Ghost Sniper

16

Paolina practically threw Vaught’s breakfast at him as she brought it from the stove, shoving the plate across the table to smack against his glass of orange juice. Crosswhite had left before sunrise without telling Vaught where he was going, and Paolina hadn’t said more than two words since he’d gotten out of bed. He didn’t bother to thank her for cooking, knowing she’d only spit his words back at him. He was afraid of her and didn’t want to antagonize her, particularly when Crosswhite wasn’t there to protect him. Her resentment was palpable now, and he felt it was probably best to leave as small a footprint in her world as possible.

If Crosswhite didn’t return before he finished eating, he would wash his own dishes, and then go back to the guest room and shut the door. There was a television back there to pass the time. He was curious where Crosswhite had gone, believing it must have something to do with the operation, but he knew that Paolina was too loyal to tell him anything Crosswhite didn’t want him to know. Oddly enough, this didn’t really worry him. Crosswhite was so straightforward about everything that Vaught couldn’t help trusting him. What you saw was what you got with Crosswhite.

He drew a breath and stood up from the chair, making his way to the sink.

“Leave them,” she said without turning around.

“Thank you for breakfast.” The words slipped out before he could pull them back, and, of course, she didn’t answer.

He went back to his room and closed the door, switching on the television. The news came on shortly, and within fifteen minutes, Chance Vaught learned that he’d been reported dead to the entire world. He knew it was coming, but the report still hit him hard, and he panicked for a minute, feeling unexpectedly trapped and alone. The news ended a few minutes later, and he switched off the television, getting up from the bed and stepping out into the living room, where Paolina sat on the sofa reading to Valencia.

“I’m sorry,” he said, putting his hands into his pockets. “I apologize for jeopardizing what you and Crosswhite have here.”

She looked up at him, holding his gaze for a moment, and then went back to reading.

He shrugged and went back into the room, closing the door.

A half hour later, Paolina heard someone rap on the steel gate to the carport. Assuming that it was a neighbor, she set aside the book, telling Valencia to wait for her on the couch, and stepped outside into the carport, calling, “Quién es?” Who is it?

“I’m with the Institute of Health, señorita,” a young man answered in Spanish. “There’s been a case of dengue fever in the neighborhood, and we have to speak to everyone to make sure they know the symptoms and how to prevent mosquitoes from breeding in and around their homes.”

This was common in Latin America. Dengue fever was caused by a virus spread by mosquitoes, and this was the government’s usual response to an instance of the disease in any neighborhood. Paolina crossed the carport and peeked out the slot in the door to see a young man in his early twenties wearing the Institute of Health uniform and the proper ID tag around his neck. She knew that if she didn’t open the gate to take his literature and listen to his little spiel about the disease, either he or someone else would keep coming back until someone had heard them out. She pulled the latch to unlock the gate, and it burst violently inward, hitting her in the face and knocking her backward.

The young man clamped his hand over her mouth and kicked the gate shut. He had a gooey wet cloth in his hand that stunk of something medicinal. She felt herself beginning to go unconscious and stopped trying to breathe, pulling a razor-sharp stiletto from the small of her back beneath her shirt and swiping viciously at his groin.

She got him pretty good, just missing his penis and cutting deep into the thigh muscle. He let go of her instantly, seizing his crotch in both hands and shouting for help. Paolina stumbled dizzily backward and fell to the concrete, the effect of the chloroform too strong to resist. Two more men rushed in as she struggled to get up. They fell on her and slapped her unconscious, taping her mouth, and quickly securing her hands and feet with duct tape.

“Get her into the van!”

Vaught was still watching television in his room. He heard the young man’s shout and lowered the volume to listen for more. Hearing nothing else, he ran the volume back up.

Valencia slid off the couch and went to stand in the open doorway. Seeing two men in the process of kidnapping her mother, she immediately began to scream.

Hearing the scream, Vaught ripped open the bedroom door and was already moving at full speed by the time he vaulted over Valencia and into the carport. The two men lifting Paolina from the concrete watched in stunned confusion as he came at them, having had no idea there was anyone else in the house. Vaught drove his knee into the closest man’s face, knocking him backward against the door with his nose smashed flat, blood jetting. Then he spun smoothly around with a high backward kick that caught the second man in the side of the head and sent him sprawling.

The counterfeit health worker was bleeding in the corner and didn’t want any part of the fight, so Vaught ignored him, turning back to the first guy as he struggled to rise. He put him back down with a punch to the trachea and snatched Paolina’s stiletto off the ground, using it to stab both men in the throat before finishing off the imposter from the health department with a brutal kick to the temple. Then he lifted Paolina up and swept her into the house past Valencia, who was still crying. He set the young woman on the sofa, pulled the tape away from her mouth, and began freeing her hands and feet as the chloroform wore off.

She came awake flailing, and he grabbed her wrists.

“You’re okay!” he said in Spanish. “Look at me! You’re okay!”

Paolina jumped unsteadily to her feet and tottered over to her daughter, sinking to her knees and taking the frightened little girl into her arms to settle her. “Mommy’s okay. Mommy’s okay …” She glanced at Vaught. “We have to leave — now.”

He glanced around. “Where the hell are we gonna go?”

“Daniel said if anything ever happened while he was out of the city to go to Juan Guerrero.”

“Who’s Juan Guerrero?”

Still dizzy, she got to her feet and lifted Valencia into her arms. “The police chief in Toluca.”

“Toluca’s thirty miles south of here. Where the hell is Crosswhite?”

“Guadalajara.”

“What the hell’s he doing up in Guadalajara? That’s a six-hour drive. Did he fly? When’s he coming back?”

She moved toward the bedroom. “Stop complaining, Chance. Call for a taxi.”

“Goddamnit,” he muttered. “Right when you think things can’t get any more fucked up.”