In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel

by Sgt. Jack Coughlin

  “Never mind that. After the horse, the next item on my list will be your boat on the far side, the Maria. The bomb is already aboard. Then we move on to real people, starting with your son, Carlos, in California. As long as you want to play, Maxim, I have targets enough for an hour. I really don’t want to kill those horses. Give me the number. Two minutes.”

  “Like hell I will. You wouldn’t dare. I will see to it that every drug lord in Mexico declares war on you. Stop this madness or I will kill you right here.”

  “The program goes on automatically and cannot be stopped if I am harmed in any way. Time is up. Say goodbye to poor Espada.”

  They sat locked in mutual hatred until the cell phone rang in his pocket. He listened quietly, asking only, “All of them?” When the answer came, his grim face fell apart. The supervisor of the mountain ranch had reported that a missile with multiple warheads had struck the facility, killing the ponies and wrecking the training complex.

  “After we are done with the physical things, we will dismantle your operation, freeze your funds, and make a deal with your bother drug lords to put your ass in a maximum-security federal prison. Or just kill you. I haven’t made up my mind yet. The Maria in four minutes.”

  Guerrera retrieved his telephone and went to the list of contacts, selected one, and spun the screen to face Coastie. It was listed as the Big Thunder Ranch, with a U.S. calling code. “That’s the answering service. I call him and leave a message. It is all I have, señora. I don’t know where he is. Please make this stop. Please.”

  She tapped her wristwatch phone and read the address and number to Swanson. “Hold on further attacks until I return safely,” she said, then walked from the restaurant without another word.

  33

  KYLE SWANSON WAS TWO blocks away, in an overwatch position buried deep in the tangled shadows of a second-floor corner room. An Excalibur sniper rifle was braced on a bipod anchored to a table and snug against his shoulder. O. O. Dawkins was at his side, getting a larger view than Swanson had through the big weapon’s scope. Both saw Coastie walk away from the dockside restaurant. Swanson remained locked to the entranceway to the restaurant she had just left. So far, so good, but Swanson doubted it would stay that way.

  Maxim Guerrera had been stung badly by Señora Ledford, and his fiery temperament would not let such an insult stand. He would rather lose everything than be disrespected. Guerrera had given up the Big Thunder information because he didn’t give a damn about Luke Gibson. Now he had to strike back hard and fast, or word would get out that the drug lord had been bested by a woman.

  Some members of Guerrera’s guard detail had been killed in the boat explosion, but others were rushing to shield him. The single close bodyguard heard the boss yell, “Grab her!” Guerrera was gambling with fate, but if he could get his hands on her now she could be used as a hostage. “Alive!” he shouted.

  Double-Oh dropped the binos and bounded down the stairs with a compact H&K MP7 in one hand and a flash-bang grenade in the other. Swanson didn’t move, except for controlling his breathing and toucing his finger to the trigger.

  Coastie broke into a sprint when she heard the shouting behind her. Looking back would be a waste of time. By lunging forward to chase her, the perimeter bodyguards abandoned their protective posts, but were still scattered, so she slowed a bit to let them catch up.

  For that instant, Swanson’s world was sniper silent, a private place in which he was alone with the target, and Maxim Guerrera, with a sun-reddened, angry face, stood still, awaiting the capture of the woman. Swanson caressed the trigger, pulling straight back, and the broad, loud voice of Excalibur spoke in its definitive .50-caliber vocabulary. Maxim Guerrera, one of Mexico’s most vicious criminals, took the shot in his broad chest, and it destroyed his insides. He slumped to his knees and held the position long enough for Swanson to take a second shot that snapped the man’s skull as if it were an egg.

  The bodyguards froze at the booming sounds that rolled out over the bay, and Coastie reached the hide house, passing Double-Oh, who was exiting. Dawkins flung the grenade into the street and ducked back into the doorway before the detonation. Then he tossed a smoke grenade, just to confuse things even more. “You ready?” he shouted back to her.

  “Yeah, go.” Coastie had picked up a waiting MP7, and they both charged out through the curtain of dense, swirling smoke. A guard appeared, coughing, and Double-Oh downed him with a three-shot burst.

