Ghost Sniper

43

Dressed in a black SWAT uniform, Crosswhite tucked the phone into his leg pocket. “Fields is on the move.”

Vaught stood leaning against the outside wall of the police station, a dip in his lower lip, an M4 slung over his shoulder. “What’s he up to now?”

“He’s drawing Mariana north to Tijuana, away from Castañeda; says he’s got a line on the sniper’s spotter. Sounds like it might be a legit lead, but it’s too soon to tell.”

Chief Diego Guerrero was there too, equally armed, but he understood almost none of what was being said. “What’s happening?” he asked in Spanish.

“Our enemy in the CIA is making his move.”

Diego carried an ugly cut over his right eye from where he had collided with the barrel of another officer’s carbine the day before during a house-clearing exercise. He had begun to move much more like a soldier over the past couple days of drilling. Crosswhite and Vaught were both satisfied with his progress, and they never passed on an opportunity to build him up in front of his men, who were catching on faster than he was.

All of the officers had taken to wearing black balaclavas over their faces whenever they patrolled in public now, as did Crosswhite and Vaught. This was not an uncommon sight in Mexico, and it solved the problem of Crosswhite’s drawing unwanted attention because he looked like a gringo. As expected, the Mexican Federal Police had spent less than a day investigating the ill-fated assault, rushing back to Mexico City as soon as possible, where they were still badly needed to maintain order in the wake of the earthquake.

“Does that mean the sniper will return?” Diego asked.

“It means that from this day forward,” Crosswhite said, “we should assume he’s already here. I suggest that everyone — you included, Chief — continue wearing their balaclavas when patrolling the city. That will make it impossible for him to single any of us out. He might decide to shoot some men at random to scare us off the streets. If he does, we’ll zero his position and outflank him.”

“How difficult will that be?” Diego’s fear of the sniper was evident.

Crosswhite put a hand on the young police chief’s shoulder. “A sniper always has the first shot. There’s nothing we can do about that, so we have to accept it. The trick is in knowing which direction to move after he pulls the trigger. Your men need to be vigilant at all times.”

A lieutenant stepped out the back door of the building, gesturing urgently with a sheaf of papers. Diego excused himself.

“What’s that about?” Vaught wondered.

“Looks serious, whatever it is.”

Diego returned, offering the papers to Crosswhite. “My men found these bodies on a road outside of town. We haven’t seen this type of civilian execution since before my brother was appointed chief.”

Crosswhite sorted through print-offs of a half dozen cell phone pictures. Three naked bodies had been found dumped on a dirt road: a man, a woman, and a girl, all of them obviously shot in the head. The printer quality was not the best, but there was no mistaking Agent Luis Mendoza’s protruding Adam’s apple in the profile pic of his blood-smeared face. Mrs. Mendoza’s charred breast was equally evident.

“Like I said,” he muttered, passing the pictures to Vaught and walking off. “He’s already here.”

Vaught opened the file. “Oh my God,” he whispered, seeing the little girl’s exploded head.

Diego saw the blood drain from his face. “Do you know those people?”

“It’s Agent Mendoza and his family.” Vaught turned away and vomited his lunch onto the ground between the wall and a parked police cruiser.