In the Crosshairs: A Sniper Novel Page 8

  The Fire Snakes erupted in three-and four-round bursts that hit with extraordinary effect. The fiberglass boat was ripped beneath the repeated impacts of the military-grade rounds, and the fast engines were reduced to junk. The truck bucked and jumped, and gasoline spewed onto the wooden pier. While the marines changed magazines, the señora stood with the Fire Snake at her hip. Her boys would do the machinery; she would do the men.

  Beth walked steadily toward the pier, giving the surprised workers and crew time to respond, and they went for their guns. She kept moving forward, the sand pulling at her boots, until they opened fire. Her marines were screaming for her to get down. Instead, she started working calmly as bullets zipped around her and splatted in the sand and grass and water. The drug workers toppled like bowling pins as she nailed them with head shots and chest wounds, changed magazines, and swept the deck. She screamed with rage as her rifle barked and she moved inexorably closer to the targets. With a final two-shot burst, she hit the gasoline refueling drums and the pier caught fire. She reloaded and emptied another full clip on automatic into the inferno.

  Elizabeth Ledford Castillo stopped moving as the bright cloud bloomed and finished the devastation. She dropped her rifle into the dirt, and for the first time, the marines hurrying up to her saw the señora cry. She fell to her knees in the sand, sobbing, and her entire body shook. Leo gathered all three rifles, and Jamie scooped her into his arms. It was over, and they took her home.

  The following day was Sunday, and after church Beth was driven to the airport. The blond hair was neatly brushed and glowing again, her skin was smooth and tanned, and her cornflower-blue eyes showed no sadness. She was actually feeling pretty good by the time she boarded the plane to embark on her trip to Washington.

  9

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  THEY FORMED A CONVERSATION triangle on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial. Marty Atkins was seated at the top, with Kyle Swanson and Luke Gibson flanking him, standing a few steps below. No tourists were around, but the security detail remained alert.

  “Where in hell have you been?” Gibson snarled at Swanson.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m here now.” Swanson had flown in from England only two hours ago, just in time for a quick visit home to clean up and put on some old jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “I would like to know that, too.” Atkins didn’t look nearly as miffed as Gibson. “Going out of contact for several days is not cool when a mission is starting.”

  “Okay. I stopped in London to take care of some Excalibur Enterprises business. Got to protect my cover, boss. Sir Jeff said to tell you hello.”

  Gibson, in jeans and a black hoodie, started to say something, but Atkins shushed him.

  “Won’t happen again, Luke,” Swanson said. “I’ve decided to take you on as a partner. If we’re going to work together, you need to know everything. If Marty trusts you, then so will I.”

  That caught Gibson totally by surprise, and the anger drained away, replaced by a boyish grin of satisfaction. “You won’t regret it, Kyle.”

  Jesus, thought Swanson. Toss this guy a bone and he rolls over to get his tummy scratched.

  Atkins bowed his head and shook it. “All righty, then. If you two are now past the kissy-kissy stage, let’s get to work. I’ve got something for you.”

  The snipers stopped talking as Atkins opened a folder. “About twelve hours ago, the police in Paris found the body of an American attorney in her hotel room. She had been beaten to death and left on the floor, rolled up in a plastic shower curtain.”

  “And?” Gibson crossed his arms.

  “The murderer took no precautions. The cops found prints all over the place, then found him on video security footage and talked to the staff. In one part of the video, he’s seen flipping the bird at the camera. No doubt, the killer was Nicky Marks.”

  “He wasn’t even trying to hide?” Swanson wondered about that.

  “Not at all.” Atkins passed the brief report to Gibson, who scanned it quickly.

  “He knows that every cop in the world is after him and he’s taunting us all,” said Gibson.

  Swanson read the folder and gave it back to Atkins. “No, he’s taunting you and me, Luke. Daring us to try and find him.”

  “Okay by me. Let’s go to Paris, partner.”

  “He won’t be there. He killed this poor woman as a misdirection play. We pour our resources into France and he pops up somewhere else.”

