Ghost Sniper: A Sniper Elite Novel (10 page)

22

STUTTGART, GERMANY

13:00 HOURS

“I WANT TO
know who this Gil Shannon is and what he was doing in Liechtenstein,” Sabastian Blickensderfer said to his German attorney, seated across the table from him in a private dining room. He was a calm man, handsome, blond, with blue eyes and an unmistakable air of importance. “A man who takes the fight to the Russians in Turkey does not go skiing alone in Malbun.”

“I’ve already had him checked out,” said the well-dressed attorney, stirring sugar into his coffee. “It’s not good. He is an American war hero, one of their navy’s elite—and he was in Malbun to kill you.”

Blickensderfer scoffed. “Nonsense. I’m protected by the CIA.”

“You
were
protected,” the attorney replied. “The CIA has a new director now, a man named Pope, and he fired nearly everyone at the executive level when he took over. So the old guard is gone, and it’s not likely any of their agreements will be honored.”

“But if Shannon is with their navy—”

“Shannon is CIA. I can’t find anything to link him directly, but he’s one of theirs. He was killing Russian mobsters in Turkey five months ago. And now he’s traveling with Lena.”

Blickensderfer smiled, realizing he was supposed to be rocked by the revelation concerning his former fiancée. “Where are they now?”

“At her home in Bern,” the attorney said. “But knowing Lena, they won’t be there for long.”

“How did he get away from the Russians?”

The lawyer shrugged. “I don’t know.” He checked his phone for messages, but nothing new had come in. “He’s listed as a contractor with Obsidian Optio, the private mercenary company. However, my contact with Obsidian tells me that Shannon never does any actual work for them. This is further evidence that he’s CIA. And as for our Russian friends in Malbun, I’m guessing they’re dead. This Shannon is a very hard man to kill.”

“Not for much longer,” said the still-smiling Blickensderfer, lifting the bottle of expensive champagne from a sterling silver ice bucket and pouring himself another glass. “He’s traveling with a woman now, and not just any woman. He’s traveling with Lena; and Lena is
nothing
if not a distraction.” He chortled, savoring the taste of the champagne. “I should probably be thanking Shannon—but I’m not.”

The lawyer sipped his coffee and sat back. “I’ve looked into Pope as well. He’s even more dangerous than Shannon. If he
has
marked you for assassination, your chances of survival are not the best. You’re going to have to spend a lot more on security.”

Blickensderfer shrugged. “It’s only money. But do this: send Pope a back-channel communication. State to him plainly that he’s made his point. I will immediately cease all dealings with terrorist organizations, however benign. That should appease him. He’s going to need me in the future if he’s going to fight the growing ISIS threat. He’ll need my weapons connections. Make sure he understands that I will be very cooperative when the time comes.”

The attorney nodded. “That
might
work.”

“It will work,” Blickensderfer said. “
If
Pope is what you say he is.”

“Then what are you going to do about Shannon?” the attorney asked. “You can’t kill him and expect to make friends with Pope.”

Blickensderfer considered his options. “Isn’t Shannon unpopular with Russian slavers? Hasn’t he cost them millions? Haven’t Istanbul and other major cities in Eastern Europe been cracking down on illegal prostitution? Well, all we need to do is whisper Shannon’s location in the correct places, and I’m sure he’ll turn up dead soon enough. But be sure they are careful about Lena.”

“That might be difficult to guarantee.”

“I’m not asking for a
guarantee
, Gunther. I want Shannon dead and Lena back with me where she belongs. Is that understood?”

“Quite.”

“Good,” Blickensderfer said. “These temporary little infatuations of hers are not exactly new, but she’s a woman of means. She’s not about to fall in love with some cowboy who cannot afford to perpetuate her lavish lifestyle.”

23

BERN, SWITZERLAND

02:00 HOURS

Gil stood in the dark, staring down at the snowy street beneath the window of Lena’s bedroom. He was thinking of his wife back in Montana and how much he missed her, but something within him was changing. Or had it changed already? All he knew for sure was that he no longer wanted to go home; no longer wanted the calm ranch life he had once loved. He felt like a shark now—a shark that would drown if it ever dared to stop swimming.

