Ghost Sniper: A Sniper Elite Novel (29 page)

75

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

18:40 HOURS

Hector Ruvalcaba moved through his fortified home like an angry tiger. With Lazaro Serrano dead, he was entirely vulnerable and without protection from the federal government. Within ten days, his detractors would discern this vulnerability, and he would once again become a fugitive from justice. Even Captain Espinosa was dead. There were other police officials he could bribe, as well as those in government, but with earthquake relief occupying everyone’s efforts, there was no time to meet with them; no way to arrange for protection.

The Policia Federal Ministerial would soon begin formulating plans to take him back into custody and return him to that pigsty of a prison. Were it not for his great wealth hidden in bank accounts offshore, his own people would be abandoning him already. Now he would be forced to live on the move, fighting a running drug war with that dog Antonio Castañeda in the North.

Life, business, and freedom were about to become a great deal more expensive.

Ruvalcaba’s wife found him in the study, gathering documents into a briefcase. She was twenty years younger than him, with short-cropped dark hair. Although pretty at a distance, upon close examination, it was easy to see that at forty-five she had already undergone a good deal of plastic surgery. Her breasts, ass, lips, and nose were not exactly original equipment.

“Is it really necessary for us to leave today, Hector? We’re supposed to have dinner with the—”

“Dinner?!” He looked at her dismay. “There are no more dinners, Victoria. We’re fugitives. Our protection is gone.”

“Well . . .” She stood with her hands on her hips, refusing to accept that the high-society life to which she had grown accustomed over the past thirteen months was finished. “There’s still plenty of money. Just pay someone else.”

He shut the briefcase and stared at her. “Pay who?”

“I don’t know . . . somebody!”

“I have to cultivate contacts, arrange for negotiations. Those things take time, and right now there is no time. Once I’m in custody, that’s it.”

“You worked it out last time. They even dug you a tunnel.”

He came from around the desk, taking her by the arms. “Serrano was one of the most powerful men in Mexico. Do you think anyone can arrange for a tunnel?” He shook his head and grabbed a computer from another table. “You should pack a couple of bags. We’re leaving soon.”

She started at him. “I’m not going. I’m staying here.”

“You
can’t
stay here.”

“Why not? I haven’t broken any laws.”

“That doesn’t matter. Castañeda’s people will hurt you to get to me.”

She shrugged. “So leave some men here to protect me. Leave Adrian and his team.”

He’d suspected that she and Adrian, the head of household security, had been messing around behind his back, but he’d overlooked it because of his own frequent indiscretions.

“Like anyone else, Victoria, Adrian can be bought.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m not living on the run. My friends are here in the city.”

“How long do you think they will remain your friends after my face is back in the papers?”

She knew already which of their friends secretly despised her husband. “I’m staying.”

“Fine,” he said at length. “I won’t force you—but you’re putting yourself in great danger.”

“I knew I was putting myself in danger when I married you, but this is the life I wanted, and I won’t give it up.”

Ruvalcaba took the briefcase from his desk and kissed her on the cheek on his way out of the study. “I’ll call when I can.”

He got into the backseat of his black Escalade and called Hancock on the phone. When the American answered, Ruvalcaba asked if he’d heard the news about Serrano.

“I just got word,” Hancock said. “We don’t need Serrano.”

“How are you progressing?” Hector wanted to know.

“We got a slow start this morning, but we killed four cops in an ambush half an hour ago, and that caused them to pull back closer to the center of town. We hold most of the outlying areas now. They’re doing what I expected them to do. By nightfall, we’ll have all the police in one place, more or less, and after that, it’s just a battle of attrition.”

“I need this victory,” Ruvalcaba said. “I have to bolster my reputation.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Ruvalcaba. You’ll own the city of Toluca by sunrise tomorrow. Then you can order the town council to appoint whoever you want as chief.”

“If you deliver the town as you say, I will deposit a bonus of one million dollars directly into your account.”

“That’s very generous.”