  Gibson stared above Atkins toward the massive stone likeness of Jefferson. “Afghanistan, then. Nicky has worked there for a long time and has contacts. If we want to get ahead of him, let’s go talk to his old special-ops buds.”

  Swanson liked it. “Sounds like a plan. What about it, Marty?”

  The director of intelligence stood and brushed the seat of his pants. “Nicky Marks is a vicious animal. He used this poor woman as cover and then killed her only to force our attention on him. Go shoot the bastard dead.”

  GIRDIWAL, AFGHANISTAN

  THE FARMER FARIDA MASHAAL led his little caravan safely into town and parked in the walled compound of Mohammed Azad, the local opium merchant. The men had tea and spoke of their families and other subjects while the brown-black cakes wrapped in plastic were unloaded under guard and the product was weighed, counted, and sorted in a warehouse. Mashaal’s nose twitched at the harsh smell of chemicals.

  “You have heard, of course, about the fate of our good friend Mahfouz al-Rashidi?” asked the broker, looking appropriately solemn. “He and all four of his sons went to paradise in a huge explosion recently.” He paused.

  Both men understood the significance of this: someone else would have to collect the tax for the government. With no one watching, it would be easy to shave the amount due, particularly since the Taliban was already satisfied with its tribute. The farmer proceeded cautiously.

  “My crop this year was stricken by an unexpected blight,” he said, nodding his head. “That is why it is small. And bad weather. We were also caught at the edge of a battle, and that threw us behind schedule.”

  “Terrible. Terrible. Such is the fate of a farmer. I am hearing the same from many other farmers. It is increasing my own costs.”

  “Has a replacement been chosen yet?”

  “Yes. In fact, it is a mullah whose son is a close friend of mine. We have already agreed that the tax this season should be thirty dollars per acre of land. Your four acres will be assessed only one hundred and twenty dollars.” The broker looked smug. The government’s tax this year after the unfortunate demise of the Lion of the Wakham was really $25, but he would pocket the extra five. The rest would be shared all the way up the line. In a country in which the average annual income was less than $700 a year, everybody benefited from the poppy.

  The farmer had expected to pay the usual $60 per acre, so this was a financial windfall, although he knew the broker would take some of the difference. The combined total tax to both the government and the Taliban came to only $520! Praise be to Allah! “I wish the mullah and his son long life and great success,” he said.

  Mohammed Azad turned as an assistant came in with the official tally, and he ran the numbers. “To business, then,” he said, handing the figures to Farida. “You did very well.”

  The farmer took a deep breath. All the hard work had paid off. The broker showed forty-three kilos, which meant that at $150 per kilo the farmer would get $6,450, less the taxes and a $500 credit he had borrowed from the broker a few months ago. It was a heart-stopping moment for Farida Mashaal, who was totally unaware that the quality of his pure product would be cut many times and its value increased hundreds of times before it reached the final consumer. The pipeline was full and flowing. The farmer was happy. The broker was happy. The Taliban was happy. The government was happy. And Sergeant Jules Mason of the U.S. Army would be the happiest of all.

  BAGRAM AIR BASE,

  AFGHANISTAN

  JULES HUMMED TO HIMSELF as he headed for one of the dark sec
tions of the fence line toward the dim spot known as Alice’s Restaurant, a place where the folksinger Arlo Guthrie proclaimed you could get anything that you want. Same here. Alice was always open for business. An F-16 fighter jet burst down one of the long runways, afterburners sizzling, and leaped into the sky, trailing fire. Jules ignored it. The war was out there beyond the wire, and he had seen more than his part of it. Hell, man. Third fuckin’ tour.

  The base was huge. Some six square miles and thousands of people, from élite fighting soldiers like himself down to paper-shuffling bureaucrats. He had his M16 on his shoulder, the helmet, and the usual flak jacket, only without the ceramic plates. In fact, he looked like a guard himself.

  All he wanted tonight was some relief after being out on a long patrol over toward the tall mountains for the past three days. Not a shot had been fired, but he knew the bad guys were out there, everywhere. The pressure was enormous, for not only did he have to get back safely to base himself; he also had to keep his squad safe. Everybody goes home, he told them. Once back at the base, it was time to reflect and rest, and deal with the terror he felt.

