Ghost Sniper

EPILOGUE

Five months after the Battle of Toluca, Rhett Hancock was fully recovered from his wounds. He now owned a fishing charter called the Beetle, and he was giving serious thought to taking it down the coast to Panama or Colombia, where he could go into business for himself without drawing attention. He didn’t need the money, but he was bored most of the time now, and he thought it would be good to have people to talk to once in a while.

He still drank tequila, though not as much, and he was less haunted by the car accident that had taken his girlfriend’s life years before. One problem remained, however: the nagging urge to shoot people. Not just anybody, but somebody.

With a casual wave to another fishing charter anchored a hundred yards away, he stretched out on the deck and pulled the stock of a suppressed M40A5 sniper rifle into his shoulder. He put his eye to the scope and scanned the shore where a naked Antonio Castañeda was partying on a private beach with seven equally naked young women. There was a bonfire and five bodyguards standing around. One of the guards had some kind of sniper rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Amateur hour,” Hancock muttered. “I’ll pop your boss and put one between your eyes before you can scratch your nuts.”

“That’ll be a piece a shootin’,” said a voice from behind.

Hancock jumped to his knees, grabbing the rifle and spinning around. He wasn’t fast enough to bring the weapon up before a man in a black wetsuit shot him three times in the torso with a silenced Glock 23. The .40 caliber hollow-points knocked him over backward, and the M40 fell from his hands as he sprawled against the gunwale.

Gil Shannon pulled back the hood of the wetsuit.

A longtime admirer, Hancock recognized his face at once. “What the fuck? You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I know it.” Gil took a seat on an empty fish cooler, keeping the pistol trained.

Hancock felt the life quickly running out of him. “How did you — How did you know?”

Gil looked out to sea. “You bought your rifle from the wrong man.”

“Fuck me,” Hancock mumbled, feeling incredibly sorry for himself. “I knew there was somethin’ about that guy I didn’t trust. He’s an ex-SEAL, isn’t he?”

Gil nodded. “Want me to finish the job? Or you wanna ride it out?”

“I’ll ride it out,” Hancock groaned. “Won’t be long.” He sat staring at the deck where his blood pooled beside him, strangely numb. “Didja ever… didja ever just need to pull the trigger?”

Gil frowned. “No. I do it because I’m pissed.”

“Pissed?” Hancock gave him a queer look. “What at?”

“Dunno.” Gil was still staring out to sea. “Sometimes I think I was born pissed.”

“That’s gotta suck.” Hancock began to swoon a little, blinking to keep awake. “What’s with the Glock? I thought you swore by the 1911—least that’s what everybody said.”

Gil looked glumly at the pistol in his hands. “I have to worry about covering my kill patterns these days.”

“I know what you mean.” Hancock chortled sardonically. “That’s why I gave up the fifty.”

“You shoulda gave it all up, considerin’ the fix you’re in. No one had any idea you were still alive until you bought that rifle.”

“I guess I was stupid; the need just got to be too strong.”

“Well, you ain’t gotta worry about it much longer.”

Hancock wiped at the blood leaking from the bullet holes in his torso. “You’re right about that.” A warm feeling washed over him. “I think I’m about ready to give it up here… Why’d you do it — fake your death?”

“Robbed a stagecoach.”

Hancock’s eyes glassed over. “Well, brother… your secret’s safe with me.” His head sagged to the side, and he was gone.

Gil sat staring at him without seeing him, thinking of all that had come to pass. He hated to admit it, but he was glad to be dead, confident that he could trust Midori, Mariana, and Lena to guard his secret. Midori, because she needed him to protect her from Pope. Mariana, because she would need him to help look after Crosswhite. And Lena, because she and Gil were destined to be together — whether he believed that kind of crap or not.

He wondered idly if Mariana and Crosswhite had slept together. Crosswhite had said no, but Gil thought they must have. To his mind, nothing else accounted for the bond they seemed to share. But then, he hadn’t known that many women, so maybe he wasn’t the best person to judge.

In fact, he’d only ever shared a genuine bond with one woman in his life: his wife, Marie. And when that bond had inexplicably begun to dissolve, he’d found himself rudderless on what seemed to be an endless ocean, with only Pope to guide him through a starless night.

Then he met Lena, and he knew, just as sure as God made little green crocodiles, that he could never go home to Marie — to his wife, who would have waited for him until doomsday.

Why did I die? he asked the sea. It’s simple. I died for Marie, and only for Marie. Now she can mourn me and start a new life — a life with a man who hasn’t seen the things I’ve seen; who hasn’t done the things I’ve done. A man who can sit in front of the fire at night and hold her hand without feeling like he has to claw his way through the fucking wall for a breath of air.

He was still lost in the daydream when Sid Dupree brought his fishing charter up alongside the Beetle, smoking a joint and idling the motor. A few seconds later, he tossed Gil a line. “We good here?”

“We’re good.” Gil got up to tie off the line and handed the rifle across. “Put that where she won’t see it.”

Dupree stowed the rifle in a locker beneath a bench and tossed him a small charge of C4 with a timer. Gil took the charge below. Then he came back up and dragged Hancock’s body into the cabin, shutting the door and stepping aboard Dupree’s boat. He untied the line, and they motored away toward the setting sun.

Three minutes later, there was a muffled explosion, a flash of light beneath the greenish surface, and the Beetle went straight to the bottom in seventy-five feet of water, taking the gringo sniper with her.

Gil tossed the pistol overboard and glanced back toward the beach, shaking his head. “That ugly bastard has no idea how close he came to gettin’ his head blown off.”

“If anyone deserves it,” Dupree said, “it’s him. Is he that important?”

“At least for now, yeah.”

Dupree offered him a hit off the joint. “The fucker sells good weed, I’ll give him that.”

Gil laughed and pushed the joint away, stripping out of his wetsuit and jamming it into the locker with the rifle. “She’ll be wakin’ up anytime now, so cut the chatter.”

The old Navy SEAL smiled. “You better hope she never finds out you drugged her.”

Gil waved him off. “I didn’t drug her. It was just a little diazepam to make her sleepy. How soon ’til we’re back in Baja? We gotta catch a plane.”

“Be there by mornin’. Where you guys off to, anyhow?”

“Ho Chi Minh City. I wanna lay low awhile longer, and I got some people to see.”

“Ho Chi Minh City?” Dupree took a deep toke from the joint and held it in. “Shit, ain’t that where Saigon used to be?”

“Yeah, that’s where it used to be.” Gil edged him aside and took the wheel. “Let me have the con, ya damn hippie. I don’t wanna end up in Australia or some goddamn place.”

Dupree took a seat. “Shit, I was navigatin’ the ocean in minisubs when you were still shittin’ your drawers.”

“I hear ya,” Gil said, checking the compass and steering three points to starboard. “That’s why you had us headed for Midway Island.”

“Eat me,” Dupree mumbled. “At least I’ve been to Midway.”

A short time later, Lena came up from below, looking well rested. “Sorry I fell asleep, guys.” She hugged Gil from behind. “The beer and the sun made me sleepy.”

He gave her a kiss. “It wasn’t the beer. I drugged you so I could swim over to another boat and kill a guy.”

She chuckled, nipping playfully at his ear. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

What the hell? he thought. She can’t say I didn’t tell her the truth.