Ghost Sniper

38

There were always risks involved when Lazaro Serrano and Hector Ruvalcaba met face-to-face, but they had serious matters to discuss, and with the city devastated by the earthquake, Serrano had to abandon his normal security precautions. So the two men met in a brothel run by the Ruvalcabas on the outskirts of the Federal District, where quake damage had been minimal to none.

“Our attack on the Toluca police station was a complete disaster,” said Ruvalcaba, a stately looking man in his early sixties, with graying hair and green eyes. He had escaped from a maximum security prison the year before via a tunnel dug from the outside to his prison cell. Serrano had arranged for and funded the tunnel’s construction, a service for which he had been handsomely reimbursed. “I still don’t know what went wrong, but I lost seventeen of my best people. Apparently the remaining Guerrero brother is not the timid young coward we’ve been led to believe.”

Serrano sat puffing a cigar. “Is this new chief supposed to have killed all seventeen men himself?”

Ruvalcaba made a face. “Of course not. My point is that he apparently possesses the strength of will to hold the police force together even in the face of his brother’s very public assassination. ”

Serrano shrugged. “So the Toluca police have rallied around the memory of their martyred chief. We’ve seen it before. Juan Guerrero was a brave man—a man of the people. It’s only natural they would stick together long enough to fight a battle in his name. After all, they are Mexicans, are they not? It’s our fault for underestimating them. Now we’ll do it right. We’ll send Hancock back to Toluca with orders to kill ten or twelve policemen in the street, all in broad daylight. That will put a most definite end to their resolve, I assure you.”

Ruvalcaba demurred. “I don’t believe it’s that simple. But it doesn’t matter because Hancock won’t go back to the same city twice. I’ve asked him before, and he has always refused. He considers it too dangerous.”

“He works for us,” Serrano said. “He goes where he’s told.”

Ruvalcaba cocked an eyebrow. “You tell him that.”

Deciding to leave the issue for the moment, Serrano gestured at the large yellow envelope he’d placed on the table when he first arrived. “That is a gift for you. It will take your mind off our problem in Toluca.”

Eying the politician, Ruvalcaba reached out and picked up the envelope. He shook out all eleven files onto the table and sat looking them over. “Are these — these are PFM agents!”

“Straight from the hands of the CIA,” Serrano said with a twisted smile.

“Puta madre!” Ruvalcaba pulled one of the photos free from its staple. “This man was one of mine!”

“Luis Mendoza?” Serrano asked.

“You knew already?”

“The CIA told me yesterday afternoon. Mendoza and the American DSS agent are helping the PFM to build a case against us.”

“That can’t be,” Ruvalcaba said. “I’ve been told they were dead.”

“The PFM falsified the crime scene. Both are still very much alive. Vaught has disappeared, but we will get this pig Mendoza to tell us where he is, and Hancock will kill him for us. The gringo sniper has even more to fear from him than we do. You’d better plan on three or four simultaneous abductions. Once word gets out that Mendoza and his family have vanished, the other agents in that file will take extra precautions. And forget the Toluca police for the moment. We’ll send Hancock after Mendoza. He’ll be more than happy to help once he realizes there are witnesses who can place him behind the rifle that killed Alice Downly.”