Ghost Sniper: A Sniper Elite Novel (7 page)

13

AJIJIC, MEXICO

13:30 HOURS

Without telling anyone other than Paolina where he was going, Crosswhite hopped an early Volaris airline flight to the city of Guadalajara, northwest of Mexico City, to meet with a CIA/ATRU agent he trusted. Agent Mariana Mederos had agreed to meet him in the American retirement community of Ajijic near Lake Chapala, where Crosswhite wouldn’t look out of place. Chapala was the largest freshwater lake in the country; dozens of launches were tied up along a concrete pier that tourists could hire to take them for rides along the shoreline.

Crosswhite had worked with Mariana in both Mexico and Cuba the previous spring, eliminating two key traitors to the US government who had attempted to assassinate both CIA Director Robert Pope and Crosswhite’s best friend, Gil Shannon.

They met in a restaurant overlooking the lake. “Thanks for coming down,” he said.

“It’s no trouble.” Mariana was a Mexican American in her early thirties, with dark hair that she usually wore in a ponytail. “Pope’s got me based out of Austin now. He wanted me in position to help you if anything happened down here. I swear that man has a sixth sense. He told me last week that Downly coming down here was a bad idea.”

Crosswhite signaled the waiter. “I joke about Pope having superpowers, too, but he’s just a man—a man with a helluva lot of information at his disposal and a brain big enough to make sense of it.”

She chuckled. “Sounds like a superpower to me.”

“Touché.”

They placed their orders with the waitress.

“How’s Paolina?”

He smiled. “Three months pregnant.”

She sat back, a little stunned, a little envious. Crosswhite was so much different from the last time she’d seen him. Calmer somehow. He had saved her life in Havana, and she’d kept a special place in her heart for him since then—which was odd, because she couldn’t stand him when they’d first met. “Congratulations,” she said quietly.

“Thank you,” he said, knowing that Mariana had initially disapproved of him marrying a former prostitute.

“Aren’t you afraid of starting a family, considering the work you do?”

He stared across the lake. “It’s not something I think about. Life’s too short.”

“And it can turn on a dime,” she warned. “We both know that.”

He looked at her, recalling her rape in Havana; how she’d nearly been killed and how he’d beaten both of her assailants to death. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” she said truthfully. “I have days that are tough, but the work helps, and I’ve got a good therapist.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

She nodded. “He’s a nice guy—a lawyer. He has no idea what I really do for a living, so I’m not sure how long it will last. I don’t make a very good liar.”

Crosswhite took a pensive drag from a cigarette. “One day at a time.”

She was squeezing a wedge of lime into her beer. “So exactly what the hell is going on down here?”

“I’ve been shanghaied by the PFM.”

“Because of the Downly assassination?”

He nodded. “You heard they reported Chance Vaught dead this morning?”

“Yeah, Pope gave me the heads-up.”

“Well, he’s been shanghaied along with me as a witness against Serrano—which Pope must already know as well—but I’m not sure he knows there’s an American GI running down here doing hits for the Ruvalcabas. A Ranger sniper. He’s the one who blew Downly away.”

The latter came as a surprise to Mariana. “Have you told Fields?”

“Fields knows, but I don’t know how much intel he’s kicking upstairs to Pope. He told me over the phone this was
his
operation. I don’t like the sound of that, so I want you in the loop.”

“That’s fine with me, but Fields might not like it.”

“Fuck Fields. He’s a spook. I understand why Pope is using him, but I don’t trust the guy.”

“But if Pope trusts him, doesn’t that sort of—”

“Sort of what?” He watched her eyes. “Do you assume we can trust Pope?”

She sat up straight. “Since when don’t
you
trust him?”

He shrugged, his wary eyes scanning the passersby. “Let’s say I’ve learned a few things about him. Nothing to doubt his patriotism, but it’s still the last refuge of a scoundrel.”

Her face twisted into a sardonic smile. “Remember what you told me last spring? You said this is the business that we’re in, and if I couldn’t live with it, to find something else to do.”

“And I stand by that. All I’m saying is that Pope’s trust in Clemson Fields shouldn’t automatically translate into
our
trust in Clemson Fields.”

“Fair enough,” she conceded. “Should I mention your doubts about Fields to Pope or keep them to myself?”

“Pope’s sharp enough to read between the lines. Besides, we’re not going to change his mind about anything. He’s already a dozen moves ahead of us, and he’s going to do whatever the hell he wants.”

