In the Crosshairs

2

Swanson remained still as chaos spread to allow things to settle enough to get past the buzzing ears and the instant headache and the showering dirt and debris. He had to assess the situation and get the hell out of this mess.

People were fleeing toward perceived safety. Others stumbled about in shock. The desecration of the grave had been complete, and with no regard for the innocent. Castillo’s enemies had struck a horrendous blow that would stand as a warning of the fate awaiting anyone who opposed the cartels. Even death would not end the punishment.

First things first. He was okay. Beth was okay. Mama Castillo didn’t look so good. Her skin was gray. A trail of blood that trickled from one eye was probably just a vitreous hemorrhage. No broken bones were apparent, but her pulse was weak. She would live, although Swanson didn’t think she would like the world into which she awoke.

“She’s good enough to move back to the ranch,” he said. “Best we avoid the hospitals and bring in our own medical care. It will be safer out there.”

“Yeah,” Beth agreed. She barked a string of instructions in fluent Spanish to a young Mexican marine, who took off at a run to organize an escape convoy.

“Get one of the cops over here and translate for me,” Swanson said, and she waved to a policeman with a sweaty face and a missing cap. He recognized her and loped through the rubble.

“Señora Castillo? Are you hurt?” He was studying them, looking for injuries.

She nodded and held up a finger to silence him. “Kyle, this is Sergeant Rey. What do you want him to do?”

Swanson was on one knee. He pointed across the debris field to where the backhoe had been toppled to one side by the blast. “We need to secure that tractor. The man who was beside it may be involved in the bombing. Rey, you take charge of it — and don’t let anyone else even touch it until the machine can be checked for fingerprints and other evidence.”

“Yes, sir,” the policeman said, not needing a translation. But he wanted to do more than just stand by a tractor. He wanted to shoot somebody. “Is there anything else?”

Swanson spoke directly to him. “Tell your guys to locate the regular gravedigger. Likely he’s dead somewhere nearby and another man took his place. That would probably be the bomber.”

The cop seemed a bit wobbly, dealing with the vestiges of his own shock. “Help is already on the way. Can I take you to your car, señora?”

Beth shook her head. “Rey, listen closely. Start the search, then stand guard at the tractor. It is very important. Thank you for your concern, but we will be fine. Now go!”

“You saw the bomber?” she asked Swanson.

“Maybe. I saw somebody who didn’t belong,” he said. “No need to speculate until we see what the cops turn up. Now let’s get Mama out of here.”

The ragtag convoy sliced, bumped, and burrowed its way through the old streets of San Luis de la Paz with a police escort of SUVs mounted with machine guns, blaring sirens, and flashing warning lights. Swanson felt absolutely naked. He had flown out of Washington upon getting the news about the fatal shootout. To avoid airport and customs hassles and delays, he chose to leave his personal weapon at home, because he could always borrow one from the substantial armory of the Castillo ranch. Then he got caught up in the emotional funeral arrangements and decided to let the security detail do its job while he provided comfort and support to the widow and the mother of his friend. After all, what could go wrong at a funeral? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Now everywhere he looked he saw potential kill zones, and all he had was a heavy six-shot .375 Magnum revolver that he’d borrowed from the driver of the Mercedes. The long-barreled weapon wasn’t even the real deal but a knockoff of the Smith & Wesson made famous in the Dirty Harry movies. Not even close to a modern Desert Eagle. While checking the load, Swanson discovered that the gun had been manufactured by a Chinese factory that was in the cheap mail-order gun business. He kept it pointed down beside the seat as a safety precaution. The heavy car rocketed across a curb.

He was in the front seat and both Mrs. Castillos were in the back, with Mama still out cold and Beth cradling her in her arms. “Keep your Beretta handy,” he said over his shoulder. She always kept the small weapon in her purse.

“I can get to it if we need it. Do your own job.” Her voice was tight. She resented being told something so basic.

They weaved through a traffic roundabout and were well away from the cemetery, headed for open country. Swanson didn’t breathe easier until he saw the first cow in a field. There were few places for death to hide in open pasture. He glanced back and caught Beth staring at him, and he shrugged and went back to watching the livestock.

Elizabeth Ledford Castillo was one of the most interesting people he had ever met, and they went back a long way. A corn-fed American blonde from the Midwest, she had been a remarkable sharpshooter from girlhood. Nobody could explain the uncanny gift, other than that she was like a child-savant pianist, only she was a prodigy with firearms. It was almost as if she didn’t even have to aim at a target to punch it out. Her protective family shunned publicity when the reporters came knocking after hearing tales about the new wunderkind Annie Oakley.

She remained on the quiet farm throughout high school, but excitement beckoned, and to make her gift something more than an oddity she joined the U.S. Coast Guard, because at the time it was the only service branch that allowed women to really shoot. It didn’t take her long to qualify as a sniper who could take out live targets, stinging them from the open door of a helicopter, which meant that both she and the targets were moving when the trigger was pulled. Bandits, pirates, and drug smugglers all suffered beneath the cool, methodical aim of Beth Ledford.

