Ghost Sniper: A Sniper Elite Novel (6 page)

10

MALBUN SKI LODGE, LIECHTENSTEIN

13:00 HOURS

Gil was still asleep in bed when he heard a knock at the door. He sat up and took a Parkerized subcompact Springfield .45 pistol from the nightstand drawer, glancing at the clock. Lena hadn’t left until well after six in the morning.

He slipped naked from the bed and went to have a look through the peephole. Seeing Lena, he unlocked the door. She came into the room with an orange backpack slung over one shoulder. The gun in his hand didn’t seem to frighten her at all.

“Did you get some sleep?” she asked, kissing his cheek and crossing the room to toss the backpack onto a love seat.

“Yeah, look,” he said, scratching his head. “I’m not exactly who you think—”

“Of course you’re not,” she interrupted. “If you were, I wouldn’t have just canceled a wedding that was supposed to take place ten days from now.”

He set the pistol down on the table. “Lena, I’m not sure—”

“You don’t need to be.
I’m
sure.”

“But I’m not lookin’ to—”

“Neither am I,” she said with a laugh. “You still love your wife. That’s obvious. What I want is adventure. I’d almost forgotten what that was, being with Sabastian. You reminded me last night. I’m not really sure what I was thinking when I agreed to marry him.”

He grabbed his pants and stepped into them. “First of all, I can’t give you the kind of adventure you’re looking for. I don’t have that kind of money.”

“I’ve got my own money, Conner.”

“
Conner’s
not my even my name,” he said with a sigh.

She took his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. “Then what is it?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t tell you. I can’t even tell you what I’m doing in Liechtenstein.”

She lit the cigarette with a chuckle, dropping the lighter onto the nightstand. “And you say you can’t give me adventure.”

“Look, this isn’t a game.”

“All life is a game.”

He shook his head, regretting his weakness the night before. “People get killed in the games I play.”

She sat down on the bed. “People get killed jumping out of airplanes—yet that’s my favorite sport.” She gestured at the gun. “And I assume that’s yours?”

He picked up his shirt from the floor. “Where’s Sabastian?”

“Headed for the airport.”

“He’s pissed? Heartbroken?”

She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’d say he’s
offended
. Men like Sabastian don’t get their hearts broken. He’ll have another woman like me by the end of the week—maybe not one as wealthy.”

“Last night you said I’d make an enemy.”

“And you have—but I gave you fair warning in that regard. Do you want to spend more time with me or not? Because now
I’m
beginning to get offended.”

He grinned. “Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

They agreed to meet in the lounge after Gil had showered and made some calls. In the meantime, Lena would schedule a flight for the two of them to Switzerland.

Gil got Pope on the phone and told him the truth about what had happened between him and Lena

“All right,” Pope said. “These things happen. You can finish the job in Switzerland. I’ll figure out a way for it to look like a Mossad hit. Blickensderfer is on their list, too.” The Mossad was Israel’s version of the CIA.

“Bob, no. I’ve blown this op. I can’t sleep with a guy’s girl and then kill him.”

There was a long silence at the other end of the phone.

“You there?”

“Yeah,” Pope replied. “I’m trying to understand what you just said. You’re telling me you can’t kill a man if you’ve slept with his woman. What does one have to do with the other?”

“I guess it’s personal now.” Gil didn’t know how else to explain it.

“I’ve got news for you,” Pope replied somewhat coldly. “If Blickensderfer ever finds out who you are, this will become a great deal
more
personal.”

“I’ve blown this one, Bob. I’m sorry. It won’t ever happen again, but I can’t move on Blickensderfer now. I’ve crossed a line. I’ve told you before I wasn’t trained for this James Bond shit.”

“Well, if you can’t do it, you can’t do it,” Pope said, warmer suddenly. “You’re entitled to a mistake. You’re also entitled to a vacation. You’ve been operational for almost two years without a break. We’ll discuss things after you’ve had a couple months off. How’s that?”

“Okay,” Gil said. He’d known Pope long enough to understand that the director likely wasn’t happy with this outcome, but hopefully he wouldn’t hold it over his head for too long.

“Sounds good. Have you checked on Crosswhite and Paolina?”

Pope was silent again.

“Did I lose you?”

“No, I’m here,” Pope said. “They’re both fine, but Crosswhite’s operational. A US diplomatic convoy was just ambushed in Mexico City. It was a cartel hit, and all of our diplomats were wiped out—most of the DSS team as well.”