“Come back to bed,” Lena said, naked beneath the blanket. “No one is going to come after you here. You’re safe with me.”

He turned to look at her, his heart breaking, eyes welling with tears. “I can never go back, Lena. The life I had with Marie, it—it slipped through my fingers somehow.”

“I’m sorry, Gil, but whatever else the past is . . . it’s gone.”

He sank into the chair, putting his head into his hands, and began to weep for the first time in many years.

Lena slid from the bed and went to his side, caressing him as she stared out the window, knowing the cry would be good for him; that he would be stronger for it. She understood that men who killed for a living carried demons, and that the only way to exorcise such demons was to let them out. Too many men were not strong enough to let them go, but Gil seemed to possess that strength, and this gave her a certain hope that he might survive.

After a short time, he went into the bathroom and took a shower, returning to lie beside her on the bed, touching her soft blond hair, kissing the nape of her neck. “Sorry about that.”

She turned into him. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. How do you feel?”

“Better,” he said quietly.

“Good.”

They hadn’t been asleep long when the phone rang. Lena answered. “Hello?”

“You need to let him go, Lena.” It was Blickensderfer, and she could tell that he was very drunk. “I understand that he’s a fun new toy for you, but you need to let him go.”

“Sabastian, it’s very late. We can talk tomorrow when you’re sober.”

“The Russians are going to kill him,” Blickensderfer went on, his words slurring slightly. “You know that I can’t protect you. You have to let the man go.”

“I don’t have to do anything. Don’t call me late at night anymore, and don’t call if you’ve been drinking.” She hung up the phone and laid back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling.

Gil raised up, seeing her clearly by the light of the window. “What did he say?”

“He said I need to let you go—that he can’t protect me.”

He leapt out of bed. “Get dressed!”

She sat up. “Gil, it’s okay. He’s just drunk.”

He stood looking at her. “We have go—now!”

“No, Gil. We don’t have to go. We’re not in Baghdad. Come back to bed. No one will attack my house. This is Switzerland, not Iraq.”

He stood on uncertain footing, knowing they should leave but at the same knowing how silly he must have appeared. He glanced warily out the window, his ears tuned for danger—hearing nothing.

“Gil,” she said softly. “No one is coming. You’re safe.”

“I need a gun,” he said.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll find a gun. Tonight come to bed.”

He got into bed and pulled up the blanket. “I’m not used to living in the city.”

She wrapped herself around him. “What you’re not used to is no one trying to kill you.”

24

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

23:40 HOURS

With the moon on the rise, Vaught and Paolina were still stranded on the streets of Mexico City, where they found themselves unable to abandon the dozens of motorists injured in the smashup. The tunnel fire had burned itself out, but only the very worst of the injured had been taken away in a pair of ambulances. The rest were still on the scene, with no professional medical personnel to look after them. The city’s emergency services were stretched beyond capacity, and it was easy to imagine that it might be days before the ambulances returned.

Initially, Vaught had insisted that they get back on the move for Toluca, knowing Crosswhite would be worried about his family, but Paolina refused, contending that their help was badly needed there and that Toluca was too far to walk anyway. Very few civilians had remained on the scene after the ambulances had first
arrived, most of them fleeing homeward to check on their own families.

Cellular service was knocked out along with electrical power to that part of the city, so without the moonlight, it would have been dangerously dark. Sirens wailed far in the distance where damage to the city had been worse, and flashlights bobbed in the darkness along the street. Many of the burn victims were moaning, and a few children were crying. The cab driver was in great pain, but he was so thankful to have been saved from the burning taxi that he barely complained at all.

Local shopkeepers had donated a limited supply of food and bottled water early on, so there had at least been something to eat before it got dark.

Valencia had found a Rottweiler puppy to play with, so she was content for the moment, but Vaught had no idea where the animal had come from.

He was well aware that this would be a good time to make a break for the US Embassy, confident that none of Serrano’s people would be watching now that the city had been ripped asunder, but the idea was a nonstarter. He couldn’t abandon a pregnant woman in the midst of such chaos any more than he could abandon the crash victims, now that he’d taken responsibility for them.