“You do realize,” she remarked, “that he’s probably the single most powerful man in Washington now—after the president.”

Crosswhite exhaled smoke through his nose. “And Congress loves him. After saving San Diego from the nuke last year and surviving two assassination attempts in the same week, they see him as the hero-protector.”

She sat chewing her lip, lost in thought. “Damn, why do I feel like we’re sitting here speaking treason against Caesar?”

He smiled. “Are we? Is Pope like Caesar now? I don’t know.”

“Well, the ATRU
is
slowly becoming his own private army, isn’t it?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

She stared. “What don’t I know?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he told her about the gold bullion and Pope’s plan for the money. “He’s hitting whoever the hell he wants—based on his own judgement—and he’s hiring free agents off the books; pipe hitters from all over the world.”

She sat back and took a sip of beer. “Men like you and Gil?”

He nodded. “And Chance Vaught has just been added to the list. Little by little, Pope is putting together a lethal team—a team of assassins; let’s be honest. And I have no idea how many other cells there are. Or will be.”

“Will the president stand for it?” Mariana wondered, but seeing Crosswhite’s frown, she checked herself immediately. “Forget I asked that. The president’s never going to know what the ATRU is really being used for or how many men are being recruited.”

“Or women.” He gave her a wink. “Don’t forget, honey, you helped me remove two of Pope’s enemies from the board. So
our
little cell already has four assassins—not three.”

“My God,” she muttered. “He really has become like Caesar. What does Gil think?”

Crosswhite shrugged, watching off across the lake again. “Therein lies the problem.”

“Gil believes in him, doesn’t he?”

“With every breath he breathes.”

“So what’s going on with the PFM?” she asked, changing the subject. “Why are the Mexicans so keen to use you?”

“Because of Lazaro Serrano,” he said. “Serrano’s probably going to be PRI’s candidate for president next year, and if he is, he’ll probably win because PRI wins ninety percent of the time down here. If that happens, the cartels are gonna take over this country, and the border war is gonna explode.”

PRI stood for
Partido Revolucionario Institucional—Institutional Revolutionary Party—and it had been Mexico’s most powerful political party over the last thirty years. The PRI was purportedly the more liberal wing of the Mexican government, with PAN supposedly the more conservative, but the two were not as clearly defined as the political parties in the United States were, and, in reality, there was hardly any daylight between them. PAN stood for Partido Acción Nacional, or National Action Party.

“Is that what Serrano wants? More trouble on the border?”

“Serrano hates the US, so anything that makes trouble on the border is okay with him, but what he
wants
is money.”

“Did the PFM tell you this?”

He shook his head. “No. There’s something Pope doesn’t know. I’ve been involved in the internal politics down here for a few months now—before this Downly shit kicked off.”

That worried her. “What are you up to?” she asked quietly.

“I’m acting as a military advisor to a police chief down in Toluca who’s been fighting his own private war against the Ruvalcaba cartel. It’s what I was trained for.”

She gaped at him. “Are you crazy? You’ve got a wife and baby to worry about.”

“I know,” he said. “I know, but I couldn’t sit around with nothing to do, and the guy needed help, so I’ve been spending time down in Toluca training his cops to fight—with American tactics.”

“You’d better hope Serrano never finds out about
that
.”

Crosswhite flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette. “If that fat bastard can hire American mercenaries, why can’t the people who actually give a shit about this country?”

She glanced around. “How much are you being paid?”

He laughed.
“Ni un peso.”
Not a dime.

Her surprise was evident. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.” He pulled from his beer and set the bottle down on the table. “I took the job for the love of the game.”

“I think you took it for more than that,” Mariana said, seeing through him.

14

TOLUCA, MEXICO

12:01 HOURS

Chief Juan Guerrero was thirty-six. He had been appointed chief of police in the city of Toluca after his predecessor was finally arrested for corruption the previous fall. Guerrero’s first promise was to clean up the department and restore law and order to the city. He had fired and replaced half the police force by Christmas and succeeded in arresting dozens of members of the ruthless Ruvalcaba cartel, driving the
narcotraficantes
off the streets and back into the shadows where they belonged. By the beginning of the new year, crime in Toluca had been cut dramatically, and citizens were beginning to feel safe again walking the avenues after dark.