“You know Paolina’s pregnant.”

“I do, but I need him—and he owes me.”

Gil didn’t entirely agree with that, but this was not the time to argue the point. “How deep does he have to get involved?”

“That remains to be seen,” Pope said. “There’s an ex–US Army sniper doing hits for the cartels, and it looks like he’s the one who pulled the trigger on our people. He used a fifty cal.”

Gil was immediately pissed that one of his own had turned bad. “Do you have a name?”

“Not yet.”

“Get me a name and a face to go with it. Then get me in-country so I can punch the fucker’s ticket.”

“We’ll have to see how things develop,” Pope said quietly. “I’m not sure Mexico is the place for you. You don’t speak the language, and Crosswhite’s a big boy.”

“He’s got vulnerabilities, Bob: a pregnant woman and a little girl to worry about.”

“What did you expect, Gil? That I would pay him and not use him?”

Gil let out an impatient sigh. “All I’m asking is that you consider his circumstance.”

“I have,” Pope said. “It’s the circumstance he’s put himself into. Crosswhite doesn’t use his head when it comes to women. He never has. Be careful you don’t start falling prey to the same lack of judgment.”

Gil was annoyed when they got off the phone, but he reminded himself that so far Pope had always played him straight and that he owed the man a lot.

He was coming from the shower when the door to his room burst open, and three burly men covered in tattoos bum-rushed him, tackling him onto the bed and raining down punches. The blows
landed like sledgehammers against the side of his head, and he went unconscious.

When Gil came around, he was duct taped naked to a chair, and his mouth was taped shut. Four ugly men sat around the room staring at him with vacant expressions. Blood was leaking into his left eye, and his head throbbed. At first he thought they were Blickensderfer’s people—which would have been bad enough—but then he took a closer look at their tattoos.

They were Bratva
—
the Brotherhood. Russian Mafia.

This is it
, he told himself.
And it’s gonna be ugly
. He closed his eyes for a moment, just long enough to say good-bye to Marie and to promise himself that he’d go out with as much dignity as possible—but he didn’t have much in the way of confidence. These men were professionals at taking away a man’s humanity.

11

ACAPULCO, MEXICO

13:00 HOURS

The gringo sniper’s name was Rhett Hancock, and he was no longer the innocent, towheaded little boy his mother had taken to church on Sundays. He was now afflicted with a sickness—a brutal sickness that went well beyond the post-traumatic stress of war. Something inside of him had long snapped, and he knew it. He was addicted to riding the meteor of pure adrenaline, and he simply could not get enough of it.

Today he was in a cantina on the outskirts of Acapulco, a once-thriving vacation destination that had recently been all but eliminated from the world’s tourism brochures due to ever-increasing drug violence in the region. Hancock was thirty-five, a former US Ranger and a veteran of both the Iraq and Afghan wars, with twenty enemy kills to his credit. Diagnosed with severe post-traumatic stress shortly after the end of his fifth tour, he was honorably discharged from the US Army against his wishes and offered a meager disability
pension on his way out the door. With his army career in ruins and no other marketable skills, Hancock had immediately jetted off to Latin America in search of mercenary work.

First he had sought to offer his skills to the Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia through a Colombian national he had met in the army. The AUC, or, in English, the United Self-Defense Forces of Colombia, was a paramilitary organization formed in 1997 to fight left-wing insurgents seeking to take political control of various regions within the cocaine-producing country. By 2008, however, the AUC had been labeled a terrorist organization and was broken up by the Colombian government with the help of the US military. So Hancock had turned to the Mexican cartels.

An intermediary had introduced him to Hector Ruvalcaba, and the meeting had gone well. Hancock was impressed with the paramilitary infrastructure of the Ruvalcaba cartel, and Ruvalcaba offered him a lucrative one-year contract that same day. It wasn’t until after he’d assassinated two different competing cartel bosses, however, that he finally learned of Lazaro Serrano’s existence. And once he’d met with Serrano himself, Hancock understood that
this
was the man who actually pulled the strings of the Ruvalcaba cartel.