“This is bullshit,” he muttered in English, and felt a little better about it.

“Do you have a signal yet?” Paolina asked, standing beside him with a bottle of water.

He checked his phone and shook his head. “It could be weeks before they get service restored.”

“I need to find a blanket for Valencia. It’s getting cold.”

“Stay here with the others,” he told her. “I don’t want you wandering off in the dark.”

He set off across the street, where he saw a light on in one of the local shops. As he drew closer, he could hear the hum of a generator.

“Hello,” he said through the locked gate.

A man in his twenties appeared from the back clutching a pistol. “What do you want?”

“Do you have a blanket I can buy?”

The man went into the back and returned a minute later with a beat-up brown blanket. “Two hundred pesos.” Approximately thirteen dollars.

Vaught could see the blanket wasn’t worth five bucks, but he was dealing with profiteering now, and he knew it, so he didn’t complain. He took the bill from his wallet and handed it over. The second he took possession of the blanket, he could smell that it had been taken from a dog’s bed.

He returned to the crash scene and gave it to Paolina. “It’s not the best, but it will keep her warm.”

“It stinks!” she said.

“Paolina, there’s not exactly a lot I can do about it. We have to make do. Give the Red Cross time to show up.”

She made a
pffft
sound and knelt to wrap the blanket around Valencia’s shoulders.

Valencia said the puppy was hungry and asked if there was any food for him.

“He’ll be okay,” Vaught said compassionately. “We’ll get him some food in the morning.”

“Can you go back over there and buy us something to eat?” Paolina said. “I don’t think those other people are going to bring us any more.”

“I’d rather not go back over there,” he said.

“But it’s the only shop with a light on.”

“I know, but the guy has a gun, and he’s not very friendly. Besides, he’s gonna charge five times what the food is worth, and we—”

“You’re worried about money?”

“No. I’m worried about the gun. It’s not a gun he got legally, so he’s probably a professional criminal, and we don’t need trouble.”

She let out a frustrated sigh and sat down beside her daughter.

“Hey, you know what, Paolina? The earthquake isn’t my fault.”

“No,” she said, looking up at him. “It’s your fault we’re not at home now with my husband where we belong.”

“Yeah? How do you know your house didn’t cave in? You might have been killed, for all you know.”

She pulled Valencia close. “Leave me in peace, Chance.”

“Mommy, this blanket smells bad.”

“I know, baby, but it’s the only one Chance could find. We’ll get a clean one tomorrow.”

Vaught picked up a jug of water and went to check on the burn victims. One of the women was burned badly on her arms and hands, but there had been no more room in either of the ambulances. She was sitting against a tree in the median, and though she was in a good deal of pain, she was bearing it like a stoic.

“Do you have any aspirin?” she asked. “Anything for pain?”

Vaught remembered seeing boxes of aspirin in the glass case in the shop across the street. “I’ll see if I can get some.”

He gave the others some water and then went back to Paolina. “I’m going to buy these people some aspirin.”

“What about the guy with the gun?”

He dropped the water jug beside her. “I thought you didn’t care about him.”

“Just be careful,” she said quietly.

“How sweet,” he muttered, walking off.

Vaught stepped up to the gate again and called inside. This time an older, meaner-looking guy came out of the back.

“What do you need?”

“Two boxes of aspirin,” Vaught said. “We’ve got a lot of injured people across the street there. A lot of them are burned. And three loaves of bread.”

The man set the stuff on the shelf attached to the cage door. “Five hundred pesos.” This was a little over thirty dollars.

Vaught was tired and annoyed, so he wasn’t as accepting of the situation as he should have been. “Do you have to take advantage like that? I told you there’s a lot of people hurt over there. The other shopkeepers were very generous.”

The guy crossed his arms and stared at Vaught. When he did this, his shirt rode up, exposing another pistol tucked into his belly.

Vaught put the bill on the shelf. The guy took it and shoved the stuff through the opening in the cage.