Ghost Sniper

37

Not long after Gil and Lena cleared Chinese customs, Gil spotted a pair of Russians hanging around outside the airport, not exactly attempting to look inconspicuous. “That sure didn’t take long,” he said, pretending not to notice them as he hailed a taxi.

“What did you expect?” Lena asked. “We were spotted getting on the plane.”

A cab pulled to the curb, and Gil opened the backdoor for her to get in. “It couldn’t be helped.”

“I guess not,” she said irritably, climbing into the cab. “Not with you refusing to keep a low profile.”

He got in beside her as the driver loaded their bags into the trunk. “If I keep a low profile, they might not know where to find me.”

She gave him a look. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Relax,” he said, kissing her hand. “It would take more than a baseball hat and a pair of sunglasses to throw these guys off my scent.”

“You could at least try.” Their flight to Beijing had been marked with similar exchanges.

“Hey,” he said, squeezing her hand, “would it help at all if I told you I know what I’m doing?”

“In China,” she said dryly. “You know what you’re doing in China.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me!”

“I would,” he said with a smile, “but then I’d have to kill you.”

She pulled her hand away, but he grabbed her face and kissed her. She resisted for a brief second but then slid her hand behind his neck and pulled his lips tighter against hers.

Then she shoved him away. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

“You knew what you were signing on for. Are we reaching the limit of your courage?”

“Is this a test?”

“As matter of fact, it is.” The driver got behind the wheel and closed the door. “So say the word now, and I’ll put you back on a plane for neat and tidy Switzerland.”

“Now you’re just trying to make me angry.” She told the driver the name of their hotel, and he pulled from the curb. “It’s not the danger that pisses me off, Gil. It’s being kept in the dark.”

“It’s necessary,” he said, resting his hand her on knee.

Despite feeling worried, Lena believed that he was telling the truth; she squeezed his hand and looked out the car window. The Russians tailing them in a white sedan were no more careful about being spotted than the two men outside the airport had been. They even went so far as to pull up alongside them at a red light, both men grinning.

“Look how confident they are,” she said, feeling true fear for the first time. “They know it’s only a matter of time before they get you. We might as well be in Moscow.”

Gil chuckled, ignoring them. “I was in Moscow last spring. Had lunch with Putin, as a matter of fact.”

She looked at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Once in their hotel room, they were careful to lock the door and push the minifridge up against it before hurriedly taking a shower and making love.

When they were finished, Lena lay in the crook of his arm, helping him smoke a cigarette.

“This trip has nothing to do jumping the Dragon Wall, does it?”

“We brought the wing suits, didn’t we?”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Gilbert.”

He sat up, flashing back to 1993 when the movie What’s Eating Gilbert Grape had first come out. He was still pissed at its star, Johnny Depp, for ruining his senior year in high school. “My name is not Gilbert—it’s Gil!”

She laughed, her eyes dancing. “Did I touch a nerve?”

“Gil,” he said, grinning. “Gil Shannon. That’s it — no middle name. Got it?”

She gave him a playful salute. “Got it.”

“Once we know each other a little better, you may call me Gilligan — but not Gilbert, ever.”

She laughed again. “Like the TV show?”

“Yes,” he said, lying back down beside her, “like the TV show.”

She tickled his ear until they fell asleep, awaking eventually to the sound of someone knocking at the door, ignoring the Do Not Disturb sign.

Gil stood to the side of the door in his underwear without looking through the peephole, saying something in a language Lena did not understand. The person in the hall answered, and he opened the door to a small Asian man in his forties.

They spoke briefly, and the man disappeared.

She sat up, holding the sheet over her breasts. “You speak Chinese?”

“Vietnamese,” he said. “That was Nahn. I worked with him the last time I was in China. He’s says the lobby’s crawling with Russians, so he’s gonna sneak us outta here. You’d better get dressed.”

She got out of bed, reaching for her pants. “How the hell do you speak Vietnamese?”

He pulled a clean shirt from his bag. “My dad was a Green Beret in the Vietnam War. He lived with the mountain tribes — the Montagnards — for six years, training them to fight the Vietcong. I grew up speaking English with my mother and lots of Vietnamese with my dad.”

“Wasn’t that a little strange?” she asked, buttoning her pants.

He chuckled, a sad look in his eyes. “It was a lot strange. But that was my dad.”

“Where is he now?”

“Drank himself to death.” Gil snatched his pants from the floor and stepped into them. “We need to hurry. Nahn doesn’t fuck around.”