  The first tour had been all business, and he could hack it. In fact, he kind of enjoyed being at the sharp edge of the spear. Second tour, not so much. Scared when he saw American bodies, scared when the mortar rounds came diving down, terrified when he killed his first jihadi—some kid with an AK-47 who ran straight into the squad’s fire zone. Third tour was like coming home to hell, and he was introduced to the needle by his best friend, another sergeant.

  Dude, what a rush! Made everything better immediately, and he could envision getting through tomorrow. The Army didn’t approve, of course, but once Jules broke the code, he found that he was a member of a pretty damn big fraternity. Sometimes he thought everybody on the base was high. After more than a decade of war, the original luster of the mission had tarnished. Nobody wanted to be the last American soldier killed in Afghanistan. Nevertheless, they did their jobs and didn’t let the drugs impair their overall combat readiness.

  He reached the fence, a spot in the wire where the searchlights that had been put up to deter rapes didn’t overlap. A figure stood on the other side, wearing those baggy pants and the funny mushroom hat. “Hey,” said Jules.

  “Can I help you?” The voice sounded young and confidently experienced in the business.

  “Heroin,” said Jules.

  “How much? Thirty dollars?”

  “Do a trade?” Jules Mason was short on cash.

  “What?”

  “Flak jacket. Worth more than thirty bucks. Give me fifty.”

  “Not without the ceramics. I see from over here it doesn’t have ballistic plates. Thirty dollars top.”

  “Deal.” Jules put down his rifle and shrugged out of the jacket and flung it over the fence. Hell, he’d stolen it anyway, so this was really a freebie.

  The dealer picked up the jacket and looked it over. New. “Okay,” he said. He pulled a matchbox from a vest pocket and flipped it back to the American. It was filled with heroin.

  Jules smiled when he opened it. Perfect piece of heaven. “See you later,” he said, and ambled off to find his buddy. Tonight they would do a bit of spoon-cooking, load the syringe, watch the silver needle pierce purple-green veins, and feel the warm, soothing rush. They would ride the dragon for a while and let Afghanistan go away. Tomorrow they would be up in time for reveille, once again the tough noncoms on top of their jobs, backbone of the Army. Neither man considered himself a heroin addict. Just needed a little help now and then until the countdown calendar flipped over and they could go back home.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  JANNA ECKLUND HAD A bone to pick with Kyle Swanson. The Washington office manager of Excalibur Enterprises was feeling disrespected. At six feet, more with heels, and a thick mane of hair, with a stylish cut, that was almost white, the former FBI agent didn’t like being overlooked. So when her secretary announced that Swanson was finally back in his office she torqued up her considerable courage and marched in. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” she declared, taking one of the padded chairs before his desk.

  “Good morning to you, too. Is your worthless husband still with the feebs?”

  That threw her off balance. “Of course he is.” She had been married to Lucky Sharif for almost three years, a few months after Swanson hired her for Excalibur. The agency frowned upon fellow agents being married. The friendship between Lucky and Kyle dated all the way to Somalia.

  “Now listen, Kyle…”

  “Still in counterterrorism, right?” He swiveled his chair around, got up, and went over to the coffeepot. Held it up. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks.” This was the problem. Other men sometimes went mute in her presence, but Kyle would look right through her. Sometimes she still missed the badge and the gun.

  “Then do me a favor and have one of your assistants make reservations for four of us tonight at a nice restaurant. Something private, not full of tourists.”

  “Four?”

  “Yes. It’s time for both of you to meet Beth Ledford. She got in yesterday.” The coffee was black and hot. “Now, Janna, what’s the problem? What’s with the impatient foot-tapping? Why are you letting your problem become my problem?”

  Janna stood up abruptly and smoothed her dark skirt, then crossed her arms over her chest. The ice-blue eyes went icier than normal. “I want a promotion. When we started this office, you were the boss and I was everything else. Now we have dozens of people working on two floors of a big building and more business than we can handle. My title is that of ‘office manager,’ and the corporate bigwigs hardly acknowledge me, much less sign onto a contract for Excalibur. I have to haul along a male lawyer.” She tapped her foot harder.

