Ghost Sniper

by Scott McEwen

  “Careful,” Crosswhite said. “We’re working now.”

  She nodded, kissing him. “Valencia is playing in her room.” ­Paolina left the house.

  Vaught stared after her, unable to deny his attraction. “She’s Cuban, isn’t she?”

  Crosswhite went to the sink to wash his hands. “Yeah. If you touch her, I’ll kill you.”

  Vaught nodded, reaching for his can of Copenhagen. “Roger that. So what’s next?”

  Crosswhite dried his hands and shook a cigarette loose from its pack. “We wait to hear from Ortega at Mexico station.”

  “Who’s Ortega?”

  Crosswhite lit the cigarette, tucking the lighter into his pocket. “CIA’s chief of station here in DF.”

  “So you work for Ortega?”

  Crosswhite stood leaning against the ceramic-tiled counter. “Never met him.” He went to the fridge and took out a couple of Coronas, setting them down on the table. “Ortega has to wait on orders from Clemson Fields—who takes his orders directly from Bob Pope. It’s my guess you’ll be kept out of sight until the PFM needs you to testify against Serrano. So in effect you—”

  “Building a case against Serrano could take months!”

  Crosswhite popped the tops from the beers with a church key. “Welcome to the CIA, amigo.”

  “I don’t work for the CIA.” Vaught took a pull from his beer. “And I sure as hell don’t work for the PFM. I’m a DSS agent. That means I—”

  “You don’t belong to DSS anymore. You belong to the CIA by executive order—at least, you will within the next few hours, or however long it takes to get the paperwork shuffled across the president’s desk—and there isn’t jack shit you can do about it.”

  “So who the fuck is Clemson Fields?”

  Crosswhite took a drink. “Shit,” he muttered to himself. “I hope she remembers limes. Fields is the last of the old guard—a right bastard.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Okay, look.” Crosswhite sat down. “During the Cold War, the CIA wasn’t restricted to using personnel from special mission units like Delta Force and SEAL Team Six the way they are today. We were fighting the big, bad Soviets, so they were allowed their own in-house contractors with no official ties. Fields was a recruiter and part-time assassin—an operational goon.”

  Vaught took another drink. “So you work for Fields?”

  “No. I work for Pope. Technically Fields isn’t even CIA anymore. He’s attached to the ATRU.”

  “The ATRU? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The Anti-Terrorism Response Unit. Congratulations, champ. You’re now privy to a newly formed SMU that the vice president of the United States doesn’t even know about.”

  Vaught didn’t like the sound of that one bit. “Who gave you clearance to bring me into the loop?”

  Crosswhite grinned. “You’re finally starting to ask the right questions, champ.”

  “The name’s Chance.”

  “Whatever. You’ve been put on ice because you’re a political embarrassment to both countries now. You went off the reservation when you chased that sniper, and you killed three Mexican cops.”

  Vaught put down his beer. “I didn’t kill any fucking cops!”

  “The guys in the stairwell and the guy on the roof were all Federales.”

  “They were wearing fucking ski masks and carrying AK-47s!”

  “Well, they might’ve been crooked Federales, but they were still Federales, and that embarrasses—”

  “We were taking sniper fire! My entire team was wiped out!”

  “Hey, I get it,” Crosswhite said easily. “Everybody gets it. And the PFM probably gets a secret kick out of it. But it’s political now, champ, and politics trumps everything. You’ve embarrassed the Mexican government, and you’ve made powerful people look bad on both sides of the border, which means nobody’s in a hurry to see your face. They don’t know how to spin this yet, so it’s easier to let everyone think you’re dead for the time being. Putting you with Fields is probably the best way of doing that. Pretty soon the PFM’s going to release a statement saying the body of an American DSS agent was found with those of known cartel members. That will put Serrano at ease, and he’ll drop his guard, thinking you’re dead.”

  “In the meantime, my family gets to think I’m dead, too? No way.”

  “You come from a military family, champ.”

  “Chance!”