“And there will be another two million waiting for you after you have removed Antonio Castañeda.”

“Castañeda will be difficult,” Hancock said. “He’s had Special Forces training, and his security is very—”

“Five million,” Ruvalcaba said, knowing that he needed to spend whatever it took to remove Castañeda.

“I’m not bargaining, Mr. Ruvalcaba. I’m telling you that he’ll be very difficult to remove.”

“Difficult,” Ruvalcaba said. “Not impossible.”

“No, sir. Not impossible.”

“Very good. Finish your work in Toluca, then meet me down in Chiapas. We have much work to do, you and I.”

Ruvalcaba finished the call and looked at his driver. “Take me to the airfield.”

76

PUERTO VALLARTA, MEXICO

21:20 HOURS

Within ten minutes of meeting Gil Shannon, Antonio Castañeda knew he was speaking with a man of action. Obviously an accomplished professional, there was no bravado about him, no sense of ego, nothing cocky or challenging in his manner. It was plain to see that Gil’s deeds spoke for themselves and that he had nothing to prove to anyone.

Castañeda was sad and angry to have lost Lorena and Tanya. They’d been the most reliable and loyal of his people—not to mention the finest of his lovers. But he knew that if he hadn’t sent them to Tijuana, Fields’s man Villalobos would have killed Mariana, thus destroying his chances of consolidating the narcotics trade under his power. Later he would weep for the girls in private, but for now, there was business to take care of.

“I thank you for avenging their deaths,” he said to Gil in English. “That is a valuable personal service to me. How may I repay you?”

Gil thought for a second. “You can build a school down in . . .” He looked at Mariana. “What state did you say was the poorest?”

“Chiapas.”

“Chiapas,” he said. “You can build a school down in Chiapas.”

Castañeda chortled. “Chiapas is not part of my territory at the moment.”

“But it soon will be. That
is
the plan, correct?”

Castañeda smiled pleasantly at Mariana, not in his normally flirtatious way, and then looked back to Gil. “That is the plan, yes.”

“Then if you’re serious,” Gil said, “build a school, and we’ll call it even.”

“Consider it done. Now, what assistance can I provide you in removing Ruvalcaba—provided
you’re
serious about wanting to do the job yourself?”

Mariana had already explained to Gil that Hector Ruvalcaba had been reported dead twice in the past eight years, and that only last year he had successfully escaped a maximum security prison to resume control of the southern cartels. Gil wasn’t interested in taking anyone else’s word for it that Ruvalcaba was dead. “I want the job done correctly. I don’t speak the lingo, and I stick out like a sore thumb down here, so I don’t wanna have to come back and correct anyone else’s mistakes.”

Castañeda nodded, appreciating being in the presence of a professional. “You’re sure I cannot interest you in something to drink, my friend?”

“Thanks. I never drink when I’m working. It’s nothing personal, I promise.”

This left Castañeda feeling a little disappointed, but it was that kind of a day. “He died badly, this dog Fields who murdered my girls?”

“Very,” Gil said.

“What assistance will you need?”

“I need a quality weapon and a guide who speaks good English—a tough son of a bitch . . . but not somebody who’s gonna get carried away.”

Castañeda gestured at Mariana. “Look no further, señor.”

Gil shook his head. “No more fieldwork for her. She’ll be taking over Mexico station pretty soon, and I don’t want in her harm’s way.”

This was the first Castañeda had heard that, and it gave him a burst of adrenaline. “Is this true?” he asked her. “Pope is appointing you chief of station?”

She glanced at Gil. “It’s not official, but . . .
Mr. Cochran
is convinced it will happen if we’re successful in removing Ruvalcaba.”

Castañeda understood that Cochran was not Gil’s actual name. “Then you are a man of genuine influence.”

“I happen to be in a very unique position,” Gil replied. “And I intend to make the most of it, to the mutual benefit of all parties—excluding Hector Ruvalcaba.”

“But Pope does not want me taking over the narcotics trade. Won’t that pose a problem?”