Hancock sat in the far back corner of the dimly lit cantina with a half empty bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila and a shot glass resting before him on the roughly hewn tabletop. He was dressed in jeans and combat boots, a black Under Armour compression T-shirt, and a black cowboy hat. Billy Jessup walked up to the table and sat down with a bottle of Estrella beer. Jessup was not a Latino, but his mother was 100 percent Lakota Sioux, so his features were similar to those of many Mexican people, and he did not stick out among them, being generally regarded as Mexican himself until he opened his mouth to demonstrate his terrible Spanish. He was Hancock’s spotter and intelligence collator, keeping in contact with Serrano’s number two man, Oscar Martinez. He and Hancock had met in the army during the war.

“I’ve got some troubling intel,” he said, tossing a manila envelope
onto the table and rocking back in his chair, with the beer resting on his Texas longhorn belt buckle.

The gringo sniper stared at him with his lifeless blue eyes, downing another shot of tequila. “Troubling how?”

Jessup took a drink. “Have a look.”

Hancock opened the envelope and removed a photo of another gringo with dark hair. The man was standing on a street corner with one arm around a pretty little Latina with long black hair, and a small child under his other arm. Hancock put down the photo. “So who the fuck is he?”

“His name’s Daniel Crosswhite, a Green Beret who served in Afghanistan. Oscar’s contact inside CISEN says the PFM went to visit the dude three days ago in Mexico City. The contact doesn’t know why they went to see him, but it was the day after your hit on Alice Downly.” CISEN was Mexico’s version of the CIA.

The half-drunk Hancock sat nodding his head. “I got an idea. Why don’t you ask that faggot Oscar why Serrano doesn’t have a guy inside the PFM? If he did, then maybe we’d
know
why they went to visit this motherfucker. Isn’t a spy inside the Mexican CIA pretty much fucking useless unless you’re fighting the fucking Russians or something?”

Jessup took another pull from his beer. “Serrano’s been trying to get a guy inside the PFM for two years, but that agency’s locked up tight. Hell, most PFM agents use false names, so there’s no way anybody can even get at their families.”

Hancock lifted the tequila bottle by the neck, thumping the bottom of it against the photo. “So why bring me this?” He poured himself another shot and set the bottle aside. “Who gives a fuck about some gringo and his Mexi-whore?”

“You don’t think it’s a heavy coincidence for the PFM to visit an ex–Green Beret living in Mexico City the day after you assassinate an American official?”

Hancock chuckled. “Maybe he’s a suspect.”

Jessup sat forward to put the legs of the chair back on the floor.
“Would you still think it was funny if this Crosswhite was ex–Delta Force and a Medal of Honor winner?”

The gringo sniper sobered up very quickly. “How the fuck could the PFM know a gringo did the hit on Downly?”

Jessup shrugged. “Rumors about a gringo sniper are all over the place down here. Maybe somebody’s finally started taking them seriously. Maybe this guy is some kind of a hunter. Who knows?” He tapped the photo with his index finger. “But I’m telling you: this shit right here ain’t no goddamn coincidence. It’s got something to do with you.”

Hancock elbowed aside the tequila bottle and leaned into the table, a faint spark showing behind his eyes. “Then I’ll go to DF and kill the fucker.”

Jessup shook his head. “Don’t be stupid. There’s no way you can go anywhere near Mexico City now. Besides, we’ve got the Guerrero hit coming up in Toluca. Serrano is serious about making an example of him.”

Hancock poured himself another shot. “I’ve got something special in mind for Guerrero—something fun.” He downed the shot. “Why bring me the intel on this Delta pussy if you’re not gonna let me hit him?”

“To show you things are getting dangerous for us down here.”

Hancock looked at him. “You expect me to run?”

“No, Rhett. I don’t expect you to do anything. That’s why the Ruvalcabas are gonna make Crosswhite disappear for us.”

12

MALBUN SKI LODGE, LIECHTENSTEIN

13:45 HOURS

Another man, well dressed in a black suit, came into Gil’s hotel room carrying a black leather valise. He was blond with a merciless gaze and fewer tattoos than the other men. He dropped the valise onto the bed and sat down across from Gil with a mirthless smile.

“You are in some big trouble,” he said in accented English.

Gil nodded, resigned to his fate.

“You killed many of my men in Istanbul,” the Russian went on. “You stole my whores and took them back to Moscow. You made me look like a fool in front of very important people.”

Gil stared back at him.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?”

Gil shook his head.

The Russian held up his middle finger. “You made this gesture to me at the airport in Istanbul. Do you remember me now?”

Gil did not remember the man’s face, but he remembered giving
a pair of Russians the finger at the airport the night that he and a Russian Spetsnaz operative had freed more than a dozen kidnapped Russian women who’d been forced into prostitution. He shrugged, and then he nodded.