Guerrero did not delude himself about being a target. Men were out to kill him, and he accepted this with peaceful resignation, knowing that sooner or later an assassin would find a way through his security. He did have a slight advantage over most government officials who attempted to fight corruption: a distinct lack of familial
vulnerabilities, with only his younger brother, Diego, to worry about. The two of them had grown up in the seminary, believing as boys that they would one day be ordained as priests. Their discovery of women during their teenage years had altered those intentions, but the Guerrero brothers remained close to the Church all of their lives, believing fully in the blood of Christ and that they had been placed on the earth to serve mankind.

They’d found their true calling as policemen, and had managed to serve throughout their careers without ever taking a single bribe, always watching each other’s back whenever fellow police officers tried pressuring them into corruption. They had faith in Mexico and its future.

Juan Guerrero believed his life was in the hands of God, and that God alone would decide his fate. If he were to fall, it would happen through His will, and Guerrero’s own example would leave a lasting impression on the youth of Mexico. He was not pride-filled in his faith, though he did believe that a man could aspire to a great deal less in the world before being called home to sit humbly in the shadow of the Holy Father.

Today was the first communion of his goddaughter Nayeli, and he was seated in the front row of the church, dressed in his uniform and smiling proudly as the priest spoke over the precious eleven-year-old girl who sat before him in a chair, her back to the congregation. She looked simply resplendent in her white dress, with her raven hair coiled so carefully and beautifully about her head as she prepared to receive the body of Christ for the first time.

Nayeli was the closest Juan Guerrero would ever come to having a daughter, and he was every bit as proud of her as her own father was. This was an important day in the life of a Mexican girl, as she prepared to enter the world of womanhood, and it was important to him that she be treated as the princess he believed her to be in his own private heart. This was why he had humbly petitioned her parents, who were relatively poor, to accept his financial gift and throw a big party for her and her many cousins.

With the ceremony drawing toward its conclusion, Juan Guer
rero stood beside Nayeli as she received the sacrament, and his heart swelled with the knowledge that her life would be forever different from this moment on; that she was a woman now in the eyes of the Holy Father. He received the sacrament himself a few moments later and was unexpectedly struck by a vision of himself as the priest he had never become. For a brief instant in time, it was as though he stood outside of his own body to see himself wearing the vestments and offering the Holy Communion.

He had never believed in visions before, but the suddenness of this daydream—the very vividness of the moment, was undeniable, and he was overcome by the most fulfilling sense of peace he had ever known, like warm water poured from a holy chalice. He looked toward the great door of the church to see beyond it a bright and beautiful day bathed in the rays of the sun. And he knew with absolute certainly that his Calvary awaited him beyond the threshold.

He shook hands with the priest and Nayeli’s parents, congratulating them on their daughter’s achievement. Then he touched her hair and smiled, leaning to kiss her on the cheek and whispering into her ear that only God was greater than herself. She smiled bashfully and thanked him. His brother appeared at his side a few moments later with two other policemen, all of them dressed in their class-A uniforms for the occasion.

“The car is ready out back,” said Diego Guerrero.

Juan Guerrero smiled at his brother. “Isn’t she the most beautiful child on earth?”

His brother smiled back. “They’re all beautiful, brother.”

The chief of police shook his head. “Not like her. I wish I did not have to miss the party.”

“We agreed it was safer for the family if you didn’t go,” Diego said. “You’re not changing your mind, are you?”

Juan Guerrero shook his head. “No. No, of course not. I’m just going to miss her, is all.”

Diego chuckled and patted his brother on the shoulder. “She’s not growing up that fast, brother.”

“No,” said Juan Guerrero. “I know that. Let us go out the front with the family. It is such a beautiful day.”

Diego looked at him, seeing a serenity in his brother’s eyes that he had never seen there before. “What is it, Juan?”

“Do you remember when we were young?” Juan reflected. “When I first told you that I had decided not to become a priest? We were standing barefoot in the mud along the river where Señor Alvarado used to fish.”

Diego remembered the day like it was yesterday. It had been his own day of personal deliverance. For if Juan had decided not to become a priest, then he too would be free to make that same decision. “Yes, I remember.”

“You trusted me then,” said Juan, his eyes bright. “And you’ve trusted me since.”

“Ever since, brother. Yes. Why are you saying these things?”

“Because I want for you to trust me now,” said Juan. “I want for you to trust that I know what I am doing.”

Diego felt pressure begin to build behind his eyes. “I trust you, Juan. I will always trust you.”

“Then promise me something very important.”

“Yes, anything.”

“Promise me that from this day forward, you will listen to what our gringo friend has to teach you—and to live by the true meaning of our name.”

“I promise, Juan. Of course, I promise.”

Guerrero was the Spanish word for warrior.