened to Mickey. I’m doing and thinking crazy things.” She stroked Nero, who stretched beside her.

  “Miguel is gone, my sweet Beth. We cannot bring him back.”

  “How did you get over it when Papa died? What’s the secret?”

  There was a brief silence, then Mama quietly replied, “Only time, my dear. One dawn at a time. The hurt fades away, although the ache of such a lost love stays forever. Miguel loved you with great passion.”

  “I know. Just as I loved him.” She snatched another tissue from the box and wiped her nose and eyes. “It was special.”

  Mama’s tone changed a bit, kind but sharper. “However, we both knew he was in a very, very dangerous business. He risked his life every time he went out. That was the kind of man he was when you first met him, remember? He didn’t change. He couldn’t.”

  “Damned drug cartels!” Coastie said, gripping a handful of Nero’s fur. The dog looked up, startled, and she went back to petting him.

  “Beth, remember that you were in that same line of work. You understood him in ways that no other woman could.” Her tone softened then. “You’re not meant to be a housewife, Beth. Miguel often told me that you could conquer dragons. You need a cause, something bigger than yourself.”

  “I should just come back to you and the family.”

  “NO!” Mama was adamant. “There’s nothing but trouble for you now down here, Beth, and a drug war is under way in the region. The family is fine. I’m getting better. I won’t let you come back and sit around and wilt away wrapped in black lace and sorrow. That isn’t who you are. Is Kyle helping you out?”

  “I haven’t seen him for a while,” Coastie said. “Don’t know where he is. I’m up in the state of Vermont right now, and some old friends are trying to help. Apparently, they find me to be a heavy load to carry. I miss Mexico.”

  “And I miss you, too. Stay busy, Beth. Keep your mind occupied. Count yourself fortunate to have known true love in this lifetime and to have good friends. Now, let go of the past and look toward tomorrow.”

  When they hung up, Coastie sat still for a while, thinking hard. Mama was right. She should postpone her rampage against the cartels for a while. Not quit; just take time off. She washed up, brushed her hair, put on clean clothes, and hunted Double-Oh. He was unloading some bales of hay from a pickup, picking them up without effort, his big forearms bulging as he tossed them.

  “I’m back,” she said, looking up at him, her arms across her chest.

  “Yeah?” He threw out another bale and took a break, with his hand on his hips, looking down at her, detecting an internal change in the pint-size killer. This was the girl he knew.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

  GIRDIWAL, AFGHANISTAN

  SWANSON CONTINUED TRYING TO get his bearings. He spat out some blood, and Gibson lifted the chair upright. “Why the Mexico attack on the grave, Luke? Mickey Castillo had nothing to do with any of this. That was really out of bounds.”

  “Castillo was a pain in the ass for the drug chiefs. Those constant raids on the labs and the caches had become a bother, and his commandos had taken out a lot of their most reliable gunmen.” Gibson wandered over to the window and looked out, then back at Swanson. “Worse, he couldn’t be bought off. So when he got killed—that was a lucky shot, by the way—Maxim Guerrara wanted to send a message to dissuade other righteous idiots. He did not know exactly how.”

  “I still don’t get it.” Swanson was being truthful about that, and the longer he could keep Gibson talking the better. Something might happen.

  “When I heard about the colonel’s death, I saw my chance, Kyle. It was common knowledge that the two of you were close friends, so here was an opening to start y
ou along the path that has brought you here. I offered Nicky to go in and do something dramatic to resolve their problem. I also told him to be recognized, so the chase could begin. It had to seem to be your idea, Swanson. You had to want to take the next step. Avenging your friend’s grotesque end was a perfect reason.”

  Swanson filled his cheeks with air and blew it out slowly. “You’re a deranged animal,” he said as he did some more isometric flexes, creating wiggle space.

  “And you were so easy to catch,” Swanson snapped. “Once Nicky’s name and picture were in play, you couldn’t be held back. So we met in Berlin, not by coincidence but because I wanted it that way.”

  Swanson looked quizzical. “The grenade that Marks threw almost took you out, too.”

  “We had worked it out beforehand, dumbass. We even practiced with rocks that afternoon before dinner. The thick foliage provided cover, and the rollaway down the slope took us under the blast. It was choreographed, and I signaled him by lighting that cigarette, then flipping it away. Remember, I was the one who identified Marks as the villain that time, right?”

  Swanson had to agree. The man had done some work on this, and Swanson was ready to kick himself for not recognizing the hurry-up scenario.

  “After that, Nicky and I stayed in touch by phone to keep him one step ahead. At the same time, I pushed you and Marty Atkins to hurry, hurry, hurry. The cherry on top? You’ll love this.”

  “What?” Swanson noticed that the boy in the corner was falling asleep, bored by the foreign words and not caring. No attention to his weapon.

  “I hooked a member of Congress into launching an investigation of the agency. She’s a fool, but useful.” He stopped talking and went to the doorway and looked outside when the buzz of a small airplane sounded overhead in the darkness. Gibson checked his watch. “Too early for a rescue party, Kyle. They may not send anyone at all. Sorry about that. May be my own ride out, or just another little plane coming in late. We get plenty of traffic here.”