“Pope wants to tell the president he’s stabilized the border for the long term. With Ruvalcaba dead, you’ll be the only man left who can make that happen. No one else has the power or influence to prevent another drug war. Pope will have no choice but to accept that reality and appoint Mariana as chief of station.”

Seeing the logic, Castañeda winked at Mariana. “It would appear we are at last true partners.”

She smiled in spite of herself, recognizing that, yes, she now needed Castañeda as badly as he needed her. “It would appear.”

“And you, Mr. Cochran, what is your interest in Mexico? Since you are obviously not here as a representative of Mr. Pope.”

Gil shrugged. “Some people are inclined to pull an injured man outta the street; others stand and watch. I’ve never just stood by. And I’ve never had any fucking use for those who do.”

“I thank you for that,” Castañeda said. “My country has a bloody history. Too many good men—those who would not stand by to watch—have been gunned down like dogs in that very same street you speak of. This unfortunate aspect of our culture has allowed men like me to thrive for the last hundred years, since the revolution.”

Gil was surprised by Castañeda’s self-deprecating remark. “Men like you?”

“I was once a soldier like yourself. I used to believe in the cause of my country. But the infection of corruption is too deep for any one man to cure. The people must demand the cure from our government. Until they do, men like me will continue to prosper. It is much the same in your country, no?”

“It’s getting worse,” Gil conceded, avoiding a political discussion.

“But you
will
continue to honor the truce,” Mariana said to Castañeda. “You will not take action against civilians on either side of the border, and you will make public examples of the men who do. Otherwise I will have to withdraw the support of the CIA—along with its protection.”

He cocked an eyebrow, glancing at Gil. “I used to believe she was so soft and delicate.”

“Blood hardens everybody,” Gil said. “Can you supply me with a good man?”

“I can do better than that,” Castañeda said confidently. “I can supply you with a man who has trained at Fort Bragg with your Green Berets.”

“Okay,” Gil said chuckling.

Castañeda smiled curiously. “That is funny?”

Gil smiled. “A Green Beret will do in a pinch.”

Castañeda laughed, getting the joke. “His name is Poncho, and you will be able to trust him with your life.”

77

TOLUCA, MEXICO

20:30 HOURS

Night was falling as Hancock briefed his security team on the west side of town. His wounds from the night before were stitched and dressed, but the deep gash on his inner thigh was still suppurating, and the sutures threatened to tear if he lowered into a crouch.

“Remember,” he said, “we don’t have to kill them all. We just have to break their spirit. They’ll try to isolate me like they did last night, so it won’t be possible for me to take more than one shot from any position. Your job is to keep them off me long enough for me to displace. Once we’ve got them confused and disorganized, that’s when the rest of our people will attack from the east.”

“What do we do about Serrano being dead?” someone asked.

“Fuck Serrano!” Hancock stepped into the fellow’s face. “Ruvalcaba has plans to kill Castañeda and take over business in the whole damn country.
That’s
who we work for! Understood?”

The man nodded and took a step back, glancing at his compatriots, who looked at him askance.

For Hancock, the issue had become even more personal since the night before. Not only could Vaught still identify him, but in the process of almost killing him, he’d damn near forced the sniper to castrate himself on a broken beer bottle. That was too close for comfort, and Hancock planned to even the score.

There was no way to penetrate the center of town—yet. Police presence was too heavy, so he selected a pharmacy on a corner four blocks from
el centro
and set up on the roof. Putting his eye to the scope, he watched from three hundred yards as police trucks crisscrossed the intersection at irregular intervals.

“No one’s on foot,” he mumbled. The police were either hiding inside the buildings or maintaining a cruising speed high enough to make themselves hard to hit at a distance. With the city on lockdown, there was no civilian traffic, so it was safe for them to ignore the traffic lights.

The sound of a distant gun battle erupted to the south. The shots trailed off after a few seconds, and Hancock wondered dully who’d gotten the better part of the exchange.

