Ghost Sniper

62

Vaught stood in the back lot of the police department looking at the blood-soaked interior of an armored police truck. The sniper’s .50 caliber round had pierced the armored driver’s door of the Ford pickup truck and killed both officers in the front seat as they’d sat at a red light. This meant the sniper had been firing on a flat trajectory from street level — a bolder approach than either Vaught or Crosswhite had anticipated.

He turned to Chief Diego and his lieutenant. “How are the men taking it?”

Diego shrugged. “They’re angry — and scared.”

“More angry or more scared?”

“Angry.”

“Did they respond the way they were trained?”

“They tried to,” the lieutenant said. “There were no men riding in the bed of the truck, and the two in the backseat were unable to hear the shot because of the armored windows. By the time another unit responded, the sniper had stopped firing, and there was no way to triangulate his position.”

“Right,” Vaught said. “All four men were riding inside the cab because they wanted to avoid being shot.” He shut the door and put his finger into the hole made by the gringo sniper’s armor-piercing round. “This proves they’re no safer inside than out. In fact, they’re safer in the back because they have a chance to hear the shot, see what’s going on, and return fire. Inside, they’re sitting ducks.”

Diego turned to the lieutenant. “Make sure every man coming on shift sees the hole in the door before going on patrol. Give orders that only the drivers are to be inside. Impress upon them that they have a better chance to dismount and fight if they are riding in back.”

The lieutenant said, “Sí, señor,” and disappeared inside the station to begin roll call.

Vaught made sure they were alone and walked Diego around the far side of the truck. “I’ve heard from Crosswhite up in DF. There’s a traitor among your men. Serrano has someone on the inside, and he’s been feeding the Ruvalcaba’s information about our training exercises.”

Diego nodded. “I’ve suspected this. The day Juan was killed, the sniper’s position and timing were too perfect. Unfortunately, there’s no way to know who it is. I cannot openly accuse any of my men without proof.”

Vaught bumped him on the shoulder. “Come with me.”

He led Diego inside the motor pool, where the men kept their equipment. The officers’ body armor and ballistic helmets sat on shelves in open wooden lockers along the garage wall, much the way firemen keep their turnout gear ready in a fire station. Each locker had the officer’s name stenciled above it in white lettering.

“How long has officer Robles been on the department?”

Diego glanced around, making sure they were still alone. “About six months. He’s a good man. You’ve seen him in training.”

“Yeah, he catches on pretty fast,” Vaught agreed. “Didn’t your brother take over as chief about six months ago? Was Robles hired before that or after?”

“Juan hired him personally — a couple weeks after he became chief.”

“Did either of you know Robles before he applied?”

“No. He was recommended by a city councilman.”

“Well, that’s a strike against him right there,” Vaught muttered, reaching for Robles’s ballistic helmet and handing it to Diego. “See anything wrong with that?”

Diego examined the helmet, finding it sound. “No.”

“We all wear balaclavas over our faces when we’re on the street, so we’re impossible to distinguish from one another in uniform.” He pointed at the helmet. “Look again.”

Diego turned the helmet in his hands. There was a nondescript scuff of white paint on either side of it, one directly above the right ear, the other a little higher and closer to the back of the helmet.

Diego looked at Vaught. “These marks are no more than a few days old.”

“I’ve checked all the other helmets,” Vaught said. “Officer Robles seems to be the only one of your men who wants the sniper to know who he is.”