  “They’ll bear up well enough,” Crosswhite assured him, “and think how happy they’ll be when they eventually find out you’re still alive.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Dan Crosswhite.”

  Vaught stared at him for a long moment. “Earnest Endeavor Dan Crosswhite?”

  Operation Earnest Endeavor had been an unsanctioned rescue operation led by Navy SEAL sniper Gil Shannon to liberate female Night Stalker pilot Sandra Brux, who was being tortured by Islamic extremists in the Panjshir Valley of Afghanistan. Crosswhite and Shannon had both received the Medal of Honor for their part in the operation, but both men were ultimately run out of the military by jealous and resentful superiors, costing Crosswhite the career he had loved.

  Crosswhite frowned. “That’s me.”

  “Last I heard, you were dead. You were supposed be working down here undercover for the FBI or something.”

  Crosswhite smirked. “Look at me, champ.”

  “Chance, goddamn you!”

  “Look at me, champ. How is a gringo gonna work undercover in Mexico? Grow a mustache and buy a fuckin’ sombrero?”

  “Well, I can tell you this,” Vaught said. “I’m not sitting around here waiting for the PFM to build a case against Serrano while my family gets the news I’m dead. And another thing: there’s a GI sniper running around down here doing contract work for the cartels. Somebody has to put that guy down, and since I seem to have a lot of extra time on my hands at the moment—”

  “You wouldn’t even know where to begin looking.”

  “Well, unlike you, I don’t need a fuckin’ sombrero. I already look the part, and I happen to know one or two people down here.”

  “I’ve been briefed on your Mexican family. I don’t think letting the cartels get wind of them is a good idea.”

  Vaught got up from the chair. “You let me worry about that.”

  “I don’t think you’d better go fucking around out there,” Crosswhite said nonchalantly, setting down his beer on the counter. “You’ll only make shit worse.”

  “I know what I’m doing.” Vaught shouldered past. “Thanks for the beer and the shitty stitch job, hero.”

  Crosswhite let him pass. Then he slipped the stun gun that Mendoza had given him from beneath his jacket and zapped Vaught in the ass. The agent dropped to his knees with a shout, and Crosswhite stepped forward to zap him again between the shoulder blades, sending him flopping forward onto his face.

  Paolina came through the door a few seconds later with a plastic bag of groceries in each hand and stood in the threshold gaping. “Daniel, he’s drooling on my kitchen floor.”

  Vaught lay paralyzed with his cheek mashed against the ceramic tile watching a tiny piss ant making its way past his face as it carried out its little piss ant business. “You fuckin’ cocksuckers,” he mumbled.

  6

  MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

  21:20 HOURS

  Later that evening, Vaught sat brooding on the floor in the corner of the living room, handcuffed to an eyebolt protruding from the concrete wall. Paolina sat on the leather sofa, reading a book to her young daughter, Valencia. Crosswhite had stepped out for more beer and limes.

  Vaught cleared his throat, and Paolina looked up to see what he wanted. He tugged at the handcuff. “Can I have my can of tobacco?” he asked in Spanish.

  “No,” she said. “I
don’t want you spitting in my house.”

  “Can I have a cigarette?”

  “We only smoke in the bedroom.” She caressed the dark-skinned child’s curly black hair. “And never around my daughter.”

  Vaught sat looking at her. She was heartbreakingly pretty, but there was a stark maturity about her that he had to admit was intimidating.

  “What have you been through?” he asked.

  “None of your business.” She returned her attention to the story­book.

  “You know, you don’t have to put up with me,” he said after awhile. “Give me the key, and I’ll be gone in ten seconds.”

  “I would love to. Now shut up and let me read to my daughter.”

  Ten minutes later, Crosswhite arrived with more beer. “Did you make the salsa, baby?”

  “It’s in the refrigerator,” she answered. “There’s guacamole also.”

  “How’s our guest?”

  “Annoying.”

  Crosswhite laughed from the kitchen. “Has he been giving you trouble?”

  “He wants to spit in my house.”

