In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  He left the truck where it was, with the keys in the ignition. The last trace of the marine biologist who had passed through the port of Astoria would be stolen and gone by morning. Gibson flung the shovel as far as he could, and it bounced and came to rest amid the beer cans and junk. Shouldering the backpack, he made the easy walk back into town, paid a hundred dollars in cash for a nice, bland room at the Holiday Inn Express, showered, brushed his teeth, and went to sleep feeling like a new man.

  The following morning, he slept late and missed the complimentary buffet, so he wandered downtown and found a real restaurant that fortified him with eggs, ham, hash browns, fresh biscuits, and strong coffee. Back to the Holiday Inn Express, and the crowd was gone, off to wherever their big recreational vehicles would travel. Gibson slid into a chair in the semi-private travelers’ business suite and logged into one of his accounts. He had been out of touch since Hong Kong, but struck gold in the first chat room, where a coded message awaited. The source was an old-timer inside the CIA:

  Regret to report that your good friend Kyle Swanson suffered catastrophic head and spine injuries. Condition critical. Prognosis grim, probably fatal. He is paralyzed neck down and on life support in the care of a private clinic in London. Condition entered in personnel file by on-scene observers who interviewed physician. I share your grief.

  Gibson sucked in a sharp breath. Damn. I got him! Or did I? He had butt-stroked Swanson pretty good, but to this extent? Still, what extra damage was done in the following action? Good news indeed, but inconclusive. He called up a second secret site, a private message board from a source buried within the élite community of special operators, and his heart began to sing:

  Swanson is finished with a broken neck. Source the two snipers who brought him out, plus helo medic that treated him on extract.

  Luke shut the computer down, erased the history, leaned back, and snapped his fingers with controlled joy. I got him. Not the shoot-out I wanted, but I got the bastard.

  He returned to his room, gathered his belongings, and checked out of the hotel into a bright and glorious Idaho day. Number One! He stuck out his thumb beside the highway and headed east, toward Big Thunder.

  ABOARD THE VAGABOND

  THE SUN WAS HIGH when Kyle Swanson awoke again, this time with a gentler emergence back into the real world after his drug-enforced hibernation. His lids fluttered and he coughed. There was some mild disorientation, but it gave way as life resumed. It felt as if he were being reborn, leaving a comfortable place of which he now had no memory.

  Hands were holding his, Coastie on the right and Lady Pat on the left. He smiled at them. “Welcome back, boy,” called out Sir Jeff, leaning on the foot of the bed. The big frame of Double-Oh Dawkins shadowed behind them.

  He just looked at all of them for a moment, taking in their presence. “Did I make it okay?” His voice was a croak.

  “Don’t make such a big deal out of sleeping for a while,” grumped Dawkins. “You still have all your fingers and toes.”

  Coastie leaned forward and kissed Kyle lightly on the forehead. “Everything is good,” she said.

  “Hey, you really are here,” he said, taking a long look at her. “I thought I saw you earlier. Can I get some water?”

  Sir Jeff told him that he’d been attended by one of the finest physician-surgeons in London, who was now on his way home. “You looked like hell, and we have pictures to prove it, but you’re fine. You may have a headache for a day or two, and an upset stomach. Otherwise, it went well.”

  “Let’s not do that again, shall we?” Lady Pat squeezed his hand.

  Kyle drank some water. “Did it work?”

  “Who knows? We sure planted enough hard evidence and rumors. Everybody but a tight handful of friends believes you are crippled with a broken neck and expected to die.” Double-Oh crossed his arms. “We are ready to go hunting whenever you are.”

  Kyle felt the gentle sway of the yacht and knew they were aboard the Vagabond. His stomach felt a bit queasy, and he closed his eyes again. “Where are we?”

  Sir Jeff spoke again. “We’ve passed out of the North Sea and are nearing the Channel Islands. The captain says we’ll be in the Atlantic sometime overnight.”

  “Anything on Gibson yet?” He looked at Double-Oh.

  “He got away aboard an old helicopter in the Afghan fracas. Marty Atkins thinks the agency may have a lead on him in Hong Kong, but he hasn’t pinged the system.”

