In the Crosshairs

22

There were moments in her job when Marguerite del Coda knew it was best to act on her own. That not only got things moving faster but also shielded her superiors in the event something went wrong. This was one of those moments.

The situation in Afghanistan had deteriorated from a somewhat unusual but still routine job to a potential catastrophe faster than a flash flood fills a Texas ditch. The news had caught her in the middle of her first glass of wine, and she pushed it away as Ryan Winters filled her in.

A weird radio message had been picked up from Luke Gibson, deep in Afghanistan, and it made no sense whatsoever. Two veteran operators were trying to kill each other, and a third one had been tortured? No way.

“We put a drone overhead, didn’t we, Ryan?”

“Yes, boss. It was for attack purposes, however, with only tactical vision. We don’t have an eye in the sky.”

“Let’s change that, then. Get a camera overhead.” She knew Langley would have no problem with that, since flying drones was a big part of her job. The next part was more of a roll of the dice.

“Do we have anybody else in the general area?” she asked.

Winters played his keyboard for about thirty seconds. “The closest option would be that other sniper team, Brandt and Thompson. They’re just coming off that successful assignment in Pakistan.”

“Let’s get them saddled up as soon as possible to get to that location, find out what the hell is going on.”

Winters hesitated and gave a little wince. “Are you sure you want to do that, Marguerite? Langley may not like it.”

“My call, Ryan. Easier to ask forgiveness than to seek permission, and we need to sort out some details. Crank it up. I’m on my way back to the office. This may end up as a full-blown search and rescue in a hot zone, but we’re not abandoning our people on the ground.”

Coastie sulked her way through a long talk with herself, then called Mexico, and she and Mama Castillo shared a long cry across the miles. “I don’t know what to do, Mama,” she confided between sobs. “I can’t get over what happened to Mickey. I’m doing and thinking crazy things.” She stroked Nero, who stretched beside her.

“Miguel is gone, my sweet Beth. We cannot bring him back.”

“How did you get over it when Papa died? What’s the secret?”

There was a brief silence, then Mama quietly replied, “Only time, my dear. One dawn at a time. The hurt fades away, although the ache of such a lost love stays forever. Miguel loved you with great passion.”

“I know. Just as I loved him.” She snatched another tissue from the box and wiped her nose and eyes. “It was special.”

Mama’s tone changed a bit, kind but sharper. “However, we both knew he was in a very, very dangerous business. He risked his life every time he went out. That was the kind of man he was when you first met him, remember? He didn’t change. He couldn’t.”

“Damned drug cartels!” Coastie said, gripping a handful of Nero’s fur. The dog looked up, startled, and she went back to petting him.

“Beth, remember that you were in that same line of work. You understood him in ways that no other woman could.” Her tone softened then. “You’re not meant to be a housewife, Beth. Miguel often told me that you could conquer dragons. You need a cause, something bigger than yourself.”

“I should just come back to you and the family.”

“NO!” Mama was adamant. “There’s nothing but trouble for you now down here, Beth, and a drug war is under way in the region. The family is fine. I’m getting better. I won’t let you come back and sit around and wilt away wrapped in black lace and sorrow. That isn’t who you are. Is Kyle helping you out?”

“I haven’t seen him for a while,” Coastie said. “Don’t know where he is. I’m up in the state of Vermont right now, and some old friends are trying to help. Apparently, they find me to be a heavy load to carry. I miss Mexico.”

“And I miss you, too. Stay busy, Beth. Keep your mind occupied. Count yourself fortunate to have known true love in this lifetime and to have good friends. Now, let go of the past and look toward tomorrow.”

When they hung up, Coastie sat still for a while, thinking hard. Mama was right. She should postpone her rampage against the cartels for a while. Not quit; just take time off. She washed up, brushed her hair, put on clean clothes, and hunted Double-Oh. He was unloading some bales of hay from a pickup, picking them up without effort, his big forearms bulging as he tossed them.

“I’m back,” she said, looking up at him, her arms across her chest.

“Yeah?” He threw out another bale and took a break, with his hand on his hips, looking down at her, detecting an internal change in the pint-size killer. This was the girl he knew.

“Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

Swanson continued trying to get his bearings. He spat out some blood, and Gibson lifted the chair upright. “Why the Mexico attack on the grave, Luke? Mickey Castillo had nothing to do with any of this. That was really out of bounds.”

“Castillo was a pain in the ass for the drug chiefs. Those constant raids on the labs and the caches had become a bother, and his commandos had taken out a lot of their most reliable gunmen.” Gibson wandered over to the window and looked out, then back at Swanson. “Worse, he couldn’t be bought off. So when he got killed — that was a lucky shot, by the way — Maxim Guerrara wanted to send a message to dissuade other righteous idiots. He did not know exactly how.”

“I still don’t get it.” Swanson was being truthful about that, and the longer he could keep Gibson talking the better. Something might happen.

“When I heard about the colonel’s death, I saw my chance, Kyle. It was common knowledge that the two of you were close friends, so here was an opening to start you along the path that has brought you here. I offered Nicky to go in and do something dramatic to resolve their problem. I also told him to be recognized, so the chase could begin. It had to seem to be your idea, Swanson. You had to want to take the next step. Avenging your friend’s grotesque end was a perfect reason.”

Swanson filled his cheeks with air and blew it out slowly. “You’re a deranged animal,” he said as he did some more isometric flexes, creating wiggle space.