  “I wasn’t going to spit in the house,” Vaught said in protest. “I’ll swallow it, for God’s sake.”

  Crosswhite came into the living room and offered Vaught a bottle of beer with a wedge of lime in it. “I don’t set the rules of the house,” he said in English. “I just live by them.”

  “I’m getting that,” Vaught said gloomily.

  Crosswhite took a pull from his beer. “It’s been awhile since I’ve had another dogface to drink with. Too bad you’re shackled—kinda feels like drinkin’ with a fugitive.”

  “Then let me loose.”

  “Can’t do it, not until I hear from Ortega.” Crosswhite went and sat beside Paolina, taking the little girl into his arms. She nestled against him, hugging a stuffed turtle and sucking her thumb.

  “Is there a woman waiting for you back in the States?” Crosswhite asked.

  “Would you give a fuck if there were?”

  “Watch your language around this little girl,” Crosswhite warned. “And I’m not the reason you’re here. You put yourself in this mess.” A phone rang in the other room, and he went to answer it. He came back a few minutes later and offered a satellite phone to Vaught. “Doctor Doom wants to talk to you.”

  “Who?”

  “Fields.”

  Vaught took the phone. “This is Special Agent in Charge Chance Vaught. To whom am I speaking?”

  There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. “That sounded rather official coming from a man chained to a wall.”

  “Then who the fuck is this?” Vaught said, stealing a cautious glance at Crosswhite.

  “Agent Vaught, I’m Clemson Fields, CIA. I’m your handler, and you’re going to do exactly as you’re told until this situation has been resolved to the president’s satisfaction. Do you understand?”

  “I’ll tell you what I understand,” Vaught said. “I understand that I haven’t seen any credentials what-so-ever from Crosswhite here, and you could be anybody. So until I see some kind of documentation verifying this CIA bullshit, you’re just a voice on the goddamn phone. You copy that, asshole?”

  Crosswhite whispered to Paolina, who picked up the child and took her into the bedroom, eyeing Vaught coldly as she passed.

  “Very good,” Fields said. “The Mexico station chief will arrive tomorrow morning with the proper credentials, at which time you’ll be made to understand exactly what is expected of you. I’ll warn you in advance: you’re not going to like it. You’re going to be working with the PFM—more specifically, with the PFM agent who saved your life, since he’s the only one we’re reasonably sure you can trust.”

  “Trust?” Vaught said. “Let me shove a stun gun up your ass, and we’ll see how much fucking trust you feel.”

  “Agent Vaught, if you believe nothing else, you’d better believe this: the president, your commander in chief, is highly pissed about your leaving the reservation after allowing Alice Downly to run out into the street and get herself blown in half.”

  Vaught cringed. “That’s not exactly how it happened.”

  “I’ve seen the video,” Fields said. “So has the president—and that’s exactly how it looks to him, I can assure you.”

  “What video?” Vaught croaked.

  “There’s always an eye in the sky, Agent Vaught. You should know that by now.”

  At that moment, Vaught realized Fields was talking about a surveillance drone with stealth technology, and most of the fight left him. “Well, video or not,” he said quietly, “nobody who wasn’t on the ground can know how it went down. We were taking fifty-caliber sniper fire. You can ask Agent Uriah Heen how bad it was.”

  “From what I understand, Agent Heen has been recalled to the US. I guess we’ll see soon enough what he has to say. In the meantime, is it safe for Crosswhite to set you free, or should he leave you there in your little corner until Agent Ortega arrives in the morning to swear you in?”

  Vaught drew a breath and let it back out with sigh. “I won’t go anywhere.”

  “I understand you’re interested in pursuing the sniper who killed Alice Downly,” Fields went on. “We might be able to work with you on that, but not until you’ve shown yourself to be a team player. Understood?”

  “I don’t want my family thinking I’m dead,” Vaught said. “You assure me they won’t be told that, and I’ll do my part down here. Can you agree to that much?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Fields said. “You’re from a military family. I’m sure your brothers and parents can be made to understand the importance of secrecy—especially since your life might depend on it. You can give me back to Crosswhite now.”