  “So we don’t know if he’s taking the bait.” Kyle was tiring.

  “Not for sure. But we certainly provided a convincing show.”

  Kyle faded again, and the medical orderly stepped in to instruct that he should be left alone for a while. Reluctantly, the four of them trooped out of the cabin. The patient asked weakly, “Can I get something for sea sickness?”

  “No problem,” replied the orderly. “All your vital signs are stable. You might be on your feet tonight.”

  “I may puke.”

  “Basket’s at your right hand.” She gave him a shot of Dramamine, then turned off the light and left the room.

  32

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THE CONGRESSWOMAN FELT THAT her star-spangled universe was closing in on her. She had wrapped herself in the flag and called it patriotism, and now it was strangling her. She was seated in the immense office of the Speaker of the House, and he looked at her as if she were a bug that had splattered the windshield of his limousine. The same look came from her boss, the minority leader. There were four people at the conference table, and the third was Marty Atkins, the CIA director of intelligence. The welcome hadn’t been cordial.

  “We’ll get right to it, because we all have more important things to do today,” said the Speaker in an icy tone. He nodded to the minority leader.

  “If you were in a private company, you would be fired for cause and incompetence, Congresswoman Keenan. We, however, are the Congress of the United States and cannot do that. So here is the offer you can’t turn down: You are out of politics at the end of this term. Do not run for reelection.”

  Veronica Keenan opened her mouth to say something, but the Speaker shut her down. “If you do not heed the advice of your party leader, we will all crush you. Go back to the farm, Veronica. You’re done in Washington.”

  “This is a cover-up!” she squeaked, and turned to Atkins. “Your agency is riddled with corruption and you’re trying to lay the blame elsewhere.”

  The professorial civil servant had seen hundreds of these characters in a lifetime with the agency. Flailing for support, their first instinct was to throw a stink bomb at the CIA. This one had caused more trouble than most because of the congresswoman’s membership on the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence.

  “You brought us a scandal, Ms. Keenan,” said Marty Atkins. “A scandal with no proof. As a result, the media had another field day at our expense. We investigated everything thoroughly and found nothing.”

  “I don’t believe you, sir,” she snipped.

  “We do,” bellowed the Speaker. “In the process, you endangered our men and women, compromised operations, and broke your oath of secrecy. You should be going to prison, but we don’t need even more bad public relations from your tawdry power grab.”

  “Two of our field agents are dead and a third is missing, thanks to you.”

  “What about that drug center in Afghanistan? I saw that military takedown on the news. I forced the action on that.”

  Atkins wearily responded, “There are hundreds of places like that around the globe, ma’am. Little hubs for the opium trade that are used by dealers. You know that from the confidential briefings, and that the United States is focused on a shooting war in Afghanistan. You forced an attack on a place that will be back in the dope business as soon as the troops leave. We keep an eye on them, but have bigger fish to fry.”

  The Speaker, growing impatient, pointedly looked at a big grandfather clock on the wall. “You were used,” he declar
ed. “We know your source. Tell us how you contacted Luke Gibson, the man you know as Mr. Prince.”

  Keenan gathered her waning strength. They knew! “Have you been listening to my calls?”

  “Yes,” replied Atkins. “Where is he?”

  “I think this meeting is over,” she said. “I should get a lawyer.”

  Her party boss reminded her, “You are not a private citizen, Keenan. You go that way, and you’ll be looking at a prison sentence for certain.” He leaned forward on his elbows and said, softer, “It’s over, Veronica. You were played by a professional and got in over your head. Help us catch this traitor, and save yourself in the process.”

  He was right. Fighting it would lead to her personal destruction. She sat back against the deep seat, shut her eyes, and caught her breath. “What do you want me to do? I don’t know how to contact him.”

  Marty Atkins closed a folder. “I have a team waiting in a private office who will debrief you. You hurt us bad, Ms. Keenan, and a killer is on the loose because of your actions.”

  The Speaker smacked the table. “We’re done here. No press statements from you, Veronica. Not one fucking word.”