“And you were so easy to catch,” Swanson snapped. “Once Nicky’s name and picture were in play, you couldn’t be held back. So we met in Berlin, not by coincidence but because I wanted it that way.”

Swanson looked quizzical. “The grenade that Marks threw almost took you out, too.”

“We had worked it out beforehand, dumbass. We even practiced with rocks that afternoon before dinner. The thick foliage provided cover, and the rollaway down the slope took us under the blast. It was choreographed, and I signaled him by lighting that cigarette, then flipping it away. Remember, I was the one who identified Marks as the villain that time, right?”

Swanson had to agree. The man had done some work on this, and Swanson was ready to kick himself for not recognizing the hurry-up scenario.

“After that, Nicky and I stayed in touch by phone to keep him one step ahead. At the same time, I pushed you and Marty Atkins to hurry, hurry, hurry. The cherry on top? You’ll love this.”

“What?” Swanson noticed that the boy in the corner was falling asleep, bored by the foreign words and not caring. No attention to his weapon.

“I hooked a member of Congress into launching an investigation of the agency. She’s a fool, but useful.” He stopped talking and went to the doorway and looked outside when the buzz of a small airplane sounded overhead in the darkness. Gibson checked his watch. “Too early for a rescue party, Kyle. They may not send anyone at all. Sorry about that. May be my own ride out, or just another little plane coming in late. We get plenty of traffic here.”

“A congressional inquiry? On what?” Why was a plane flying so low? A busy little airport? He kept his eyes on Gibson. Flexed his calf muscles.

Gibson was showing off now, proud of his machinations. “The gentlewoman from Nebraska received information that the CIA is running drugs again, along with some photographic proof. The thing that will interest you even more is that she also believes Excalibur Enterprises is involved in the scheme.” Gibson poked a finger at Swanson. “You’ve been identified as a rogue agent. Your cover is blown and your reputation will be ruined no matter what Congress decides.”

Swanson couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Bullshit, Gibson. There’s nothing like that going on. Excalibur will eat her for lunch if she takes on Sir Geoffrey Cornwell.”

“Oh, that will eventually become clear, but in the meanwhile the Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence will enjoy a field day with televised hearings, and my pet congresswoman will get lots of free TV time. Your friends at the agency will sacrifice you to save their own butts, partner.”

Swanson shrugged and put his manacled wrists in his lap. “You’re not my partner, and you’re dumber than a box of rocks to try something this looney. Cut to the chase, Gibson. What happens next? How is this fairy tale of yours supposed to end, you delusional moron?”

“My goodess,” said Ingmar Thompson with a slight tsk-tsk of surprise as he read the screen of his phone.

Bruce Brandt frowned. “I don’t like to hear you say that.” He was eyeing a cool silver belt buckle the size of a saucer as they passed a shop in the bazaar.

“We have to go to a car that’s waiting for us a block from the office. Right now.”

Brandt kept his frown. “I hate to bring this up, but won’t that area be crawling with cops because we killed that ISIS dude?”

“Apparently, it isn’t, and please keep your voice down.”

“But I’m bargaining for that buckle, man. And the fleshpots are one street over. We have many things to do right where we are.”

Thompson reached out and wrapped a big mitt around his friend’s left biceps and gave a pull. Trying to stop Bruce from talking occasionally required direct and decisive action.

“Five dollars U.S.! Not a penny more. Last offer,” he called to the shopkeeper holding the intricately carved silver belt buckle and watching as the big American almost pulled the customer almost off his feet.

“Ten! It is worth twenty-five,” he responded, following them.

“Seven,” Bruce shot back, trying to break his friend’s grip. Ingmar propelled him forward.

“Seven is good,” the shopkeeper said. “But by the beard of the Prophet it is worth fifty dollars.”

“Let me go, Ingmar. Let me pay and we’re out of here.”

“Hummph,” Thompson grunted with dissatisfaction as he loosened his hold on his fellow sniper.

The dark sedan with glazed windows was waiting, the engine running. A Pakistani policeman shooed other traffic around it. Thompson ducked into one rear door and Brandt slid in the other, saying, “Look what I just bought!”

“How much did you pay?” asked Khan Dajani, the driver, looking back in the mirror. He was an American of Pakistani heritage and had the local accent and looks.

“Stole it for seven bucks.”

“You paid too much,” Dajani said, laughing. “I could have gotten it for three.”

“Well, you weren’t there, were you, Kahn?” Brandt snapped. He held up the big chunk of polished silver and looked at the design. Worth seven, easy. Probably more.

“Why are we here?” Thompson asked the man in the front passenger seat, a black man with a high hairline.

“Kyle Swanson is in trouble and you’re going in to get him.” Roger Lincoln sketched the situation verbally as Kahn pulled into the traffic and a police motorcycle moved in front as an escort.

Brandt and Thompson were silent during the quick update.

“Things are moving fast on this one, guys,” Kahn said. “The buzz is that another Benghazi is unacceptable.”

“So Ingmar and I are going in to take on the Taliban, the ISIS goons, any Afghan Army soldiers and pissed-off civilians who may be standing around and rescue Swanson and Gibson and that crazy Nicky Marks. All by our lonesome we’re going to do this? We just got through killing a guy a few blocks over.”

Khan looked in the mirror again. “You was volunteered again, mate. If you get killed, can I have that buckle?”