  Swanson hadn’t altered his sight pattern for new range and distance readings, because any new action would center around the body. A man with a pistol jumped from a car and Kyle blew him away instantly.

  Another burst of fire blasted when Coastie ripped a guard. Then she and Dawkins emerged from the smoke cloud and were beside the corpse. Double-Oh turned and took a knee, firing selective shots now, as Coastie searched Guerrera and grabbed the cell phone, with all its information, and took the wristwatch and the wallet, too, in case they might also contain information.

  “Gimme!” she yelled, reaching out to Double-Oh. Without looking back, he tossed her a small bar of Composition C plastic explosive. She ripped a sticky strip off one side of the malleable claylike block and inserted a pre-set fuse, then shoved the device beneath the body. “I’m done here,” she said with a prankish grin. “Thirty seconds. Go!”

  They had sprinted almost clear of the smoke cloud when the C-4 exploded and bits of Maxim Guerrera sprinkled along the waterfront like dirty red rain. “That’s for Mickey, you asshole!” she hollered, and Double-Oh grabbed her by the arm and yanked her inside the doorway of their hide.

  Swanson was poundiging down the steps, cradling the Excalibur. “Let’s get moving,” he said, leading the way to the back, where a couple of the Vagabond’s crew of ex-special-ops veterans had a Range Rover waiting. They were gone in thirty seconds, without another shot being fired.

  ABOARD THE VAGABOND

  THE YACHT HEADED DIRECTLY east, away from Isla Mujeres, at a leisurely pace. There was no link between it and the attacks. The yacht crew had been visible to observers doing strange things like launching weather balloons, scuba diving, fishing, and partying. The torpedo had been launched unseen through an underwater port, and the double launch of the sea-to-land missiles appeared to be part of a gigantic fireworks display. Many luxurious private boats came to the island for a few days, spent a lot of time playing, then sailed away again. The Vagabond was no different. After the gunfight in town, several other boats also had hauled anchor.

  With the shore team back on board and everything secure, a council of war was held in the day cabin, fueled by celebratory champagne. Coastie looked as if a thousand-pound burden had been lifted from her mind and her shoulders. Punishing Maxim Guerrara had been worth the risk, although she felt sorry about killing the polo ponies.

  “Did we get some good stuff?” she asked. The material she had taken from the drug king was sacked in transparent plastic evidence bags that were sealed and labeled. Not that it would ever see the light of day in any courtroom, but the government labs would pick it apart and suck out every molecule of information.

  “I certainly think so!” Sir Jeff crowed. “The call directories and histories on the phones should lay out a big map of Señor Guerrara’s empire.”

  Swanson poured himself a refill. “I called Lucky to pass that Big Thunder number along, and we fly out first thing tomorrow to hand-carry this cache to Washington and maintain the chain of custody. I will give it to Marty and he’ll unleash the alphabet agencies on it. Meanwhile, Lucky will have the data on Big Thunder. So, yeah, it’s some good stuff.”

  “Only thing I want is the intel on that Big Thunder place.” Double-Oh was as calm as if he were reading a comic book. “That’s where we’re going to find Luke Gibson. By the way, Coastie, you done good back there. Cracks me up when somebody underestimates you.”

  Beth Ledford sank into a deep cushion. “No prob. It had to be done if I ever hoped to put my husband at peace. Sad ab
out the horses, though.”

  Lady Pat walked over and took her hand. “Think, instead, of all the people you’ve saved by getting that monster out of the way.”

  Dinner was a leisurely affair of cold cuts, cheese, fruit, and wine, then the Cornwells retired to their cabin after the long day. Double-Oh was also weary and went to binge-watch Netflix. Coastie and Kyle sat side by side in deck chairs on the stern, watching the Gulf waters flow by. The engines were a monotonous, quiet hum.

  “So what now?” she asked. Red wine had helped the events of the day slide into perspective. She felt better than she had in a long, long time, comfortable and protected and without worry.

  “We go get Luke.”

  “Of course we will. That’s not what I’m asking, you silly boy.”