  ABOARD THE VAGABOND

  THE DOUBLE CHEESEBURGER WAS a heart-attack special, but Swanson wolfed it down and polished off two cold beers. He was feeling almost like his old self, and was hungry as hell after being tube-fed. Dessert was a big slice of Boston cream pie. The medical checkup was done, and that alone was cause for celebration. His neck and skull were normal.

  “That coma was an idiotic thing to do, Kyle,” said Lady Patricia Cornwell. “You put yourself in mortal danger.”

  “Nah. It might have been a stroll on some thin ice, but I knew you all would take care of me.” He smiled at the crusty Englishwoman. “And you did.”

  The Vagabond was chopping into the Atlantic swells, headed southwest. The motion no longer bothered him. “Well, let’s hope Luke Gibson bought the story, and that it holds long enough for us to find him. After all, that’s the goal.”

  In Afghanistan, Swanson’s thoughts had been focused on killing Gibson not so much because of that “I’m the best” bullshit as because Swanson didn’t want to have to keep looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. And after they had actually seen each other passing in those trucks, Swanson knew that neither would give up until the other was dead. After he had drawn that unshakeable conclusion, the question became how to reach Gibson first, and the solution to the puzzle came in a blinding flash before Thompson, Brandt, and he reached the helicopter; he was able to share the details over the thumping blades.

  It was an accepted fact that Gibson had sources on the inside, so the job of gathering information on his location had to be done without mentioning his name. It was the same trap that Swanson and Gibson had discussed together, of having too many people in the logistical tail. This time, only the few people who absolutely needed to know what was happening would know. He instructed his fellow snipers and the medic about who was needed, what they needed to do, and when. No one else would be allowed within the circle.

  It had all become so clear when he analyzed the situation, even while the fighting was under way. If Gibson went off the map again, and he would, they had to find someone who had links to him. One name stood out from all the others—the powerful Mexican drug lord Maxim Guerrera, who had ordered the attack on the gravesite. How did Guerrera contact Gibson? According to Gibson, as he sounded off back at the house, he had been called directly. That meant the drug lord had a private number for his American fixer.

  So while Swanson had slept, both Marty Atkins of the CIA and Lucky Sharif of the FBI had personally gathered the background on Guerrera, never mentioning the name of Luke Gibson. The Drug Enforcement Agency, ICE, and Homeland Security all had files, and the NSA furnished some recorded conversations. It was all forwarded to the Vagabond, which was on a course to the Gulf of Mexico. For the next five days, as Swanson healed, the team labored over the data.

  “There has to be a pressure point that will draw him out,” said Coastie during one long afternoon session. She was openly excited to once again be going after the man responsible for the death of her husband

  “The man loves his ponies and his boat, but there’s no opening, no weakness, beyond those,” Double-Oh added. “Goons with him all the time. I doubt that a snatch is possible.”

  Sir Jeff chimed in, “I quite agree. Even when he’s out on the water, a patrol boat of guards is lurking nearby. We could destroy them all, of course, but that would be messy. A good shooter might bop him. Anybody here know any good snipers?”

  “Quite,” said Lady Pat, laughing as she lit one of her little cigars. “Killing him is not the goal, however, may I remind you all.”

  “That will come eventually. His scalp belongs to me.” Coastie’s tone was cold. “So where is the pressure point? How do we get him alone?”

  “Keep workin’ the problem, gang,” Kyle said when they briefed him. “The answer is right here in front of us. I can feel it. Something in what Double-Oh said about the horses and boats. I’m going to get some ice cream.” He disappeared toward the galley.

  * * *

  ISLA MUJERES, THE ISLAND of Women, was part of Maxim Guerrera’s safe sailing zone. About eight miles off the Yucatán Peninsula, the rocky outcrop was a popular tourist designation, but also maintained a good harbor to support the bigger private craft, and not many questions were asked by the local authorities. Guerrera had been out all afternoon with his sweetheart, a hundred-foot sloop-rigged fiberglass racer he had named for his daughter, Valeria. The big cruising yacht was named for his wife, Maria, and was anchored on the other coast of Mexico.

