Ghost Sniper (26 page)

65

TIJUANA, MEXICO

22:15 HOURS

Mariana hadn't had too much trouble getting Billy Jessup to notice her in the nightclub. The trouble was getting him to
un
-notice the twins sitting three tables over, where they pretended to be interested in the half dozen inebriated young men vying heavily for their attention.

“Those two seem to be distracting you,” she said, drinking from a bottle of Tecate beer.

“I'm sorry,” Jessup said with a laugh, embarrassed to be called on the carpet for gawking. “I just don't see that every day.”

His Spanish had turned out to be too poor to carry on a conversation, forcing Mariana to talk to him in accented English, which required a conscious effort on her part to keep from breaking character. “You don't see what every day?”

He laughed again. “They're just really hot.”

“And I'm not?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You're beautiful. It's just . . .” He laughed again, sounding more stupid each time. “There's just different kinds of pretty, that's all.”

“So you prefer women who look like
putas
?” Sluts.

Again the annoying laugh. “I don't know if that's what I said.”

“Well, go over and talk to them. That's obviously where you want to be.”

He turned his back to the far table. “No, this is where I want to be. Your English is very good. Where did you learn?”

“I've lived on the border all my life. My whole family speaks English.”

“Do you like the US?”

She nodded. “What are you doing in Mexico?”

“I've been doing some consulting.”

“Consulting?” She put on her most interested face. “My brother's a consultant in DF. What kind of consulting do you do?”

“Well, it's not . . .” He hadn't counted on her knowing a damn thing about consulting. “It's more like security work—security consulting.”

“For banks and things like that?”

“No, no.” He took a drink from his beer. “More like, um . . . more like bodyguard-type work.”

“For politicians?”

He chuckled. “Sort of.”

“What do you mean, ‘Sort of'?”

“Well, I don't know . . . just
sort of
.” He laughed again.

She gave his sizeable biceps a squeeze, noting the bottom part of a military tattoo sticking out beneath the sleeve. “You're a mercenary, aren't you?”

Jessup knew women well enough to know they didn't start squeezing on you unless they were at least
con
templating
taking off their clothes. “Suppose I am?”

She shrugged, offering a flirtatious smile. “Suppose you are?”

“Would that bother you?”

“I guess it depends.”

“On what?”

She sat forward into the table, making the moment more intimate. “If I decide to fuck you at some point in the future, and I find out you're down here working for the DEA . . . or the ATF . . .”—she took a drink, and her expression turned almost vicious—“I'll cut your fucking balls off in your fucking sleep.”

Jessup felt himself stiffen inside his jeans. “Believe me, the last people on earth I work for is the ATF or the fucking DEA.”

“Because the people
I
work for,” she went on, “they don't fucking play. Do you understand?”

He took a drink and set down the bottle. “And just who do you work for?”

“Way too soon.” She sat back. “But he's the kind of man who'd feed us
both
to the fucking sharks if I hooked up with you and you turned out to be a fucking narc. I got rules I have to follow.”

He pushed the beer aside. “You wanna get outta here?”

She smiled. “Again,
corazón
, way too soon. There's no way I'm fucking you tonight, so relax. I don't even know your real name.”

“Yes, you do.” He dug his California driver's license from his wallet and put it on the table. “See, Billy Jessup.”

Mariana looked at it. “Your name is actually
Billy
. Not William?”

“I was named after my daddy. His name was William, but everybody called him Billy.”

“I like that,” she said thoughtfully. “I think you should name a kid what you're gonna call him.”

Realizing he wasn't going to get laid, Jessup pushed aside his disappointment and settled in for conversation. “So do you want kids?”

“Sometimes. You?”

He shrugged. “I'd like to have a son. But a daughter would be okay.”

She could see he was telling her the truth. “It doesn't sound to me like you're in a position to start a family right now.”

“I can quit whenever I want. Nobody owns me.”

“Must be nice.” She put on her sad face and took a drink from her beer.

“What, you can't quit?”

She pretended to force a smile. “We don't know each other well enough, Billy. You don't know the kind of people I work for.”

“I'm not stupid,” he said. “You work for the cartels, and we're in the North—which means you work for Castañeda.”

She looked suddenly angry. “Liar! You
are
with the DEA!” She stole a look around the club. “You're gonna get me killed!” She grabbed her purse and began to get up.

The second he grabbed her arm to stop her, she knew she had him.

“I don't work for the DEA, okay? I work for Ruvalcaba.”

Mariana stole another quick glance around, lowering herself back into the chair. “That's even worse!” she hissed. “What are you doing up here? Trying to get yourself killed?”

“Well, I don't exactly work for him anymore. I quit a few days ago.”

“Just like that? And you're not scared to be walking around Mexico?”

“They don't really care about me. They care about my partner; he's the one who's important.”

She pushed up the sleeve of his T-shirt to get a good look at his Airborne Ranger tattoo. “Are you the one I've heard rumors about?”