  “I meant to tell you,” Swanson said, taking his seat again. “We’re expanding. When I was with Jeff in London, we okayed a new facility up near Twenty-nine Palms in California. The marines will allow us to test new weaponry on their secure dirt. So that’s going to be part of your job now. Hope you enjoy flying back and forth.” The smirk was intolerable.

  “Dammit, Kyle Swanson! I need more official clout if I’m going to go out there. And who’s going to run this place when I’m gone?”

  Kyle’s eyes held a touch of mirth. “You, I assume. Hire managers for here and in California.”

  “I am the office manager here! That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Please, Kyle, quit playing games and be serious.”

  Kyle finished his coffee and pushed the cup aside, folded his hands on the desk. “Did I forget to tell you this other thing? Jeff and I decided a few days ago that you should be vice president for North American operations for Excalibur Enterprises. Salary bump and stock. Interested?”

  Janna sat back down in the chair. “You are a rat bastard.”

  “So I’ll take that as a yes. You do all the work anyway, Janna, and I’m not interested in sales and contracts. The balance sheet speaks to your success. The company won’t suffer if I’m gone for a long spell, which happens now and again. I’ll be your show pony anytime you need to trot out a real sniper to talk tech with the military types.”

  “I’m having a heart attack over here, you jerk. Can I tell Lucky?” The glare had been replaced by total surprise.

  “Why not? Sir Jeff and Lady Pat are already spreading the word in England. Your name will be in the Wall Street Journal tomorrow. I would give you a hug, but you might break me.”

  10

  THE PRINCE HAD HIS eye on northern New England. Too many customers up there up in New Hampshire, Vermont, and Maine were getting their dope from unauthorized sources. In urban centers like New York, Dallas, and Los Angeles, he had arrangements with central players, but the small towns were growing their own epidemics without seeking his permission or giving him tribute. He considered that rude. It was easier and cheaper to get a quality shot of China White behind a fast-food joint in Montpelier than to get drunk in a bar. Overdoses were common. The
politicians were helpless, and the cops were outmatched. He had to do something. Meth crackheads were another matter entirely. They were like cockroaches who brewed their own poison, then ate it.

  He wished Nicky Marks were around, but he was on another mission that was important. Maybe after that he should be dispatched to establish a little lawless disorder up there in Mooseland. If the townships thought they had trouble now, wait until Nicky started tracking the dealers and their bosses, and put things righteous. Right now, a six-dollar bag of heroin purchased in an urbanized place was being peddled for forty dollars in the northern Yankee belt, a bonanza for the dealer and a bargain for the addict. It wasn’t just the profit that bothered the Prince, because he had plenty of money. He had to be on top, number one, be the best of the best and spoken of with fear. He craved recognition as the best and the brightest.

  The problem was that he didn’t have time to do it himself. There was no use trying to straighten out the details of transportation and distribution if he didn’t protect the precious poppies themselves. They were the heartbeat. Those jokers in St. Albans, Nashua, and Bath were really no different from any other breed of junky, except that their skins were white. So, he added up the score. The problem in the Wakham Corridor had been solved and a new, reliable man was in charge, protected by the Taliban. Relations were cool with the guy in Colombia, who was both a rival and a business partner of convenience. The Mexican cartels had used Nicky to maximum effect to screw up that government’s antidrug plan, and the Prince himself had personally almost seduced that fruitcake congresswoman from Nebraska, who would pull the plug on the CIA and the troublesome Kyle Swanson.

  He should leave Swanson alone. The Prince knew that. The man was a legendary sniper in the Marines and had a history that included the Medal of Honor for bravery. He feared nothing. In the space of just a few years after retiring from the Marine Corps, Swanson had enhanced his reputation of being the best special operator on the CIA’s payroll. Worse, while Swanson’s raids on pressure points had been interrupting the financial and dope pipeline, he didn’t even know the Prince existed, much less recognize his superiority. There would come a day when all that would change. The Prince enjoyed having subplots to his main themes.