  For the past two days, Guerrera had put the smooth Valeria through its paces, tightening things up for the upcoming Havana to Cancún regatta. She wasn’t an expensive boat, having cost less than a million dollars, but he had poured at least that amount into making it less of a showpiece than a genuine racer. In all things, Guerrera intended to win. The Valeria, with its ebony fiberglass hull and scarlet-and-gold spinnaker, was going to do just fine, and he took her to the dock after the workout.

  Wind-lashed and ruddy-faced from the sun, his shorts and his shirt still damp and salty, Guerrera strolled with a single bodyguard over to his favorite crab shack facing the water. The owner had kept the table open, and a cold beer and a plate of lobster tacos laden with spices and peppers was served immediately. He dug in as the sentinel kept watch. Guerrera was on his second beer and reading some newspapers when the guard handed him an envelope and motioned toward the open veranda, where he could make out the silhouette of a small woman with shining blond hair. The note was brief, written in a feminine hand:

  I am unarmed and alone, and wish a private word with you.

  Sra. Elizabeth Castillo

  There was a momentary shock of recognition, then he took another slow drink and told the guard, “Bring her over, then call for some more men.”

  Coastie wore low black heels, black slacks, and a gray top, with no jewelry except a Samsung Gear S2 Smartwatch. She allowed a quick pat-down by the guard, who then escorted her to the table. Guerrera didn’t get up, or offer a hand in greeting. “I am the widow of Colonel Miguel Castillo,” she said, sitting uninvited directly across from him.

  “I know who you are.” Most people trembled in his presence, but not this one. In fact, she made him nervous. “What do you want?”

  “A telephone number for Luke Gibson, the American,” she said, her eyes hard and level. “Give it to me now and I walk out and nothing more will happen.”

  “Go away, woman,” he snapped. “I have never heard that name, and I would never hand anything over to you. I know of your past life and exploits, señora. My guess is that you are currently an agent of the U.S. government.” He was starting to sweat because she remained so calm.

  “I represent no one but myself. You and Gibson took something precious from me—the life and reputation of my husband. I
offer you this chance for redemption.”

  Guerrera laughed. “How generous. Or what?”

  “I begin taking precious things from you. Last chance.”

  “Go fuck yourself, cunt.”

  She glanced at her wristwatch and tapped the small screen several times. “Sorry to hear that answer. It was crude. So now we have to wait a few minutes.”

  Two miles from them, on the leeward side of the island, a lightweight torpedo had been idling two hundred meters from the Vagabond. On her computerized command, the six-hundred-pound beast that had been brought along for testing surged forward, the course adjusted from the bridge of the yacht.

  “You are wasting my time.”

  “Just another minute. I understand that my husband was in a dangerous business, but why the desecration of his grave?”

  “Business. I had to send a message to the government that they should ease their efforts.” He shrugged.

  “You are an animal.” Her watch blinked red. “Now say goodbye to your Valeria.”

  The torpedo slammed a hundred-pound warhead into the sailboat with thunderous results. The explosion rocked the waterfront, set several other boats aflame, and rained debris like hard, sharp snow. Maxim Guerrera jumped up, spilling his beer, and stared like a stricken child. The Valeria was gone, leaving behind nothing but smoking and burning wreckage. By the time he sat back down and stared at Coastie, she had laid another note on the table.

  “You bitch! You murdered my crew!”

  “Just business,” she replied. “Read the note. Every five minutes now, something else belonging to you, something you hold dear, will disappear, just like your little sailboat. Give me Luke Gibson’s number and I will stop it all now. Otherwise, the clock continues to tick. Let’s see, Maxim, the next target is Espada. Four minutes.”

  She sat back, contented. The smoking ruin of the sailboat was an inspirational view.

  “How?” he gulped. Espada was his favorite polo pony, an Argentine-bred champion with a bold personality. Polo was another game that Guerrera loved, a game for the rich, and he owned a whole string of ponies, but Espada was a bruiser on the turf. He didn’t believe her; this had to be a bluff. How could these people harm the ponies, which were stabled at a mountain ranch several hundred kilometers away?