He shook his head. “No, that's not me; that's my partner.”

“So it's true,” she said quietly. “There
is
a gringo sniper.”

He drank from his beer. “It's true, all right. And he's not really anybody you'd wanna meet.”

66

TIJUANA, MEXICO

23:00 HOURS

Fields couldn't believe his eyes.

“I send you two jamokes to do a job that should have taken you two minutes, and this is how you come back looking? What did you do, pick a fight with Manny Pacquiao?”

Fito was humiliated and angry, his broken tooth hurting him, but he resisted the urge to smart off, knowing they'd fucked up big-time. “A gringo showed up.”

“What gringo?”

“I don't know. We've never seen him before.”

Fields sat looking back and forth between them. “One man did this to you? Why didn't you shoot him?”

Fito looked at the floor. “He took my gun.”

“Took your gun.”

“He was a professional.”

“I'm sure he was,” Fields remarked. He described Crosswhite, but the cousins looked at each other, shaking their heads.

“No, he didn't look anything like that,” Fito said. “This man had light-brown hair and light-colored eyes—almost gray.”

Fields had no clue who else it could have been. He looked at Memo. “What about you? You don't talk anymore?”

Memo looked at the floor.

“His jaw's broken,” Fito said. “We just came from the hospital. They wired it shut.”

“This is fabulous.” Fields got up from the edge of the bed in his hotel room. “One looks like he was hit by a truck, and the other one's a mute.” He let out a sigh, longing for the days of the Cold War, when professional assets were plentiful and Congress never asked any hard questions.

“Listen,” he said, turning around. “There's a woman in town; she's getting some information from a contact. Once I've got the intel, you're going to dispose of her. Is that clear?”

“How soon?”

“Within the next couple of days, but I'm having doubts as to whether or not you can even handle a girl.”

“We can handle her!” Fito insisted. “We just got surprised by this guy. You didn't tell us there might be some crazy gringo running around down there.”

“Well, you'd better be able to handle her,” Fields said. “Because I'm not paying a dime for the ass kicking you two clowns received today. Did you even get into the house?”

“Yes!” Memo said through clenched teeth.

“I got in through an unlocked door on the roof,” Fito lied. “The house was empty.”

“This was before or after your spanking?”

Fito averted his eyes. “Before.”

Fields opened a file on his laptop, showing them photos of both Mariana and Jessup. “Here is a list of bars and clubs. That's the motel he's staying at. I don't know where she's staying yet, but she's stalk
ing him, so go find her and stay on her! Do nothing—and I mean ­
nothing
—until you're given the word. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“About this gringo you ran into . . .” Fields stood thinking. “Did he say why he was there? Did you tell him anything—anything at all?”

Fito shook his head. “We just asked him what he was doing there, and he sucker punched Memo. I went for my gun, but he was too fast.”

When the boys from Baja were gone, Fields called Pope on the secure satellite phone.

“We've got a new player,” Fields said. “The Baja boys ran into a gringo outside Ortega's place. He literally beat them up on the sidewalk in front of the house and left them lying there.”

“Sounds like something Crosswhite would do,” Pope remarked.

“That's what I thought, but I described him, and they say no. This guy had light-brown hair and light-colored eyes.”

“You just described half the men in America.”

Fields chuckled. “You should see these two clowns. Whoever it was really worked them over. One has a busted nose; the other's jaw is wired shut.”

“Has Mariana made contact with Jessup?”

Fields was startled.
Goddamn that Midori!
But he recovered quickly enough. “I don't know yet. I'm expecting first contact tonight.”

“I don't want anything happening to her,” Pope said. “She has a great deal of potential.”

Which is exactly why she has to go
, Fields thought to himself. “That's understood. You have no idea who this new player might be?”

“No. He must be working for Ortega. You still have no intel on who took his wife and kids?”

“Nothing factual, but it almost has to be Serrano. Or maybe that Federale captain—Espinosa
,
I think his name is—the crooked cop who turned Vaught over to Ruvalcaba's people.”

“What about the leak at the PFM?”

Fields was not accustomed to Pope asking so many pointed questions. It meant that he was beginning to lose confidence. “I don't know where that stands.”

“Three of their deep-cover agents have turned up dead,” Pope said. “You weren't supposed to give them anyone but Mendoza.”

“I felt we needed to increase our odds.”

“How many names did you give him?”

“All of them.”

There was a short pause at the other end of the line. “I realize you have a tough job down there, Clem, and I realize you're working with the junior varsity, but you have to do better.”

Coming from Pope, “you have to do better” was tantamount to an ass chewing. “I understand,” Fields said. “Do you have anyone you can send me?”

“I gave you Crosswhite, Vaught, Ortega, and Villalobos. Those four men were all you should have needed. Now you've pulled Mariana into the lineup. I want this operation wrapped in three days, Clem. That's all I can give you. After that, I'll have to call in a whole different team.”

