Ghost Sniper

63

The boys from Baja were cousins, Fito and Memo Soto, both age thirty, contracted by the old guard of the CIA the year before Pope was appointed director. They were contract killers who specialized in making a mess of things. No one would ever mistake their work for that of professionals, but sometimes it was a good idea for a hit to look like the work of a jealous girlfriend or a tweeker jacked up on methamphetamines.

They rang the door bell of Ortega’s house.

Fito was the taller of the two, with dark hair and a beard. “I thought this cabrón was supposed to be waiting for us.”

Memo was bald, with blue catlike eyes. He shrugged and rang the bell again. “That’s what Fields said.”

“Obviously, there’s nobody here,” Fito remarked. “Call the man and see what he wants us to do.”

Memo made the call, and Fields answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

“Hey, your man isn’t here,” Memo said. “What do you want us to do?”

“Are you inside the house?”

“No, we can’t get inside. This place is built like a prison.”

“You need to get inside and verify that he isn’t there.”

Memo rolled his eyes, handing the phone to Fito. “He says we have to get inside.”

Fito took the phone. “Listen, we can’t get inside. Everything is barred up.”

“It’s imperative you make confirmation,” Fields insisted. “The target has to be neutralized. I thought I made that clear.”

“What do you want us to do?” Fito asked. “Use our heat vision to cut the fucking door open?”

“I don’t care if you have to ram the house with your car,” Fields said. “But get inside and make confirmation.”

“And suppose he’s not here? Then what?”

There was a long pause at Fields’s end. “I don’t know. He should be there.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I don’t care what you have to do,” Fields repeated. “Get inside and make confirmation. If he’s not there, abort the mission and come to Tijuana. I have more work waiting for you.”

“What kind?”

“The same. Call me when you’ve got confirmation.”

Fito gave the phone back to Memo. “He says we have to get inside no matter what.”

“Fuck him, I’m hungry.” Memo was rubbing his ample belly. “Let’s go get something to eat. After that, we’ll call him back, say we got inside, and the dude wasn’t here. How’s he gonna know the difference?”

Fito smiled. “I like it. He wants us up in Tijuana right away. Somebody else to kill.”

“Same money?”

“He didn’t say, but we didn’t come all this way for free. He’s paying us for this wasted trip.”

They crossed the street and were about to get into the car when Memo spotted a gringo walking up the sidewalk wearing blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a tan ball cap. He stopped in front of Ortega’s house and rang the bell.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Let’s find out.” Fito shut the car door, and the two of them went back across the street, stepping onto the sidewalk on either side of the gringo.

“You live here?” Fito asked in English.

The gringo looked at him, his chiseled visage set. “You a cop?”

“Maybe. What’s your interest in this house?”

“Friend of mine lives here.”

“What’s your friend’s name?” Memo asked.

The gringo ignored him, staying focused on Fito.

“He asked you a question,” Fito said.

“I heard ’im.”

Fito became uncomfortable beneath the gringo’s gaze. “What are you doing here?”

“Right now I’m waitin’ for you to do somethin’ stupid.”

Fito sniggered. “We have a tough guy here, Memo.”

“That’s good,” Memo said. “I like tough guys.”

The gringo whipped around like a blur, delivering a vicious overhand right to Memo’s chin. Memo went down like he’d been hit by a sniper, and the gringo spun back around, bashing the lunging Fito in the face with his left elbow.

Fito saw stars, crashing to his knees with one of his front teeth broken off at the gum line.

The gringo grabbed him by the hair and bashed him again with his fist, busting his nose and shoving him over against the gate to the carport. A quick search, and he found Fito’s silenced .22 Ruger pistol.

He stuck the muzzle down the front of Fito’s pants and squeezed the trigger. The pistol went off with a hiss, and Fito felt the hot .22 caliber round ricochet off the sidewalk into his buttock.

He shouted in pain, grabbing his ass.

“Looks like I missed!” the gringo sneered, adjusting the muzzle.

“Don’t!” Fito gasped, grabbing the gringo’s wrist in fear for his testicles.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” the gringo growled.

Fito began to blab, telling all that he knew.

“Where’s Fields now?”

“Tijuana.”

“Who does he want you to kill in Tijuana?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t told us yet.”

Knowing it would be dangerous to leave a pair of dead men on the sidewalk, the gringo stood up, delivering Fito a brutal knee to the face. Fito slouched over, unconscious. The gringo wiped his fingerprints from the pistol with the tail of his shirt, tossed the weapon over the carport wall, and disappeared down the street.