She was satisfied with her assignments until her brother, a physician, was killed by terrorists during a flood-relief mission of Médecins Sans Frontières, Doctors Without Borders. Beth was devastated, and would not let the situation rest. Instead of the cooperation she expected from her superiors, she ran into a buzz saw of official opposition and trouble from people with other agendas. That was when she appeared on the radar of Kyle Swanson’s old team, Task Force Trident, an élite black-ops unit. The small, pretty young woman, who was only about twenty-five at the time, started out almost as a mascot. They called her Coastie.

But she soon proved to be a valuable tool for the team, because she really could shoot as good as, or better than, any of them. Well, Swanson thought, she wasn’t better than him, although that was never tested, because he might not like the answer. Beyond the absurd marksmanship, Coastie carried a touch of murder in her soul and the uncompromising determination of a backwoods preacher. Beth Ledford developed into a stone-cold killer and a smooth Trident operator, someone Swanson was always happy to have as a partner. In fact, she had even saved his life. There had been romantic opportunities that never bloomed because of Kyle’s emotional isolation. Then she fell in love with Mickey Castillo instead and retired from the game so that they could get married. Swanson knew he could have had Beth himself had he just been able to say, “I love you,” but he couldn’t. He had said that before to other women, and those words packed too much hurt, so he settled for being best man at their wedding and a good friend to both.

Swanson adjusted his sunglasses and again made sure the safety was secure on the hand cannon at his side. The driver was doing a good job on the road. He was built like a fire hydrant, with the jowly face of a bulldog, and drove as if this were a NASCAR tryout.

Swanson used the moment to reflect on what Coastie had blurted out at the cemetery: she wanted to come back into the secret world. But three years had passed since she had retired to the easy life of a wealthy family in Mexico’s upper middle class. It was too soon for her to make this kind of decision, or any major decision. Nobody should make a life choice during such emotional moments, but Coastie wasn’t like everyone else. If it was revenge she wanted, Swanson knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop her. She hadn’t been asking permission. He shifted in the seat. The tension was miles behind them now, and the ranch was five miles of smooth road straight ahead.

By the following afternoon, Swanson was no longer at the ranch. Word had come down directly from Marty Atkins, the only man in the CIA to whom Swanson answered directly, and the word was to get up to Mexico City immediately. He wasn’t sad to go, because he could postpone dealing with Coastie for at least a little while. He knew that she wasn’t going to give up.

It took most of the day to make the trip to the capital, but the sun was still high and hot in a cloudless sky as he boarded a helicopter to take him above the horrendous traffic of the city and the dirty smog that hugged the tops of the tall buildings. More than eight million people lived in Mexico City, and it seemed that most of them were on wheels of some sort, clogging every avenue.

The chopper set down lightly on the helipad atop an inconspicuous office building, and a guide showed him to an elevator. A reception desk was directly in front of the elevator door when it opened, and Swanson understood that the young man seated there was also a guard, despite the blue sports coat and the tie and the bright manner. Swanson handed over his cred pack, and the man nodded up at a camera. “Just a moment, sir. Mrs. Johnson is coming out to escort you.”

Swanson was looking for the pinhole cameras that surely covered the area when a knobless door buzzed open. “Mr. Swanson. I’m Irma Johnson, the executive assistant to Mr. Wright. He’s expecting you.” Her voice was calm and smooth, because she was used to the crisis mode that always existed in these offices. This was just another day in the heart of the CIA in Mexico.

Everything about her was neat, from the graying hair to the polished nails. She was the unflinching gatekeeper of the dark world, and professional to the core.

“We have to walk a bit because he’s in the secure communications suite.” The hallway was narrow and built to provide niches in which staff members could take cover in case of an attack. The zigzag route made it impossible for a gunman at one end to shoot all the way to the other.

Neither remarked on the unusual architecture, which was pretty standard for important outposts around the world. Outwardly, it had the bland look of an insurance company, including potted plants and tasteful wallpaper that seamlessly hid the firing ports.

At a dark-mahogany door, Mrs. Johnson activated a touch panel and the portal opened. She stood aside and Swanson moved into the communications center of the CIA’s home away from home in Mexico. Glitzy new computers and old file cabinets intermingled in what seemed to be a continuation of the haphazard layout. In reality, it was an efficient way to do business, to loop tomorrow back to yesterday. In the information age in which teenage hackers could attack a government computer system just for the hell of it, paper copies had come back in style.

Timothy Wright, the station chief, gave Swanson a brief handshake and had him sit down. There was a thick black notebook peeled open on the desk, and he said, “Let’s get straight to it, shall we?”

“Sure. What’s going on? I shouldn’t be here.” Swanson took a straight-backed chair. “Such a direct link with the company could destroy my cover.”