Light from a streetlamp glinted off a glass door as a police officer stepped from a coffee shop. Hancock squeezed the trigger on instinct. The door shattered a third of a second later, and the officer was blown in half at the waist.

“Time to move!” he hissed to the two men lying prone just behind him, getting up as quickly as he could without tearing his stitches.

SERGEANT CUEVAS SPRANG
from a table inside the coffee shop and ran to the door where the lieutenant lay blasted open on the sidewalk. The glass was blown toward the lieutenant, which meant the shot had come from the west.

Crosswhite and Vaught were already up and priming their weapons, moving past him out the door.

“He’s displacing!” Crosswhite shouted. “Let’s move!”

Vaught, Sergeant Cuevas, and two other officers loaded into an armored truck. Crosswhite took three more in another, and both trucks sped off down the street in the direction of the shot.

Chief Diego remained in the coffee shop, now their command post, alerting all patrol units by radio that the sniper’s attack had begun.

Sergeant Cuevas floored the accelerator. “He must have fired from the roof of the pharmacy.”

Vaught sat beside him on the passenger side, while the two officers in back aimed their rifles over the top of the cab.

Four narcos darted in front of the pharmacy, blazing away with AK-47s, but the bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the windshield. The men fumbled to reload, and the cops in the back opened up with their FX-05s, killing one narco and wounding another in the leg.

Cuevas braked hard and cut the wheel left, tromping the accelerator to pursue the fleeing men around the corner, running over the wounded narco and killing him.

Vaught let out with a guttural “
Hooah
!
”

Crosswhite, in the truck right behind them, cut the wheel right to circle around the pharmacy in the opposite direction. A car sped out of the alley just in front of him, and he rammed it aside with the heavily armored truck. The officers in back fired directly down into the car, killing everyone inside. A second car sped out of the alley and slipped around behind them. Crosswhite caught a glimpse of the gringo sniper’s face in the backseat and shifted into reverse, jamming the pedal to the floor and throwing his arm over the back of the seat to see where he was going.

The car sped away around a corner, and he cut the wheel to spin the truck back around. He grabbed the radio and barked out a description of the car—a midnight-blue Dodge Charger—and that it was headed in Vaught’s direction.

Vaught answered that they’d already spotted the car and were in pursuit.

Crosswhite shifted into drive, and a flaming Molotov cocktail impacted the windshield, engulfing the front of the truck and obscuring his vision. He turned on the wipers and pressed the washer
fluid button, but the reservoir was empty. The wiper blades quickly melted from the heat of the flaming gasoline and smeared the glass with melting rubber.

“Fuck!” He dismounted and grabbed a fire extinguisher from the behind the seat.

Before he had a chance to use it, they were engaged by automatic fire to the right. One of the officers in back was hit and dove out on Crosswhite’s side of the truck, holding his shattered forearm. The other two men returned fire and drove the gunners back around the corner, but yet another narco jumped out and fired an RPG.

Crosswhite and the wounded officer threw themselves flat as the rocket impacted the cab of the truck and exploded, killing both cops in back.

Crosswhite fired through the flames, knowing from experience that the enemy would use the fire as cover to press its attack. Three narcos went down, and he grabbed the wounded officer by the harness, helping him up. They fell back behind a line of three parked cars to fight a holding action.

“Drove right into an ambush!” he said, changing magazines.

The wounded officer fired his pistol over the hood of a car. “It’s a thing that happens.”

SERGEANT CUEVAS DROVE
as fast as he could but couldn’t catch the gringo sniper’s car. More units were converging on the area, but the west side of town had been left out of the patrol box because there were too many crooked streets and tight turns.

“We should have anticipated.” Cuevas shook his head in aggravation. “He’s leading us into a trap!”

“I think you’re right,” Vaught said. “Break off! Let ’im go.”

“Chinga su madre!”
Cuevas hit the brakes and watched the Charger disappear around a corner.

“It’s okay.” Vaught glanced up at the rooftops to check for enemy rocketeers. “He’s saying the same thing right now.”