Pope broke the connection without another word, and Fields threw the phone at the wall. Then he grabbed his jacket and headed out into the night for the first time in years.

67

TOLUCA, MEXICO

02:00 HOURS

The moment Hancock had gotten word that a lone police truck was patrolling the northern part of town, he'd gone straight into action. Northern patrols were not rare, but the Toluca police force was less than half its normal size now, so the northern sector was generally overlooked after dark. The report was that the truck carried a machine gunner, which probably made the patrol feel safe operating alone. Machine gunners were prime targets in any war, and Hancock was ready to give the police an education.

He lay prone on the rooftop of a single-story house overlooking a well-lit four-lane avenue. After a half hour of waiting, the truck finally drew into view at two hundred yards, coming toward him at an oblique angle up the street. He scanned the men in the back of the truck, spotting the white marks on the helmet of Ruvalcaba's informant. The gunner was making a futile attempt to appear small behind the machine gun.

Hancock smiled, centering the crosshairs on the front of the gunner's helmet and squeezing the trigger. The Barrett .50 caliber bucked against his shoulder, and the machine gunner's head exploded inside the helmet.

To Hancock's surprise, the truck suddenly accelerated up the avenue at high speed in his direction. A second later, he heard the rumble of a Dodge Hellcat V8 engine screaming up from behind.

“What the—” He looked over his shoulder to see the black-and-white Charger screeching to a stop on the far side of the avenue. Four heavily armed cops dismounted and dashed across the street.

He turned for a shot at the driver of the pickup, but he was too late. The truck had already veered up onto the sidewalk.

Having just gone from predator to prey, Hancock sprang to his feet. The cops crossing the avenue called out to one another, shouldering their weapons and opening fire.

“Goddamn Ranger tactics!” he snarled, running for the stairs with a hail of bullets flying past his head.

He scrambled down the concrete stairwell, dragging the rifle behind him as he wriggled out a back window. His only secondary weapon was the Sig Sauer .357. This was the reason most snipers did not work alone. If he'd had Jessup to back him up with an M4, his situation would have been much less urgent.

An explosion blasted open the steel door to the front of the building, and that's when Hancock really felt the devil bite him in the ass. The last thing he wanted was be to run down from behind and wind up in a Mexican prison. He turned and thrust the barrel of the Barrett back through the window, firing at the first figure to come into view. The policeman's chest exploded inside his body armor, and the other officers dove for cover.

“Keep moving!” someone shouted in English, repeating it immediately in Spanish.

“Vaught!” Hancock hissed acidly, retreating out the back of the house.

Automatic fire tore through the door behind him as he slammed it shut and kicked over a pile of construction timber to block it.

Another burst of fire, and a round tore through his shoulder. The sniper lost his balance and pitched over into a table. Scrabbling back to his feet, he dashed across a courtyard and hurled the Barrett over a seven-foot brick wall, the top of which was lined with shards of broken beer bottles set in cement to discourage people from scaling it. Hancock leapt up and grabbed the top of the wall, feeling the glass cutting into his fingers. He threw a leg over, and the glass bit into the inside of his thigh, ripping open the crotch of his trousers and slicing his penis.

He dropped down on the far side of the wall and grabbed up the rifle. The scope didn't appear to be broken, but that didn't matter. He was out of the fight, wounded, and in need of immediate extraction.

Running through the night, Hancock called for his two bodyguards to pick him up at a prearranged emergency extraction point two hundred yards up the street. They were waiting for him when he got there, and he dove into the backseat, pulling the door closed. “Go!”

The driver sped off.

“What happened?” asked the man in the passenger seat.

“The sons of bitches laid a trap!” He grabbed his medical bag from the floor on the backseat and rifled through it. “They even sacrificed a man to draw me out!” Wriggling his bloody trousers down to his knees, he examined his torn penis and was relieved to find that the cut was less severe than he'd thought. The bloody member would need only a couple of stitches, but he wouldn't be laying any pipe for the next few weeks. The bullet wound to his shoulder was a through-and-through, and the wounds to his legs and hands were nothing—just more superficial combat damage that no veteran soldier would let himself worry too much about.

“But I need a shitload of stitches,” he grumbled, unscrewing the lid from a bottle of alcohol. “Get me to the medico.”

“Was it the Americans?”

Hancock's veins were burning with anger. “Who the fuck else?” He poured the alcohol over his penis and swore viciously at the pain, slapping a patch of gauze over and binding it tight with tape. “They want a war,” he muttered, tearing off the tape with bloody fingers and jamming the roll back into the bag, “I'll give 'em a goddamn war! I'll give 'em a war they'll wish they never fuckin' had.” He looked at the passenger, who was staring aghast over the back of the seat at his bloody genitalia. “Call Ruvalcaba! Tell him to send me at least a hundred men. No more fuckin' around! We're gonna kill every last cop in this fucking city!”