“Good,” the Russian said. “Because I want you to remember that it was
you
who made this personal—not me.”

Oddly enough, Gil saw his point.

The Russian opened the valise and took out a pair of common pliers. “I will use these to crush your testicles.” He set them aside and took out a pair of jagged pinking shears. “These I will use to remove your scrotum—which I will feed to you after I break out your teeth. Your penis I will tear off by hand.”

Gil felt himself beginning to sweat. At least the Afghanis just chopped off your head and left it at that. But like the man said, Gil had made it personal.

Note to self
, he thought, snorting in spite of his growing fear.

“Something is funny?” the Russian asked, vaguely amused.

Gil shrugged.

The Russian told a particularly heavily tattooed man in their own language to take the tape from Gil’s mouth.

The man arched a dark eyebrow. “What if he screams?”

“Then I will crush his windpipe. Do as I say.”

The tattooed man stepped over and ripped the tape from Gil’s face.

Gil pursed his burning lips and sat looking at the men.

“You’re not going to scream?” the Russian asked.

Gil was resolute. “Trust me. I’d scream like a little girl if I thought it would do me any good.”

The Russian nodded. “What was funny?”

“I just made a mental note not to let shit get personal in the future.” He smirked. “It still sounds kinda funny.”

The Russian grinned. “It won’t sound funny for very long.”

“Maybe we should get started then,” Gil said grimly, sweat running down from his armpits. “I got someplace I gotta be.”

The Russian gestured, and the heavily tattooed man pressed the
tape back over Gil’s mouth. A second later, there came a knock at the door. Gil jerked around in the chair, but one of the Russians was fast to put a knife to his throat.

Everyone sat still.

A few moments later, there was another knock.

Someone stole a peek through the peephole, and then came back and whispered to the Russian that it was the Swiss banker’s woman.

The Russian looked shocked. “What the hell is
she
doing here?”

The other man shrugged.

Gil knew it had to be Lena.

“What do we do?” the heavily tattooed man asked.

“Shit,” the Russian muttered, wiping his mouth. “Let her in.”

The other man opened the door, and Lena came into the room. Her eyes grew wide when she saw Gil taped to the chair, naked and bleeding from a gash over his eye.

She wheeled on the Russian, hissing in English: “What the fuck are you doing?”

“This man is CIA,” the Russian said. “He—”

“Of
course
he’s CIA, you stupid fool! Where do you think Sabastian gets his intelligence? From barbarians like you? Let him loose from that chair—now!”

The Russian gestured lamely at Gil. “He—”

“He
what
?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

The Russian was about to tell her that Gil had stolen thirteen of his sex slaves six months earlier, but he suddenly realized that Sabastian Blickensderfer—a billionaire weapons dealer—couldn’t care less about such things. “I didn’t know he was here with Blickensderfer.”

“You’d better get your men out of here.” She moved toward Gil’s chair. “I have to get this man cleaned up before Sabastian finds out what you’ve done to him. He’s supposed to be under Sabastian’s protection! How do you think this makes my man look in front of the CIA?”

Browbeaten, the Russian gestured for his men to leave the room. “We had no idea.”

“Fine. Just go.” She began stripping the tape from one of Gil’s wrists. “Get out!”

The Russians left, taking the black valise with them, and she quickly freed Gil’s wrists and ankles.

He peeled the tape from his mouth and got to his feet. “What are you doing?”

“Saving your life, obviously.” She grabbed his pants from the floor. “Hurry and get dressed. The second Sabastian finds out about this, they’ll be back.”

He began to get dressed. “They work for Sabastian?”

“They’re regular customers.” She handed him his shirt. “They buy guns. I didn’t know they were here until I saw them down in the lobby, but I knew they weren’t here to see Sabastian, so that left only you—
because they sure as hell don’t ski
.”

He put on his shoes, grabbed the Springfield from the dresser, and slipped it beneath his jacket.

“So you’re CIA,” she said, looking at him, a half smile on her face.

“Kinda.” He moved toward the door. “How soon before they talk to Sabastian?”

“About this? Hopefully never. But I guess that depends on what you did to make them mad.”

Gil recalled that, in addition to flipping the Russian the bird at the airport, he had also mouthed the words
Fuck you
, making it even more personal. “I’m guessing it probably won’t be too long.”