  Kyle blinked at her. The lovely hair and tanned skin, the curve of her cheeks and the compact body in tan cargo shorts and a loose white shirt. “Well, that’s a tough one, isn’t it?”

  Coastie reached over her chair and touched his right hand lightly. “I love Mickey, you know that. And I miss him terribly.”

  “Yeah, so do I. Think about him all the time.” He turned. The moonlight seemed to halo around her. He gently squeezed her hand. Could he say the words?

  She squeezed back, leaning against the cushion, her eyes soft. “But I love you, too, Kyle. I never really stopped.”

  He broke the spell and got out of the chair, walked to the rail, and left her alone. Several deep breaths made his shoulders heave. Then he spun about and turned to see not a pixie with the soul of a stone-cold killer but the warm-hearted woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life. He slowly lifted her to her feet. “I never stopped loving you, either, Coastie, and now I love you more than ever,” he said. The hug led to a slow kiss, which led to her stateroom.

  MONTANA

  LUKE GIBSON WAS TROTTING through the sagebrush and trees on the thousand-acre spread of the Big Thunder Ranch, letting the horse lope along at a gentle pace on an old cattle trail. The big black could go anywhere it wanted to and still be on the Big Thunder. Five hundred acres on the U.S. side of the border and another five hundred across the invisible border in Canada. The ranch had been carefully crafted over the years onto the national land of both countries, and blended into even more protected acerage.

  Checking with his GPS would have been a waste of times; he knew he was about equidistant between Plentywood, Montana, and Crosby, North Dakota. Over the border, Regina, up in Saskatchewan, lay to the north and the south was desolate all the way down to Wyoming. It had been planned that way to create an oasis in the middle of nowhere. The only place to really avoid was the customs border checkpoint in Regway.

  The border literally ran right through the living room of his beautiful log ranch house, and he could walk unimpeded into either country. The family had carved out the idea decades ago, and it had given law enforcement fits on several occasions, but the CIA connections scared away the local badges, although they thought it might be a central point for transporting heavy drugs across North America.

  Ragged brush whipped against his leather chaps as he rode up a rise that gave him a big-sky view for miles, and he pulled the horse to a stop beside a watering hole. The saddle squeaked as he dismounted, took a drink himself, and estimated his position and the time, with neither compass nor watch. He was the best sniper in the world, and those skills had become habits. Gibson scratched at a mosquito and settled in the shade.

  He had beaten Kyle Swanson, and now he would take a few months off, stay near the ranch, and let the manhunt furor cool down. He was about as far from the action as he could be, safe in the family fortress, while Swanson was, at best, a caged vegetable with a broken neck and a crushed spinal cord. His source in the agency had sent a digital photo of the X-rays, and there was no doubt that most men would have been dead from that injury. Swanson always was a stubborn one. At any rate, the quest was over, and victory was sweet.

  Gibson let his thoughts travel back through time, replaying almost every day, and was proud of the complex amount of planning and personal bravery he’d demonstrated, and of recognizing his destiny so early in life. He didn’t regret a thing. The day was cool, the water trickled up from an underground reservoir, and he went to sleep.

  It was coming on to dusk when he rode back to the ranch, the sky painted purple and gold, and the sounds of silence telling him that everything was fine. He had given the staff a few days off, so he stabled the horse himself, then went inside and checked the security room. The sensors showed no alerts. Taking a shower, he saw a lot of improvement in his battered face, and he felt strong. Maybe tomorrow he would take a drive into North Dakota, where the atmosphere of the oil boom still existed in some places. Maybe. Maybe not. Decide tomorrow when he rode over to look around.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “HE’S IN THERE SOMEWHERE,” said Special Agent Lucky Sharif, running a red laser dot over a vast square of more than a thousand acres that straddled the U.S.–Canadian border at the juncture or Montana and North Dakota. “Back on our turf right now, but able to sprint into Canada at a moment’s notice.”