“I’ve just gotten off the scrambler with Director Atkins, who briefed me on your background: illustrious career in the Marine Corps as a sniper, Medal of Honor winner, and now you’re the executive vice president of Excalibur Enterprises, a private corporation.” He spoke in a slow voice that carried a hint of Nebraska twang. His white sleeves were rolled up on his forearms, and his demeanor was that of a stern grandfather. “You work for us on the side as a special operative. Marty Atkins is your boss, and he cleared this meeting because we have ourselves a bit of a problem, Mr. Swanson.”

“Kyle,” he responded, mindful that it was usually best to keep one’s mouth shut.

Wright smiled. “Fine. I’m Tim.” He put on a pair of rimless bifocals and read from a single sheet. “Here is the trail of breadcrumbs, Kyle. You flew in a couple of days ago from Dulles to attend the funeral of your friend, Colonel Castillo, right? No advance contact?”

Swanson shook his head. “I hadn’t spoken to either the colonel or his wife, who is also a close friend, in about three months. Not even texts.”

“Right. Then you go to the cemetery and almost get blown up by a bomb in the grave.”

This time Swanson didn’t reply at all. The man was spinning a chronology that he already knew.

Tim Wright continued. “Grab a bottle of water from the shelf, if you want some. We can have real drinks later. Anyway, you told the police that you saw a suspicious character moments before the blast.”

Swanson bought a little time by getting a bottle and concentrating on opening the cap. It was room temperature, but at least he wouldn’t catch Montezuma’s revenge. Dirty water going in one end usually resulted in diarrhea exiting the other.

“I had a session with a police artist yesterday afternoon to help construct an Identi-Kit likeness. He nailed it pretty well with a full-face image. Still, I only got a glance.”

Wright reached into the notebook and pulled the sketch from the clear protective sleeve. “This it?”

“Yes.” Right down to the pointed goatee.

Wright pursed his lips. Swanson wasn’t making this easy. “The local cops pulled some prints from the tractor that was used to dig the grave. The cemetery employee who had that job was found dead in a work shed, with his throat cut.”

“So you have an ID?” Swanson raised his eyebrows.

“The prints match those of the man in your sketch, Swanson.” The CIA station chief whistled a puff of air and took out a photograph that mirrored the sketch. “His name is Nicky Marks.”

“Not Mexican?” Interesting. “Never heard of him.”

“The real name is Nikola Markovitch. He’s Russian. And he’s one of ours.”

“Humph.” Swanson cleared his throat, thought it over. Had a drink. “A Russian CIA operator? What does that have to do with me?”

Wright slid the sketch and the photo back into the plastic and closed the book. “Are you aware that Colonel Castillo did occasional favors for us?”

“No surprise.” Mickey had said nothing about it, but then why should he? The CIA and the Mexicans obviously often worked in tandem on intelligence matters, particularly on the volatile drug front. “That raid on which he was killed, a joint op?”

“Yes, but that’s beside the point.”

“Then, Tim, just what is the point? Why am I here?”

Wright closed the binder and gave Swanson a kindly look that a teacher would show a child who was slow to pick up on the lesson. “Mickey Castillo is killed during a CIA operation. We can presume that Nicky Marks, whom the agency also used on occasion, attacked Castillo’s grave. In turn, Marks is identified by you, Kyle Swanson, another CIA special operator. To say that Atkins wants to know more about this situation would be somewhat of an understatement.”

Swanson remained cool. “I’m a shooter, Tim. I deal only in high-value targets who pose a direct threat to the United States of America and believe they’re beyond our reach. I’m neither an investigator nor an espionage agent.”

Wright got to his feet and put his hands in his pockets. Grandfather, lecturing. “Consider it this way, Kyle. On some unknown day in the future, you may be sitting in a congressional hearing room having to answer questions about this under oath. We will cover it up, but nothing is airtight. There are legions of snoops and spies and leakers and hackers and conspiracy weirdos and oversight committee members who are always out there chewing our asses, and one of them may find this trail. Then they’ll all want TV time and will sell the information to prove they have the balls to attack us. By then, you had better know some answers, don’t you think?”

Swanson had the sudden feeling that he had entered some twilight danger zone, on a path that was dark and shadowy. He had no illusion about what he had just learned: the CIA would feed him to the wolves in a heartbeat. “I’ll talk to Marty when I get back to Washington,” he said, rising from his chair.

“Do that. You’re booked to leave here tomorrow morning,” Wright said. “Marty will give you the full file on Nicky Marks.” He extended his hand, shook with Swanson, then walked out.

Mrs. Johnson walked in, somehow having been silently signaled that the meeting was over. She said goodbye and, in a softer voice, added, “A car is waiting to take you to your hotel for the night. Please don’t dally about with this assignment, Mr. Swanson. We can all hear a clock ticking.”