Ghost Sniper

27

There was still no official body count, but thousands were already known dead in Mexico City. The public transportation system had been devastated by the quake. Key bridges, along with the elevated highway that ran through the center of the city, had collapsed, crippling the public transportation system. This left stranded citizens to the mercy of profiteering cab drivers, and Crosswhite knew it would take time for Paolina and Vaught to make their way to Toluca.

His Jeep had enabled him to drive a more direct route out of the city than most cars were able to manage, and he now stood facing a group of sixteen Toluca police officers in the empty parking lot behind the police station. There was still no cellular service out of Mexico City, so he was worried about Paolina and Valencia, but he reminded himself that Vaught was with them and tried to put the dilemma out of his mind. There was nothing he could do for the moment anyhow. If he left Toluca to go look for them, his chances of finding them would be almost nil. It was best to stick with the plan and wait for them to show up.

Each Toluca police officer had an M4 carbine slung over his shoulder, but their dark-blue fatigue-type uniforms, like those of many Mexican police forces, were not exactly uniform. No four cops were dressed the same, and a few of them wore uniforms a size too big.

“Doesn’t matter,” Crosswhite muttered in English — but he knew that it did.

He walked up to the youngest cop, a man of about twenty-one years, and offered his hand, introducing himself. He did this with all sixteen men and then stepped back in front of them.

Acting Chief Diego Guerrero came out the back of the station and stood watching.

Crosswhite faced the men. “I can see in your eyes that most of you don’t trust me, and I don’t blame you. I’m a gringo, so why should you? I could say that Chief Guerrero trusted me, and that should be good enough for you, but Juan is dead, killed by another gringo.

“So instead, I’ll tell you a secret: I’m the great-great-grandson of Captain John Cavanaugh. That name doesn’t mean anything to any of you, but it should. He was a member of the Saint Patrick’s Battalion of the US Army during the Mexican-American War. The San Patricios were two hundred Irish Catholic soldiers who refused to kill Mexican Catholics, and so they deserted to fight for Mexico. They fought with great distinction against the Americans — especially at the Battle of Churubusco — and when Mexico eventually lost that war, every surviving San Patricio was hanged as a traitor by the American army.

“That means one member of my family has already died for this country. That’s part of why I’m here, gentlemen. The other reason is that this is what I was trained for: teaching you men how to fight like American soldiers. If you listen to me, if you follow my instructions — and if you trust me — I can train you to outfight the Ruvalcabas on equal terms.”

The cops looked at one another, one of them asking, “What about the francotirador? It doesn’t matter how a good solider you are if a man can shoot you from so far away. We are not an army. There are less than one hundred men in the department now.”

“That’s plenty,” said a voice from Crosswhite’s left.

He turned to see Vaught standing there with Paolina and Valencia. Paolina had a bruise on the side of her forehead, and Valencia was holding a Rottweiler puppy.

He grinned at Vaught, weak in the legs with relief. “You came through, champ.”

Vaught grabbed briefly at his crotch. “Right here’s your champ. So what’s this bullshit about Irish traitors?”

“Don’t blaspheme,” Crosswhite said, walking over to Paolina. “That’s my heritage you’re talkin’ about.” He put his arms around Paolina and held her tight for a long time, whispering how glad he was to see her and how much he loved her.

The mood among the cops began to change, seeing that Vaught was Mexican American and obviously had respect for Crosswhite. Both men were soldierly and confident, and this became contagious over the next several minutes as Vaught mingled among them, explaining that he’d been up against the gringo sniper in Mexico City, and assuring them at the same time that the man could be outflanked and killed.

“Understand something,” he told them. “Any one of you is as good as either of us. All you need is training. Believe that.”

But when he spoke to Crosswhite in private a few minutes later, his attitude wasn’t quite so optimistic. “Dude, are you serious about training these people? The Ruvalcabas are gonna roll into this town and mop the floor with these guys.”

Crosswhite was watching as Paolina took Valencia into the police station with Chief Diego. “Where’d the dog come from?” he asked.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I’ve trained lots worse,” Crosswhite said. “They’ll do fine.”

“I thought we were working for the PFM.”

“We were, but the quake changes things, so now we’re working for ourselves. I’ll make up a story and square it with Pope down the line, but for now, we stay off the grid. We lure the sniper into our kill zone, and we take his ass out. That sound good to you?”

Taking a moment to consider his options, Vaught pulled the can of Copenhagen from his back pocket and tucked a pinch of tobacco into his lip. “Isn’t this a little bit above our skill level? I’m not exactly sniper trained, and something tells me you’re not, either.”

“Yeah, well,” Crosswhite said with a yawn, “I know a guy, and it so happens he owes me a favor exactly like the one we’re gonna need.”