  The area on the satellite map had been pieced together through a massive search of documents in both countries, from current tax payments to old land deeds written in flowing script by long-dead clerks who made entries in leather-bound record books. The combined high-resolution sat shots showed the big ranch house, a stable and barn area, and two small airstrips, one on each side of the border. Roads were narrow but navigable. “This place didn’t spring up overnight. It took decades of foresight, and the cost must have been monstrous. A bunch of rogues,” said Chief Superintendent Matthew Fox of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, who was coordinating the search in his country.

  “Money was never much of an object; they made a fortune by selling information, weapons, and drugs in the guise of secret government operations. This family goes back a long way, and they built the Big Thunder Ranch as an ultimate hideaway.” Marty Atkins was at the conference table, and not a happy man.

  “The important thing is that we’re closing in on him, and he doesn’t know it. So long as he doesn’t creep through the outposts around Big Thunder before we go in, he’s a walking dead man.” Kyle Swanson sipped some coffee, and the bitter taste told him that he needed a fresh pot.

  “You’re speaking figuratively, of course,” reminded the Mountie. “We’re not assassinating him.”

  “Of course. My goal is to crush his spirit, not to kill him, and let him spend the rest of his miserable life in some cold, dark cell moping about his failure.”

  “I know a few such places,” said Atkins. “Much worse than Club Gitmo. We have a long interrogation process ready for Mr. Gibson—all perfectly legal, but secret.”

  Sharif took over again. “So the F Section Mounties out of Regina have been reinforced and are in position—right, Matt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Highway Patrols are ready in Montana and North Dakota, plus some locals. So, Big Thunder is sealed,” Sharif concluded. “We have an FBI Hostage Rescue Team staging fifteen minutes away from the ranch house. On signal, we all go in at once and meet in the middle. Temporary border crossings for law enforcement have been authorized by both sides.”

  Matthew Fox drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  “Just the clock. We hit him at four o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  34

  BIG THUNDER RANCH

  THE ALARM SCREECHED LIKE a wounded wildcat, tearing Luke Gibson from a sound sleep, and he rolled off the mattress before his eyes were even open, groping for the shotgun under the bed. The unmanned security control room was running on automatic and had piped the unvarying, piercing whine into every room. An instant later, warning sirens began to hoot outside. Gibson scrambled to his feet and headed for the control room. Every light in the house flashed on. They were coming.

  He threw open the security doors and saw that
every screen was lit with alert signals. Sensor dots to pinpoint unwanted guests flecked the computers like measles, and coming from every direction. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, then dashed back to grab jeans, boots, sweatshirt, and the bug-out bag that was kept topped off for just such a situation. When he ran outside, shotgun in hand, he heard the rattle of approaching helicopters and motorcycles and trucks—a cacophony of bad news.

  Gibson reacted like a test pilot in a spin, ticking off options one after another as disaster drew ever closer. The airstrips were of no use, and neither was a big 4 × 4, because the roads would be blocked. A horse was too slow. The encircling force meant that the Canadians were in on this, which wiped out the usual border trails.

  Gibson took off for the trees. Darkness and cover were his allies now, and, in addition, his attackers wouldn’t know about the tunnels. He broke into a hard run, pounding down the driveway. A haze of headlights rose above the distant treetops, moving his way. The chopper was closing in fast. He reached the tree line just as some unlucky cop hit a hidden claymore mine off to the east, and the explosion shook the night.

  He felt a momentary surge of euphoria as the victory virus swept through him. The ranch was full of surprises that only he knew. His path to the tunnel entrance would be clear when the automatic defenses took their toll on the unsuspecting policemen, most of whom could arrest speeding drunks but had no training in tactical combat scenarios. A white phosphorus grenade exploded up where the Mounties were coming in. He ran.

  The main threat was that helicopter, probably an FBI HRT unit. Those were bad boys. He recalled hearing one pass by in the distance during the night, but had given it little notice. Choppers and small planes were frequent modes of transportation across the immense distances up here, particularly over toward the oil patch. This new one, however, was heading for the ranch house, and he saw the brilliant cone of its searchlight combing the forest and the ground. It came toward Gibson fast, and he ducked against a boulder, letting the bird pass overhead.