  Vaught offered up the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Crosswhite took the phone. “I’m here.”

  “I think it’s probably safe to set him loose,” Fields said. “He sounds sufficiently cowed to me. Have you mentioned the ATRU?”

  “It’s come up.”

  “You’d better fill him in all the way. Pope’s looked over his service record, and he wants him. The president’s already given his approval.”

  “I’ll fill him in.”

  “All right,” Fields said. “I’ll be in touch—and I heard the Doctor Doom remark.”

  “I don’t expect to lose much sleep over that.” Crosswhite pressed the disconnect button and tossed the phone onto the sofa.

  He took the handcuff key from his pocket. “I won’t try to stop you from leaving. I’ve done everything required of me, so if you take off now, it’s between you and Bob Pope. He’s a vindictive bastard who carries a grudge, and I have no doubt he’d find a way to convince the president to string you up by the balls.” He tossed the key to Vaught and went back into the kitchen to start preparing dinner.

  Vaught freed himself and stood up, looking at the stun gun on the sofa.

  Paolina came back into the room with her daughter, eyeing him suspiciously as she sat back down.

  Vaught looked at her, at her unbridled nipples pressing through her T-shirt, wishing he could see her naked just once. “How do you like Mexico compared with Cuba?”

  She shrugged. “Probably less than you like looking at my nipples.”

  His face reddening, he averted his eyes and stood near the corner feeling stupid.

  Crosswhite came back into the room chuckling. “Sit wherever you want, Chance.” He kissed Paolina on the lips and whispered something in her ear. She looked up at him, and he kissed her again, whispering something else to her.

  Paolina was less cold during dinner—not much, but a little.

  After dinner, she bathed Valencia and put her down to sleep. Then she joined Crosswhite on the couch in the living room, where Vaught was protesting his circumstances.

 
“. . . but I work for DSS. I’m not CIA, and I sure as hell don’t work for the ATRU. I don’t care what Pope says.”

  Crosswhite leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You don’t get it. You’ve been disowned. You’re an embarrassment. DSS doesn’t want you anymore. Your career with them is over. Even if they keep you on, you’ll never be in charge of another security detail. Hell, an incident like this can even follow you into the private sector. Your entire team was wiped out, man. Whether you want to accept it or not, Pope is doing you a favor.”

  “Oh, bullshit!”

  Crosswhite chuckled. “I didn’t say he was doing you a favor out of the kindness of his heart—he doesn’t do those kinds of favors. He only does favors for people who are useful to him.”

  “If I’m such a fuckup, how am I useful?”

  “Well, there’s different kinds of fuckups,” Crosswhite replied. “Some can be rehabilitated. Some can’t. Pope’s looked you over, and he’s seen something he likes. He’s asked the president to let him bring you aboard, and the old man’s given his consent.”

  Vaught sat up straight. “Fields told you that?”

  Crosswhite nodded. “So you can either get with the program or tell the government to stick it. If you do the latter, you’ll never work security for anything more important than a football game. Pope will see to it.”

  Vaught smirked, seeing the picture. “He sounds like a real prick.”

  Crosswhite sat back and slid his arm around Paolina, pulling her close and kissing her hair. “I think of him more as a god—kinda like Zeus: indifferent if he has no real use for you, but generous if you excel at his favorite pastime.”

  “Which is?”

  Crosswhite smiled. “War.”

  7

  MALBUN SKI LODGE, LIECHTENSTEIN

  02:30 HOURS

  Gil was in the lodge lounge, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette, when Blickensderfer’s fiancée came striding into the room. She wore a black dinner dress, with her blond hair flowing to the small of her back and a pair of diamond pendant earrings. Her blue eyes piercing, she was tall and stunning and seemed to possess the room the moment she entered. Gil watched her as she crossed to the bar, noting her black heels and the slit of her dress that extended halfway up her thigh.